Monday, September 13, 2004

Since the Britney/Shar "dance-off" was a non-event (see last post), I thought I might as well tell the tale, nay the LEGEND, about an ACTUAL dance-off that occurred last night in our own fair city. I don't usually like to put much of my own, non-celeb life into this blog; but Terri R. wants the world to know of our adventures in The Danse, and it IS my blog, so what the hell?

It was the annual Virgo Birthday Party at the Carousel Lounge on Sunday, and, as usual, it was a hoot and a half--Too Short covers by DFI, the Better Beat Bureau keeping the booties on the dancefloor, and the incomparable Rulerz (the only cover band that matters) keeping it real. Real fun, that is.

But the highlight of the evening was the Dirty Dancing Contest. First up were the ladies, including yours truly, but I was trounced by Ms. Rebecca W., who aced us all with her unbelievable moves. I wish I could describe them, but words fail me. She is my hero, that's all I will say. I am usually a terrible loser, but I was PROUD to be beaten by a talent such as hers. She has a bright future ahead of her, that girl. She is a rising dance SENSATION.

Then it was the boys' turn, who crammed the tiny Carousel floor with more homo-eroticism than the director's cut of "Velvet Goldmine." The guys got to dance to such gems as Prince's "Delirious" and the Clash's "Rock the Casbah." The winner was a genius. He could do it all: the Worm, the Robot, the Dirty Chicken, the Spazz. He was totally and completely awesome. Sadly, I can't remember his name. I was too focused on the upcoming contest to pay much attention.

The last competition was for couples. Boy/girl, boy/boy, girl/girl were all accepted. So Terri R. and I picked up our tired-from-the-first-round selves and hit the dance floor. I told Terri that we should be sure and not waste any energy on the first two songs, one of which was "You Make My Dreams Come True," by Hall and Oates. As I had learned from bitter experience, the Virgo judges did not actually start tapping people out (a la "Grease") until the THIRD song, so it was important to conserve our best moves for the finale. We spent the first two songs coming up with some bits of business, including Terri's patented Bitch Slap and the good ole tried-and-true Butt Dance.

THE THIRD SONG STARTED. IT WAS TIME TO SHINE. We shimmied. We shaked. We hustled. We Bitch Slapped with everthing we had. When in doubt, we went LEWD--my face in Terri's decolletage, Terri slapping my ass, both of us getting as dirty as we wanted to be. Lots of down-to-the-ground-and-up-again. Shake it, SHAKE IT! Finally, we looked around and it was just us and two other chicks.

It was a dance-off.

The song was The Cure's "Close To Me." A good omen. We went for it--SHIMMY SHIMMY, UP DOWN UP DOWN, HUBBA HUBBA, BOOM BOOM, BITCH SLAP BITCH SLAP. I had no idea what the other two girls were doing, and I didn't care. Everything was a blur. Terri's black hair a twirl, cleavage heaving, ass aflame. The world was spinning out of control--who am I? I thought, Why am I here? I'm so very very cold--and then, suddenly, I felt it. THE MOMENT OF TRUTH. We were at an impasse. Things were going downhill. Fatigue, old age, and smoke inhalation had all conspired against us at that moment. We had nothing to lose.

So I said, "Terri, I'm going to do it." She gave a slight nod and we got into position.

I had already talked over the possibility of pulling out The Super Secret Move with Terri before we had even gotten to the club, but I thought it was out of the question. My Super Secret Move is best done with a "skort": a half skirt/half shorts combo that allows for freedom of movement without tragic, and possibly illegal, indecency. But right before we were supposed to leave, I found my one and only skort crumpled on the bottom of my closet, covered in Corgi hair, unwearable. So I put on a mid-length black dress and put away my dreams of dance glory.

But now, after all the cleavage-in-face/butt-to-butt action that had gone on, and the obviously bleak situation facing us, I decided to go for it. All I had to lose? My diginity. And my dignity comes pretty cheap these days, let me tell you. So I pulled up my dress on either side, thought of Enlgand, and did The Super Secret Move, AKA The Barroom Splits--yes, uh huh, that's right, I said SPLITS--in the middle of the Carousel dance floor.

(The Barroom Splits is a variation on the Chinese Splits, see earlier post for full explanation. Suffice it so say that underpants were touching the highly unhygenic floor. I am developing a public splits habit that is either disturbing or exhilerating or both, I'm not sure which. But I digress.)

Everything after that was a blur. A noisy, sweaty blur. I heard applause, saw what I can only hope was a standing seemed as if the other competitors, having been SERVED, simply backed away, into oblivion. I wanted to collapse like a marathon runner at the finish line, but the goddamn song just wouldn't end. I somehow jacknifed one of my legs in front of me and hopped up, hopefully without revealing some of my womanly secrets to a roomful of screaming people. Terri and I had to dance, dance, dance for what seemed like AN ETERNITY; our shimmies and shakes got more and more lackluster as exhaustion set in. "They shoot horses, don't they? DON'T they?" I kept asking, over and over.

FINALLY the song ended and we could sit down, sweat pouring off us, the glory of it all finally dawning on us, champions at last. We were older than many of the dancers, yes; a tad out of shape, too true; but when it came to the crunch we had the will, dammit! The drive to succeed! We danced our ASSES off and victory, when it came at last, was sweet. So very, very sweet. Kudos to Terri and me! KUDOS!

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