2000-07-09

when im on the dance floor, i usually have a good time. But its also a common thing for me to get confused. Messages are being sent all over the place. The hipper the floor, the crazier (and more undiscernable) it gets. for me at least. The style you got speaks tons to those checking you out; whether you know it or not. In my case, its usually not.

and if they aren't checking me out, or even thinking about me remotely, that's when i think they are saying stuff behind my dancing behind.

then my steps and bounces get less sure of themselves.

And then there's always this pressure in my head to compensate for my solitude. "find a girl and start dancing with her!" it says. But i overcompensate. I go about it as i imagine it in some book i've read when i was 13 by Beverly Cleary, or in one of the countless late 80's movies that so trained me. And i look like i'm not really considering her for the living, breathing girl that she is in front of me. It looks like i'm treating her like a character instead, a piece of meat.

White men in America's 'golden age' (1920's-50's?) were never this lacking in confidence. Never this anxious over internal fears and feelings. The anxiety in those days was war, poverty, ("reality").

My training ground was in pop media, not in reality. Less often would i actually go out and do the thing, that is the token "growing up" experience. Like call a girl up for a first date, (something i don't think i've ever actually done for real). More regular were the fantasies, spurned on by GI Joe, transformers, The Wonder Years, Prince, Michael Jackson. The struggles that those characters went through, were the stuff I lived off of.

And now, Busta Rhymes spits out of a neighboring computer tuned into spinner.com (long will i praise and advertise it in my diary!), as I ruminate on how very little changes in ten years, in fifteen years.