Friday, April 21, 2006

A Dancin' Foo

First, let me tell you a little bit about myself, time-wasters. I am goofy, as I'm sure you have already guessed, but I'm also cautious and intelligent. Hey! I saw that! Roll your eyes again, and I'm comin' right through the screen to steal all the vowels off your keyboard.

As I was saying, I'm intelligent. See how intelligent I look in the picture I've provided? I don't like to look like an idiot unless I've done it on purpose. I should say that I don't like to look like a moron on accident. Take this semi-recent trip to Mal-Wart for example. I can't remember what I was there to find, but I CAN remember not being able to find it. I kinda knew where it was supposed to be; in fact, I could almost taste it. Or smell it. Or hear it. This depends on what it was. Can't taste oil filters!

Okay. Maybe you can. Look, who's telling this story, me or you?

So there I was, wandering aimlessly around the store, trying to look like I really knew what I was doing. I was pushing an empty shopping cart, just in case I had to get a LOT of whatever it was I was hunting down, and I was circling a likely set of aisles. I was peering down them, hunched over my cart, and trying to look nonchalant despite my panicking mind.

"You look stupid, you know," it said.

"I know, I know. I just can't find the freaking oil filters! I know they're in this area somewhere... This is Automotive!" I replied.

"This is Housewares. I think that lady's looking at you. The one in the khakis and polo shirt? Y'see her?" my brain wheedled. It purposely kept all the serotonin to itself.

"Shut up! Just, um... Let's circle around again and see if I maybe missed---"

"No, she's definitely staring. She's probably wondering why you're in a holding pattern in Housewares with an empty cart. Probably thinks you're really dumb, or you're looking for potential victims."


"Yeah. Children."

"Oh, that's just nuts! Where the heck are the freaking filters!" I turned back and began peering down likely-looking aisles again.

"Now you're mumbling to yourself."

"I am not!"

About that time I decided that I really didn't need oil filters or whatever I was there for, and gave up and went home. Ahh, safe at home with my cats, who stare at me but only out of affection or curiosity. They're like: "What's that smell? When's he going to give us cheese?" and they've never accused me of being stupid.

It's not that bad---I'm not THAT agoraphobic. The story is true, however. I actually did give up and go home because I couldn't bear to wander any more. What? Yeah, I know. I know! I could have asked one of the employees. Guess it didn't occur to me that they MIGHT perhaps know where an item in their own store was. Shut up. You wanna keep your vowels, don't you?


Imagine, if you will, the confused cart-pusher from a few paragraphs ago learning how to dance. With a girl, no less! An attractive one, who is going to be teaching him how, because she knows how to dance, and Our Hero does not! Oh, where's that serotonin when you need it?

I'll keep you updated, time-wasters, should I decide to allow myself to be taught to dance. I don't know what kind of dance it'll be, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have any trouble with something like "slow dance". Slow dancing looks pretty simple: you just kind of clutch the person about the waist, and then walk around. I've been walking around for a long time now, and doing it in tandem can't be that much harder.

Something like swing looks cool, though. That's the kind of dance where, if you're a guy, you get to chuck the girl all over the place. At first, you kind of look like you're slow dancing with a few quarts of espresso in your bloodstream, but it's still pretty simple. Then all of a sudden, for no reason and without warning, the man grabs the woman by the hips and tosses her up into the rafters where she bounces around a little, and then falls back into his waiting arms. She smiles at him, and he crumples her into a ball and dribbles her around the hardwood before unwrapping her and draping her around his shoulders and gyrating like a bum on acid. She smiles at him, and snakes down his torso and puddles on the floor to rest. He's sweating freely now, but it's a good kind of sweat. A sensuous kind. She holds her hands up, he grabs her wrists, and yanks her arms out of their sockets and twirls them around...

Yeah. Swing rocks. I can't wait!

Now where on Earth are those freaking filters?


Jack W. Regan said...

Gonna sell tickets to these dance lessons? You might single-handedly turn this into a viable spectator sport.

Anonymous said...

Just wanted to point out that Paul is seen fooing around on the bed in his room on the eleventh floor of Frank Lloyd Wright's only skyscraper, Bartlesville OK's Price Tower, whose offices and apartments have been converted into a combination museum and working hotel.

Recommended for all architecture nutters.

Paul FooDaddy Brand said...

Whoo boy. I was so optimistic here! It's almost as if I had no idea what a total putz I was going to make of myself!

Jack W. Regan said...

You knew, but didn't care. That's the danger of it all!