Thursday, January 10, 2008

Dance Dance Revolution

With all the hoop-lah over the New Hampshire primary, I forgot to tell you all about the awesome thing the other day. Yesterday morning, while I was coming to work on the Orange Line, this guy got on board the train with me and started to dance.

Now, you should know, that when I say "dance" I do not mean that he gently bobbed his head, or swayed back and forth, or tapped his feet a little bit. No, no. I mean that the guy got on the train, backed his azz up onto one of the poles, and began to wax that booty like it was his damn duty.

Dude wore a ball cap, brim pulled waaay down low over the bridge of his nose - to the point where I wondered if he could even see. His shirt was frayed and sleeveless, and he had these monster biceps that you couldn't help noticing because flexing them provocatively was one of his big "moves." The guy straight up waggled, grinding that pole, his shoulders moving in wild side to side abandon. He was straight wrecking it. And doing so in front of two seated ladies, who stared on in utter dumbfoundment.

You know those guys on American Idol who are brought on the show in the early episodes just because they're crazy and bound to fail, except you find out they're even crazier because they lack any or all inhibitions and think they're a king cobra and shit? This guy was totally like that. In this weary world, he taught me to believe again in the transcendent power of one man's psychotic, brainpan-melting, Godzilla-stomping, astronaut sexing, fuck-a-doodlerama.

Know hope, crazy dancing guy. Know hope.

1 comment:

Blogs t r e t c h said...

I had a very similar experience when I was living in London. Except that, instead of a muscle-bound guy in street wear, it was an overweight guy in leather, with lots of cut outs.