Experimental Dancing

Everyone who knows me is well aware that I love to dance.  Recently, I have become more creative with my dancing locations.  Most people go to bars and see the dance floor and think, "That's where I can get my groove on."  They're not incorrect, but I have recently broadened my horizons beyond the designated dancing area, and readers, I encourage you to do the same.

If you try hard enough, every surface in the bar is a dance floor.  Tables. Chairs.  The bar itself.  Parkour dancing is an art; here are some tips for aspiring artists:

1) Choose your location carefully.  This is the most important rule.  Tables are great, but only if they have a solid base.  Give 'em a shake before you hop on up there, rock star.  If your location is too low, you might as well be on the floor.  If it's too high, you're going to hit your head on the ceiling.  Height and stability are key in parkour dancing.

2) Choose your song carefully. This is an important lesson.  For example (and totally not something I did or whatever, shut up) table dancing to "Ain't No Rest for the Wicked" is great; dancing on a table to the slow part of "Bohemian Rhapsody" is weird (or so I hear).

3) Either make sure the bar is cool with it, or be prepared to leave if they ask you to.  At one bar, the DJ watched to make sure I wasn't going to hurt myself, and then she let me dance as long as my little heart desired.  At another bar, security came over and told me to get off the bar after about a minute.  We weren't kicked out, but had he asked us to leave, we would have done so politely.  You're technically breaking the rules, so be cool, man.

4) It's equal parts talent, alcohol, and confidence.  Make sure you have ample supply of each before attempting the art of parkour dancing.

5) People will tell you you're only doing this for attention.  Yeah, obviously.  #ownit

Those are the main points.  Have fun with it.  If you insist on taking yourself seriously, keep in mind that bars are probably the last place in the world to do so.

In other news, my hangover is killing me.

#peanuts

Lorde of the Dance

I have a confession to make.

I  - a nearly twenty-six year old man - am a seventeen year old girl on the inside.  

Let's back up a little.

Andrea and I have a new apartment. It is a nice place. Far, far, far nicer than the place we lived in last year. There is a notable absence of mildew, hot water shortages, rats and psychotic old lady break-ins. For those of you unfamiliar with last summer's shenanigans: http://summerslums.blogspot.ca/.

The room is shaped like a Star Wars^© Tie Fighter. It has a big octagonal living room, and we each have a bedroom on opposite sides with our own bathroom attached. It combines the best features of having a roommate (living with someone) and of living on one's own (not hearing her sing in the shower). It even has a breakfast bar, which we totally use as a real bar, right down to "playing bartender".

But, as my dad was quick to notice when he helped me move in, the workmanship is a little shoddy. Some of the doors stick a little. The dishwasher door didn't close at first. There are spots where the siding is a few inches too short, or too long. And the drywall, as it turns out... is a little thin.

We'll get back to that.

So Andrea and I and a couple friends went and saw Lorde perform at Ottawa's "Folk Fest" (for those of you not familiar with Ottawa, it has a "Jazz Fest", a "Blues Fest", and a "Folk Fest", and none of these names mean a damn thing).

Lorde had almost no back-up band. She was a one-girl show, and I mean "girl" in a totally non-condescending way, since she's seventeen. She sang very well. She basically performed her entire one album on shuffle, plus like two weird disco songs. She changed costumes several times while no one was looking. And, she danced. Continuously. "Danced" is the wrong word for what she does but there is no right word in the English lexicon. She writhed and squirmed around the stage like the young girl in every exorcism movie just as shit is getting real. Performance at its finest. We enjoyed it quite a lot.

And then we headed home, because although Serena Ryder sounded great, it was a week night and she was boring. Did I mention that I am seventeen years old?

Now, as happens sometimes, I had a shitty week. My grandmother - a very sweet lady who had more than a hand in raising me - passed away on Wednesday. I had a bad stomach flu. And my grandmother passed away on Wednesday. Not my other grandmother. I felt like mentioning it twice for emphasis, like a real modern writer, because it sucked that badly.  

R.I.P. Grandma. If there is a heaven, you are there.

So it's been a shitty week, and the seventeen year old girl in me was at the ready. Then we saw Lorde, which provided some inspiration. And we had been drinking at this music festival, as if that needed saying. And we got home, and I got some more shitty news in the mail, and that was the last straw.

I threw some stuff around, and swore some, and gave the wall a good-natured kick. You know, like we all do from time to time when a sports team loses or we forget the milk or whatever.

As it turns out, the drywall is a little thin.

 Andrea came over and saw the giant hole I had just made in her wall. She looked at the hole, then looked at me, then said "Want to talk about it?" like nothing happened.

What more could you ask for in a roommate?

She suggested that I take a journalistic liberty in this blog entry and write that I was mimicking Lorde's dance moves when I made that hole. I think this is half true. I think I was channeling that fiery teenage spirit that lies dormant within us all, just waiting to kick a hole in the wall.

But, I am grown-up now. And like any grown-up, I intend to march down to reception tomorrow, make up a good story as to how that hole happened, and have it fixed.