I could end this post right now with that statement, and you would all chuckle and agree with me, but that's not why I'm here. I'm here to make you spit your coffee out at your monitor, piss your pants from laughing, or even barf in your cat's face from guffawing over a witty - yet depraved - comment about a twelve-year-old cooking meth in the Ozark Mountains while you slurp your split pea soup. Nope, readers, you aren't getting away with just one sentence this time. My stay here in Savannah is nearing an end, and I intend to make you all have at least one of these stories burned into your mind.
My boyfriend and I had just finished watching The Dark Knight Rises, and we figured that, seeing the evening was freshly in its youth, we wouldn't be old and go home. Instead, we headed to the bar to check out the happenings and have a couple liquid biscuits. Of course, it was a Friday night, which means that not only were the regulars there, but the crazies and the hooligans were there, also. Not to mention, it was karaoke/DJ night, which meant that the boyfriend and I had the opportunity to hone our interrogation skills by seeing how long we could deal with both vocal and visual abuses. I'm sure that one woman was an operative for an agency, as persistent as she was to sing every fucking song ever.
A lot drunkards were dancing that night, often partaking in the square-dancing that always accompanies Southern pop music (Yes, I do know how to Wobble, thanks. However, I will not teach you how to Dougie, so fuck off.). Shaking their asses, going through the moves commanded in the song, and often tripping over each other, those dancing drunks were the norm for me. But there was this one guy on the dance floor that just absolutely caught my attention.
He had to have been in his 40s, considering his puke-green polo shirt, dad-shorts, and his completely white knock-off tennis shoes. Wearing his golf hat backwards, I saw this man stumble/crab-walk all over the dance floor, moving his arms around like a generic, white Kris Kross back-up dancer. The dude had no skills (or skillz, for that matter), but he just kept on... doing whatever it was he thought he was doing. He even tried to pop n lock, and that just ended up looking like he had bad joint problems. The man was a train wreck; I couldn't look away.
As I stared with what could have been described as an expression of mixed confusion and fear, my little mind-cave began a mecha-thought of all the dances I had seen performed by middle-aged men in downtown during the live music nights.
What is this phenomenon? Why are they dancing like this? Do they know that people like me live in Savannah and record them doing this? I'm not the only one who was taping this guy's dancing, guys. Plenty of phones - at least a murder of them - were out and aimed at City Market's very own Lord of the Dance. I mean, shit, look at him. He's really into this classic rock, dudes.
To add, there's always the drove of hippies at a Reel Big Fish concert who can only do one kind of dance:
I can think of plenty of reasons why men who shouldn't dance do dance. The most logical reason is that no one is telling him that he lacks the abilities and coordination. Other reasoning could be that these men have motor skills disabilities, or they have ants in their pants (or crabs). Murphy Reasoning can only deduce that these are men who are trying to attract women with their traditional, Caucasian-rooted dancing. You know, a mating dance.
I mean, LOOK AT THEM. NO...NO...LOOK. AT. THEM. They are so uncoordinated that it's impossible they are dancing to the music. These men are doing the Dance of I'm Down to Fuck. Seriously.
Sure, the middle-aged, white man doesn't have much to offer in the realm of dancing. No tango, no salsa, no Dougie, no rhumba. They're stuck with disco, waltzes, square-dancing, and this shit. And sure, they can learn to dance better to a point that they actually can dance, but who the fuck wants to do that?! These men are out looking for that girl that doesn't give a shit about their half-assed attempts at wooing and courtship. And if they have to learn how to dance to get a girl, what do they have to learn to do to keep her?
Oh, Cthulhu. Not folding clothes.
At least dancing isn't everything. Women can find attraction in other, more coordinated skills of men. You know, like writing their name in the snow (with their own pen, one could say).