By Julian Draven
Goth damn I love to dance! Doesn't everyone? Well...no...I
suppose not everyone does. But I guess everybody doesn't really matter right
now. I'm not doing everybody's web page. I'm doing mine. And I like to dance,
gothdamnit, so let's see if I can get back on track here.
I love to dance. It is the #1 predominant reason that I go
out to clubs. There seems to be this pervasive rumor that I go to clubs because
I'm some sort of torrid, predatorial ladykiller that delights in the wanton
affliction of his sexual energy upon the unsuspecting and innocent female
population of Atlanta. Well, I can tell you right now that this is a
preposterously ridiculous and naive notion that gives me no end of amusement
whenever I hear it come back to me.
I'm not exactly sure how I've earned this reputation as a
razor fanged carnal carnivore, but I can assure you that most goths sleep with
more people in a week than I do in a decade. After all, I'm faaaaaar too picky
for any of that nonsense. Don't get me wrong, I don't lack for dates, I just
don't feel the need to go through the energy and effort required to score some
skin every single time I go out to a club. I would much rather find one
worthwhile bed mate every couple of months and stick with her as opposed to
sifting through countless smoke and sweat stained bodies night after night.
Nameless and anonymous sex certainly had its appeal...but
then again, so did Disco.
Anyway, how I do love to tangent. I'm the mad, unstoppable,
prolific and completely psychotic bomber of the train of thought.
Where was I?!? Oh yeah, dancing.
Goth damn I love to dance! Although I can (and will) dance
to just about anything, I much prefer to dance to goth & industrial music.
I especially like it when there are just enough people on the dance floor so
that if someone goes postal with a handgun, I *might* have time to duck behind
a speaker stack before getting shot. But, I don't want so many people on the
dance floor that I have to dodge & weave in and out of wriggling and
writhing bodies. Hmmm. I better be careful or I'll start talking about sex
again. I love music and dancing just helps me really get into the music, zone
out, relax and enjoy one of my favorite mediums. I do wish that there were some
cool clubs with great DJs, great atmosphere, cool people, swank music and a
no-smoking policy, but I'll get back to that in a minute.
Now, I don't think I'm a particularly good dancer. I've
never had a single dance lesson in my entire life. But, I can definitely say
that I'm better than some of those folks you see flailing around out there. I
can, at least, keep a beat. I would describe my dancing style
as...ahem...eccentric. I get out there, close my eyes, get into the music and
try desperately to forget that there is anyone else in the room.
There was a time where I was so self-conscious about my
dancing, that I refused to dance in public. Especially when you consider that
goths actively like to stand around the dance floor and criticize everyone
else's dancing. Then one day I woke up and realized that dancing was tons of
fun, and I that I really couldn't give a shit what other people think. So, as
I've told some of the people here in Atlanta, be sure to point and giggle.
So, you might wonder why there was a time that I was
self-conscious about my dancing; was there a reason? Well, yes there was. And
I'm going to tell you what that reason is. [SARCASM] Are you on the edge of
your seat? [/SARCASM].
The first time I ever went to a dance club I was 17. I went
with my cousin, Michael, and a good friend of mine named Kim. The place was
some sort of 80s trash dive (it was the 80s then, so it was okay, though).
Michael and Kim were much too shy to dance, but I'm much too extroverted and
energetic to stand there and watch, so I strolled out to the center of the
floor and proceeded to cut it up.
So there I am, like fucking flashdance, when this chick (and
I use the term loosely) stops stock still on the dancefloor next to me and just
starts staring at me. Now, we're both on a packed dancefloor and she's standing
there like an extra from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The chick is blonde
and has that whole 80s trashy tele tramp thing going on (it was the 80s then,
so it was okay, though). She was fairly attractive, I suppose...for a slack
jawed bean pod hatchling.
So, ya know, I'm trying to be all cool and shit, so I smile
at her and go back to fucking flashdancing. I spin and turn and weave and I
look over and she's still standing there, stock still, staring at me. I smile
again and give her a little wave and start going fucking footloose. A moment
later I turn back and she's still there, standing and staring. I decide to take
a more proactive approach.
I stop dancing, take a step towards her, flash her my best
"it's the 80s, wanna fuck?" smile and say "Hi!" She pauses for an instant and
then says, in a total deadpan voice, "You can't dance worth shit." She then
grabbed the arm of the bonehead preppie next to her (who stopped dancing) and
said, "He can teach you to dance, he's awesome."
I was stunned, like a puppy that you trick into licking an
electric fence by spreading peanut butter on the wires. Bzzap! For the first
time in my life I was totally flabbergasted and left completely speechless.
Silently, I turned and solemnly marched off the dancefloor like a fucking
pallbearer at a military funeral.
As I slunk back to the platform where my friends waited and
watched, Kim perkily asked if I had just scored the chick's phone number (she
had been watching the scene). Obviously, the "I just ate a turd" expression on
my face was lost on my friend Kim. (sweet girl, but terminally optimistic and
I explained to Kim what had happened and then I did get one
moment of satisfaction. Kim, ever loyal, stomped out onto the dancefloor and
gave trashy tele tramp a severe and scathing verbal lashing. This was most
gratifying to watch. The three of us then stalked out, too cool for school.
For years I secretly hoped that I would run into trashy tele
tramp girl at a club and she wouldn't recognize me. She'd come up, being all
flirty and I could have the satisfaction of telling her to piss off. But, those
days are long gone. I'm sure that somewhere little chiquita is about 50 pounds
overweight, has three kids and is married to some fat redneck that has never
even heard of a clitoris.
So, if you ever see me out on the dancefloor, losing my
rhythm and looking a little panicked, it's probably because I'm having an 80s
bean pod hatchling flashback.
*sigh* It sure felt good to let that out.
Okay, let me get back to the smoking thing. Although I do oh
so love dancing, there are a few things about it that piss me off:
Number One: Capheads with beer bottles. Take your
fucking Budweiser beer gut back to the bar and get back on the dancefloor when
and if you ever learn that the dancefloor is for dancing, not wobbling back and
forth, drinking beer and goggling the chicks in tight pants.
Number Two: Bump and Grinders. Those yuppie sluts
that come to the club and end up on the dancefloor, drunk, sandwiched in
between two capheads as the three of them rub their khaki covered crotches
together. VOMIT!!!! Please, people, get a fucking room and get the hell off my
Number Three: Cigarettes. If you are absolutely such
a pathetic lame-o nicotine addict that you cannot even make it through a 5
minute song without a cigarette, then get the goddamn hell out of my dance
space. These people know who they are. Out there, strutting and flailing around
with a cigarette held out like the gothdamn torch from the statue of liberty as
they get their groove on. Get the fuck off the dancefloor you inconsiderate
pricks. Nobody thinks you are cool because you can wiggle your ass *and* hold a
cigarette at the same time. Especially in a goth club, you morons. We're
fucking wearing lace and velvet in here and they're going to carry a lit
cigarette on the dancefloor??? What kinds of idiots are these people??? The
next time I get a cigarette hole burned in a $100 velvet shirt, I'm going to
throw the offending shit head to the floor, put the cigarette out in their
eyesocket and then stomp their guts into the concrete. I'll be screaming
"Victory!! Victory!!" as the police drag my black velvet ass to the State
of course, three years of taking the chocolate tube snake
from some 300 pound serial killer named Bubba is probably worse than having to
buy a new velvet shirt, but it is the fucking principle of the whole thing, for