Sunday, July 26, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
oh jesus oh jesus we have all these people over and im hiding in my room cos im all embarrassed about being all cry-y and shit.....
....and now i really have to pee. do i just stay in my room and pee in my pants or do i create an embarrassing scene by emerging from my room, crossing the apartment in front of all the guests, and heading toward the bathroom in all my puffy/snotty glory?
....and now i really have to pee. do i just stay in my room and pee in my pants or do i create an embarrassing scene by emerging from my room, crossing the apartment in front of all the guests, and heading toward the bathroom in all my puffy/snotty glory?
Dingo
So I was planning on putting up a silly post this morning when I woke up....but at 6 am I got a text from my dad saying that last night our dog, the dog we've had since I was six, died. He was very ill and very old and hadn't been doing well for a while, but I'm still sad obviously because he was like a member of the family. My dad addressed him as his "Dog Son."
Well now I don't really feel like being silly, and instead I've spent the last 5 hours crying, then drifting off to sleep, then dreaming that my other dog (the one that has not died) has run away, which makes me wake up and start crying even more. So, needless to say, I'm feeling like shit right now.
On the bright side, ever since I moved away for college/Israel I've been worried that he would die and they wouldn't tell me. So at least they told me that he died--which is more than can be said for when my granny died. So that's good I guess....
Well now I don't really feel like being silly, and instead I've spent the last 5 hours crying, then drifting off to sleep, then dreaming that my other dog (the one that has not died) has run away, which makes me wake up and start crying even more. So, needless to say, I'm feeling like shit right now.
On the bright side, ever since I moved away for college/Israel I've been worried that he would die and they wouldn't tell me. So at least they told me that he died--which is more than can be said for when my granny died. So that's good I guess....
Monday, July 6, 2009
Thursday
Today I was at the HOT counter in the mall talking about getting internet arranged. I had chickened out the night before and spoke in English because I hadn’t yet learned the words in Hebrew for things like modem (“modem”) and cables (“cabelim”). When I came back this morning the guy remembered me, so English it was.
At one point he asked for my address for the delivery, so I gave it to him. Unfortunately, I pronounced the street name in my English way. Just like how I say Jerusalem instead of the Hebrew “Yerushalayim” when I’m speaking English, or how in English I pronounce the Hebrew word challah without the throat scraping. The guy asked me to repeat it, and this time I tried to sound a little bit more Israeli when I said it, but the fact that I was speaking English still stood, so I wasn’t about to go all out.
The guy then laughed, and said, “Oh, I didn’t understand because you have such an accent.” The guy and his co-worker saw me blush bright red with embarrassment, and they both started laughing. The other guy said, “Beautiful accent, beautiful accent!” They giggled like little schoolgirls, and then the coworker repeated my street name in my accent quietly to himself, like he was quietly repeating the punchline of a good joke he heard.
Anyway, things moved on. We filled out forms, and the guy helping me refused to believe that I had an Israeli ID card. When I gave him my ID number he interrupted me with, “No no no no no, this is your American ID.” No sir, this is my Israeli ID. “No no no no no, but how can you have Israeli ID?” Because I’m Israeli. “No no no no no.” Yes yes yes yes yes.
A few minutes later I asked when they could install the internet. The co-worker told my guy in Hebrew, “Yom Chamishi…” and so the guy helping me out turned to me and TRIED to say in English, “Thursday.”
What came out instead was something like, “Fursday.” The guy then looked slightly embarrassed, and rolled his eyes upward as if he were trying to remember something difficult. And I saw him very deliberately place his tongue right behind his teeth, as if remembering how they learned to do the sound back in English class in 4th grade or whatever. And so he tried again.
What came out this time was an interesting combination: a raspberry + “ursday.”
At this point the guy looked as bright red as tan people can possibly get, and he said something like, “It is a difficult noise…Tursday.”
I just smiled and said, “That’s okay, it’s a hard sound to make.” But still pissed off about being made fun of for not being able to pronounce my own street name correctly, I looked the worker right in the eyes and added, “THanks for all your help!” as I drew out the TH as a special FUCK YOU to the worker.
Damn it felt good. I spent the rest of the day walking around in glowing smugness as I thought to myself, “Maybe I can’t say my street name correctly, but damnit, at least I can make a TH sound without blowing raspberries.” And I think I got the better end of the deal.
At one point he asked for my address for the delivery, so I gave it to him. Unfortunately, I pronounced the street name in my English way. Just like how I say Jerusalem instead of the Hebrew “Yerushalayim” when I’m speaking English, or how in English I pronounce the Hebrew word challah without the throat scraping. The guy asked me to repeat it, and this time I tried to sound a little bit more Israeli when I said it, but the fact that I was speaking English still stood, so I wasn’t about to go all out.
The guy then laughed, and said, “Oh, I didn’t understand because you have such an accent.” The guy and his co-worker saw me blush bright red with embarrassment, and they both started laughing. The other guy said, “Beautiful accent, beautiful accent!” They giggled like little schoolgirls, and then the coworker repeated my street name in my accent quietly to himself, like he was quietly repeating the punchline of a good joke he heard.
Anyway, things moved on. We filled out forms, and the guy helping me refused to believe that I had an Israeli ID card. When I gave him my ID number he interrupted me with, “No no no no no, this is your American ID.” No sir, this is my Israeli ID. “No no no no no, but how can you have Israeli ID?” Because I’m Israeli. “No no no no no.” Yes yes yes yes yes.
A few minutes later I asked when they could install the internet. The co-worker told my guy in Hebrew, “Yom Chamishi…” and so the guy helping me out turned to me and TRIED to say in English, “Thursday.”
What came out instead was something like, “Fursday.” The guy then looked slightly embarrassed, and rolled his eyes upward as if he were trying to remember something difficult. And I saw him very deliberately place his tongue right behind his teeth, as if remembering how they learned to do the sound back in English class in 4th grade or whatever. And so he tried again.
What came out this time was an interesting combination: a raspberry + “ursday.”
At this point the guy looked as bright red as tan people can possibly get, and he said something like, “It is a difficult noise…Tursday.”
I just smiled and said, “That’s okay, it’s a hard sound to make.” But still pissed off about being made fun of for not being able to pronounce my own street name correctly, I looked the worker right in the eyes and added, “THanks for all your help!” as I drew out the TH as a special FUCK YOU to the worker.
Damn it felt good. I spent the rest of the day walking around in glowing smugness as I thought to myself, “Maybe I can’t say my street name correctly, but damnit, at least I can make a TH sound without blowing raspberries.” And I think I got the better end of the deal.
latin
So right now I’m re-learning Latin and French. French is less of a challenge because as of a couple weeks ago I was living with a French person. But Latin….
Perhaps this is a bit of a stretch here, but re-learning Latin after over two years away from it is like getting hit in the head, going into a coma for two years, and then coming to with mild amnesia. And the love of your life visits you in your hospital, and you don’t really recognize him or remember his story, but you know—you can totally just feel it--that you loved this person and that you’re desperate to remember all about him. That’s kind of what relearning Latin feels like.
Seeing simple words like ardeo (I used to shout that one all the time in middle school), or puella, or bellum or whatever feels exactly like how I felt when I bumped into my old nanny/housekeeper right before I made aliyah. I hadn’t seen her in a couple years even though she had basically been a replacement mother from the time I was born until I was well into high school. I was overwhelmingly happy to see her and couldn’t believe I could go so long without talking to someone so important to me. That’s kind of what studying Latin again is like.
I feel like screaming, “Obstipescere, how have you been?!” And the infinitive will tell me, “I’m doing great, still hanging around in the Aeneid whenever Aeneas is surprised. What’s new with you? Last time I saw you was on the AP Latin exam back in 2006.”
Then I want to ask Obstipescere about all my old friends. “How the hell are Amicus and Oculus and….and….oh…I’ve forgotten some of their names…” I’ll then blush bright red as I stumble to remember the names of friends—friends since 7th grade until my freshman year of college.
I’m not sure why French doesn’t feel the same for me. Maybe it’s because the French program at my high school was more than twice as large as the Latin program. Meaning, the same people were in my Latin class from 8th grade all the way until 12th, whereas in French it was a slightly different mix every year. Maybe it’s because Latin’s harder, or I feel like I have a special mission in life to preserve Latin since so few people are learning it these days, whereas it seems like everyone and their mother speaks French. Maybe it’s because Latin’s kind of a party trick for me…or at least used to be. You know how everyone has kind of a weird thing they can show off? Like, some people are double jointed, or some people can burp the alphabet, you know? Well I could recite the first chapter of Caesar’s Gallic Wars in Latin. And the first 50 or so lines of the Aeneid…in Latin. But I can’t anymore. So now I have nothing.
Perhaps this is a bit of a stretch here, but re-learning Latin after over two years away from it is like getting hit in the head, going into a coma for two years, and then coming to with mild amnesia. And the love of your life visits you in your hospital, and you don’t really recognize him or remember his story, but you know—you can totally just feel it--that you loved this person and that you’re desperate to remember all about him. That’s kind of what relearning Latin feels like.
Seeing simple words like ardeo (I used to shout that one all the time in middle school), or puella, or bellum or whatever feels exactly like how I felt when I bumped into my old nanny/housekeeper right before I made aliyah. I hadn’t seen her in a couple years even though she had basically been a replacement mother from the time I was born until I was well into high school. I was overwhelmingly happy to see her and couldn’t believe I could go so long without talking to someone so important to me. That’s kind of what studying Latin again is like.
I feel like screaming, “Obstipescere, how have you been?!” And the infinitive will tell me, “I’m doing great, still hanging around in the Aeneid whenever Aeneas is surprised. What’s new with you? Last time I saw you was on the AP Latin exam back in 2006.”
Then I want to ask Obstipescere about all my old friends. “How the hell are Amicus and Oculus and….and….oh…I’ve forgotten some of their names…” I’ll then blush bright red as I stumble to remember the names of friends—friends since 7th grade until my freshman year of college.
I’m not sure why French doesn’t feel the same for me. Maybe it’s because the French program at my high school was more than twice as large as the Latin program. Meaning, the same people were in my Latin class from 8th grade all the way until 12th, whereas in French it was a slightly different mix every year. Maybe it’s because Latin’s harder, or I feel like I have a special mission in life to preserve Latin since so few people are learning it these days, whereas it seems like everyone and their mother speaks French. Maybe it’s because Latin’s kind of a party trick for me…or at least used to be. You know how everyone has kind of a weird thing they can show off? Like, some people are double jointed, or some people can burp the alphabet, you know? Well I could recite the first chapter of Caesar’s Gallic Wars in Latin. And the first 50 or so lines of the Aeneid…in Latin. But I can’t anymore. So now I have nothing.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Random Thoughts on Israelis, by an Israeli
I hate it when I emerge from my room in the morning and find that a stranger is sitting in my living room. It’s not so much that I hate strangers—and let’s be honest, I DO hate strangers—but more that I hate the look these particular strangers give me.
They stare at me, their eyes following me to the bathroom. Their eyes narrow and squint and their foreheads crease with annoyance as they seem to say, “What the hell are YOU doing here?”
Well, stranger, I haven’t peed in several hours so that seems like a good idea unless I feel like just taking a leak in my bed….oh, I’m sorry, did I need your permission?
What I find really confusing about this whole set-up is that usually said stranger is sitting with one of my roommates. Whether it was one of my roommates from college, or roommates from the kibbutz, or roommates from right now….I would come into the room and it would be completely obvious from the expression on my roommate’s face that they were not in the least bit concerned with my presence. So I’m not sure why the stranger would be so concerned with my sudden appearance. If my roommate doesn’t seem to be surprised or frightened of my appearance, there’s a finite number of possibilities as to my identity.
Next time someone gives me the “What are YOU doing here?” look I’m just going to snap back, “I pay rent here—just what the fuck is YOUR excuse for being here?”
Henyways, here are some random thoughts from the week:
1) Why do all Israeli girls, even the 8 year olds, sound like they’ve been smoking a pack a day since before they were born? Am I the only one who notices the very raspy quality to Israeli girls’ voices? Am I imagining it?
2) Israelis really need to get over the song “Jai Ho” from Slumdog Millionaire, and on that note, Israelis really need to get over the entire soundtrack from Slumdog Millionaire. I get it. We all liked the movie. Let’s move on.
3) I saw the Transformers 2 movie. It was weird that in Hebrew they’re called “Robotrikim” apparently….so that was strange. Anyway, during the entire movie a group of girls was chatting and shrieking and getting up and moving and generally pissing off everyone in the theater. Eventually ushers came in, stopped the film, and made the whole group of girls leave. What I’m really pissed off about though is that the girls also talked during the previews. And the new Harry Potter trailer was playing. It was the first time I had seen the trailer. I don’t think I even need to tell you, but I was really fucking excited. But of course, I couldn’t hear a thing because Efrat and Ofrat and Osnat and Liat and whoever were all shrieking and blabbering on—about something completely unrelated to Harry Potter.
Seriously, who the hell talks during a Harry Potter trailer? ISRAELIS. Seriously, the only sound you should hear during a Harry Potter trailer is the sound of everyone’s jaw simultaneously hitting the floor in amazement, and the occasional pit-pat of droplets of drool dripping to the floor.
4) Why do Israelis always think you’re cutting them in line? Certainly there’s something to be said for not being a sucker, for not getting cut in line…but nothing compares to how territorial Israelis can get with their spots in line. Israelis, I fear, are just one degree of sanity away from peeing on their spots in line. And I’m not just talking about the line for the bus, if you can even call it a “line.” Just last night I was in the supermarket and this Israeli woman abandoned her cart in the middle of an aisle, not too far from a check out line. Israelis have an interesting habit of doing that, of leaving their cart in line and then just disappearing for thirty minutes or a week. I happened to get in that same line, knowing that I’d be behind this woman should she ever decide to return from the epic solo journey that all Israelis seem to make while waiting to pay for groceries. I moved in a little closer to the counter though since I didn’t want to block the aisle. Big mistake. The woman came back and started freaking out, saying that she was here first and blahblahblah. I calmly explained that I knew, but that I simply didn’t want to stand in the middle of the “street” and be in the middle of everyone’s way. She kept freaking out at me as she moved her cart in front of me. She shut up for a while, but every time I moved my cart forward as the line progressed, she’d turn back around and give me an aggressive look, preparing to get out her elbows and everything should I even dare to try to cut her “again.” She actually reminded me of middle school PE when we played football. I was the quarterback and I distinctly remember seeing people playing defense for the opposing team, positioned exactly like she was.
There were about 10 distinct moments where I just wanted to scream at her, “FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME, I KNOW YOU’RE IN FRONT OF ME, I’M NOT TRYING TO CUT YOU, YOU PSYCHO BITCH!”
5) There’s poop flying in Jerusalem. The Haredim are pissed because a parking lot in Jerusalem is open on Shabbat. I’m beginning to think I wasn’t raised Jewish at all, because I don’t recognize these Jews. The Jews I grew up with in Hebrew School did things like dance to the song “Pata Pata” (you might have to google it…) every Sunday, and sing songs about doing good deeds….and have “cheeseburger bar mitzvahs.” Sure, it probably wasn’t the best religious upbringing ever, but at least it would never occur to me to throw shit—actual shit--at cops because of a parking lot.
6) A couple days ago someone asked me if there was any dog that I’m afraid of. I quickly said no, but then I really thought about it. Is there a dog that I would cross the street to avoid? Finally I realized YES. One. Giant, full-sized poodles. There is something I find particularly terrifying about them.
They stare at me, their eyes following me to the bathroom. Their eyes narrow and squint and their foreheads crease with annoyance as they seem to say, “What the hell are YOU doing here?”
Well, stranger, I haven’t peed in several hours so that seems like a good idea unless I feel like just taking a leak in my bed….oh, I’m sorry, did I need your permission?
What I find really confusing about this whole set-up is that usually said stranger is sitting with one of my roommates. Whether it was one of my roommates from college, or roommates from the kibbutz, or roommates from right now….I would come into the room and it would be completely obvious from the expression on my roommate’s face that they were not in the least bit concerned with my presence. So I’m not sure why the stranger would be so concerned with my sudden appearance. If my roommate doesn’t seem to be surprised or frightened of my appearance, there’s a finite number of possibilities as to my identity.
Next time someone gives me the “What are YOU doing here?” look I’m just going to snap back, “I pay rent here—just what the fuck is YOUR excuse for being here?”
Henyways, here are some random thoughts from the week:
1) Why do all Israeli girls, even the 8 year olds, sound like they’ve been smoking a pack a day since before they were born? Am I the only one who notices the very raspy quality to Israeli girls’ voices? Am I imagining it?
2) Israelis really need to get over the song “Jai Ho” from Slumdog Millionaire, and on that note, Israelis really need to get over the entire soundtrack from Slumdog Millionaire. I get it. We all liked the movie. Let’s move on.
3) I saw the Transformers 2 movie. It was weird that in Hebrew they’re called “Robotrikim” apparently….so that was strange. Anyway, during the entire movie a group of girls was chatting and shrieking and getting up and moving and generally pissing off everyone in the theater. Eventually ushers came in, stopped the film, and made the whole group of girls leave. What I’m really pissed off about though is that the girls also talked during the previews. And the new Harry Potter trailer was playing. It was the first time I had seen the trailer. I don’t think I even need to tell you, but I was really fucking excited. But of course, I couldn’t hear a thing because Efrat and Ofrat and Osnat and Liat and whoever were all shrieking and blabbering on—about something completely unrelated to Harry Potter.
Seriously, who the hell talks during a Harry Potter trailer? ISRAELIS. Seriously, the only sound you should hear during a Harry Potter trailer is the sound of everyone’s jaw simultaneously hitting the floor in amazement, and the occasional pit-pat of droplets of drool dripping to the floor.
4) Why do Israelis always think you’re cutting them in line? Certainly there’s something to be said for not being a sucker, for not getting cut in line…but nothing compares to how territorial Israelis can get with their spots in line. Israelis, I fear, are just one degree of sanity away from peeing on their spots in line. And I’m not just talking about the line for the bus, if you can even call it a “line.” Just last night I was in the supermarket and this Israeli woman abandoned her cart in the middle of an aisle, not too far from a check out line. Israelis have an interesting habit of doing that, of leaving their cart in line and then just disappearing for thirty minutes or a week. I happened to get in that same line, knowing that I’d be behind this woman should she ever decide to return from the epic solo journey that all Israelis seem to make while waiting to pay for groceries. I moved in a little closer to the counter though since I didn’t want to block the aisle. Big mistake. The woman came back and started freaking out, saying that she was here first and blahblahblah. I calmly explained that I knew, but that I simply didn’t want to stand in the middle of the “street” and be in the middle of everyone’s way. She kept freaking out at me as she moved her cart in front of me. She shut up for a while, but every time I moved my cart forward as the line progressed, she’d turn back around and give me an aggressive look, preparing to get out her elbows and everything should I even dare to try to cut her “again.” She actually reminded me of middle school PE when we played football. I was the quarterback and I distinctly remember seeing people playing defense for the opposing team, positioned exactly like she was.
There were about 10 distinct moments where I just wanted to scream at her, “FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME, I KNOW YOU’RE IN FRONT OF ME, I’M NOT TRYING TO CUT YOU, YOU PSYCHO BITCH!”
5) There’s poop flying in Jerusalem. The Haredim are pissed because a parking lot in Jerusalem is open on Shabbat. I’m beginning to think I wasn’t raised Jewish at all, because I don’t recognize these Jews. The Jews I grew up with in Hebrew School did things like dance to the song “Pata Pata” (you might have to google it…) every Sunday, and sing songs about doing good deeds….and have “cheeseburger bar mitzvahs.” Sure, it probably wasn’t the best religious upbringing ever, but at least it would never occur to me to throw shit—actual shit--at cops because of a parking lot.
6) A couple days ago someone asked me if there was any dog that I’m afraid of. I quickly said no, but then I really thought about it. Is there a dog that I would cross the street to avoid? Finally I realized YES. One. Giant, full-sized poodles. There is something I find particularly terrifying about them.
Justin Timberlake Memories
Tonight in a bar some Justin Timberlake song came on. I wish I could tell you the title, but I know it only as “that song that embarrasses the shit out of me.”
Back in 9th grade, 14 year old me took a dance class at school. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it on this blog. Anyway, I wish I could make my dear loyal readers proud (at last count there are three of you that I know of….but you never know who I might bump into next at some Shabbat dinner!); I wish I could tell you that I’m a great dancer.
And, wish fulfilled, I’m going to tell you that I am indeed a great dancer. A fantastic dancer.
In my room.
At home, by myself, I am the greatest dancer the world has ever seen. My moves range from the smooth to the silly to the obscene. The problem is that the second anyone else can see me, I can’t dance. I freeze up. I’m embarrassed to even tap my feet to the beat in public. People who might not know me as well would say that I don’t like dancing, based on how they see me freeze up in clubs or at dances. This is a lie. Secretly, deep down, I have to stop myself from jumping on tables and going all out when I hear music in public. Especially if it’s a Mika song. Maybe it’s because I’ve done lighting/stage managing for too many musicals, but I even find myself struggling to refrain from dancing to the PA music in seemingly innocent places, like on the bus or at a pizza parlor or at Aroma. Basically, I’m a closeted Breslover, except with a larger arsenal of dance moves involving my ass.
So anyway, I thought taking this dance class would teach me some basic stuff so that I wouldn’t totally freeze up when I’m around other people. I’d still probably never fulfill my (current) dream of breaking out into a song and dance number in the middle of the bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, but I figured that there was some kind of healthy compromise I could reach. I figured a Level One class would be filled with beginners, like me, who had never taken a class before and who knew nothing about dance.
Boy, was I an idiot. The people in that class…. Let me put it like this: it was like being in a Level One French class with only native Parisians.
“Beginning Dance” consisted of me, my two friends, and apparently the entire cast of the film “Center Stage.” And my two friends, those fucking traitors, turned out to be halfway decent.
I’ve blocked out most memories of that class from my head, but when I cringe in utter humiliation at the mere thought of being in a dance class as an awkward teenager, clear moments of extreme embarrassment come to the front of my mind. I remember doing an interpretive dance about the creation of the universe (complete with dialogue: “Expand…expand……revolve revolve revolve….wither….wither….wither……..apocalypse. The End.”) I remember doing an exercise with the entire class that involved leaping like graceful gazelle across the wild grasses of the Serengeti. Okay, that’s what it was supposed to look like, and somehow everyone else in the class actually managed to pull it off. I on the other hand managed to look like a polio-crippled elephant jumping up and down in frustration.
I also remember bar exercises that were nearly impossible for inflexible people like me, and I remember doing yoga…..which seemed to induce gas, because I remember letting out farts completely involuntarily every time the teacher walked by. If they were audible, sometimes I would turn and look at the teacher with a look of absolute disgust, hoping I could maybe confuse her into thinking that she was the one who had just ripped one.
But the worst part by far was the Justin Timberlake dance. This was what the teacher really focused on. A dance to a Justin Timberlake song. Needless to say, I was terrible at it. For one thing, I couldn’t remember all the steps—sure, remembering long passages of epic Roman poetry in its original Latin was a cinch for me, but the second you try to get my feet to remember anything besides how to walk…well, you’re in for trouble. And even when I could remember the steps, I couldn’t pull them off. A lot of the moves involved trying to look, for lack of a better word, “sexy.” You know, for example, you can’t just move your ass from Point A to Point B in a straight, efficient line, but rather you gotta put some attitude into it. Or something. Don’t ask me, I’ve never really understood this stuff.
Frankly, the mere thought of me trying to act sexy is appalling enough to turn even the straightest of men gay. As a favor to the general public (and to the one guy in the class…whose later switch to homosexuality I’m gonna go ahead and take personal credit for), I decided that the best thing I could do for the dance would be to do try to be as unsexy as possible. I tried imagining that I was dancing in a church. And also that I was a nun. I’m not sure which church would have played a Justin Timberlake song in the middle of services, but oh well. This is what got me through dance class.
So anyway, every time I hear that song, my head always goes back to 9th grade dance class. That song was the background to all those memories.
When it came on in the bar, I realized that the song would now also be the background to the memories of this night. This song is what I heard when I was interacting with people.
It made me start comparing the two experiences. Here’s Justin Timberlake singing as I stumble my way through dance class way back when. And here’s Justin Timberlake singing as I interact with people in a bar setting. Justin Timberlake and Me, the dancer. Justin Timberlake and Me, the person interacting with other humans.
I gotta say, of the two ……I’m a much better dancer.
Back in 9th grade, 14 year old me took a dance class at school. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it on this blog. Anyway, I wish I could make my dear loyal readers proud (at last count there are three of you that I know of….but you never know who I might bump into next at some Shabbat dinner!); I wish I could tell you that I’m a great dancer.
And, wish fulfilled, I’m going to tell you that I am indeed a great dancer. A fantastic dancer.
In my room.
At home, by myself, I am the greatest dancer the world has ever seen. My moves range from the smooth to the silly to the obscene. The problem is that the second anyone else can see me, I can’t dance. I freeze up. I’m embarrassed to even tap my feet to the beat in public. People who might not know me as well would say that I don’t like dancing, based on how they see me freeze up in clubs or at dances. This is a lie. Secretly, deep down, I have to stop myself from jumping on tables and going all out when I hear music in public. Especially if it’s a Mika song. Maybe it’s because I’ve done lighting/stage managing for too many musicals, but I even find myself struggling to refrain from dancing to the PA music in seemingly innocent places, like on the bus or at a pizza parlor or at Aroma. Basically, I’m a closeted Breslover, except with a larger arsenal of dance moves involving my ass.
So anyway, I thought taking this dance class would teach me some basic stuff so that I wouldn’t totally freeze up when I’m around other people. I’d still probably never fulfill my (current) dream of breaking out into a song and dance number in the middle of the bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, but I figured that there was some kind of healthy compromise I could reach. I figured a Level One class would be filled with beginners, like me, who had never taken a class before and who knew nothing about dance.
Boy, was I an idiot. The people in that class…. Let me put it like this: it was like being in a Level One French class with only native Parisians.
“Beginning Dance” consisted of me, my two friends, and apparently the entire cast of the film “Center Stage.” And my two friends, those fucking traitors, turned out to be halfway decent.
I’ve blocked out most memories of that class from my head, but when I cringe in utter humiliation at the mere thought of being in a dance class as an awkward teenager, clear moments of extreme embarrassment come to the front of my mind. I remember doing an interpretive dance about the creation of the universe (complete with dialogue: “Expand…expand……revolve revolve revolve….wither….wither….wither……..apocalypse. The End.”) I remember doing an exercise with the entire class that involved leaping like graceful gazelle across the wild grasses of the Serengeti. Okay, that’s what it was supposed to look like, and somehow everyone else in the class actually managed to pull it off. I on the other hand managed to look like a polio-crippled elephant jumping up and down in frustration.
I also remember bar exercises that were nearly impossible for inflexible people like me, and I remember doing yoga…..which seemed to induce gas, because I remember letting out farts completely involuntarily every time the teacher walked by. If they were audible, sometimes I would turn and look at the teacher with a look of absolute disgust, hoping I could maybe confuse her into thinking that she was the one who had just ripped one.
But the worst part by far was the Justin Timberlake dance. This was what the teacher really focused on. A dance to a Justin Timberlake song. Needless to say, I was terrible at it. For one thing, I couldn’t remember all the steps—sure, remembering long passages of epic Roman poetry in its original Latin was a cinch for me, but the second you try to get my feet to remember anything besides how to walk…well, you’re in for trouble. And even when I could remember the steps, I couldn’t pull them off. A lot of the moves involved trying to look, for lack of a better word, “sexy.” You know, for example, you can’t just move your ass from Point A to Point B in a straight, efficient line, but rather you gotta put some attitude into it. Or something. Don’t ask me, I’ve never really understood this stuff.
Frankly, the mere thought of me trying to act sexy is appalling enough to turn even the straightest of men gay. As a favor to the general public (and to the one guy in the class…whose later switch to homosexuality I’m gonna go ahead and take personal credit for), I decided that the best thing I could do for the dance would be to do try to be as unsexy as possible. I tried imagining that I was dancing in a church. And also that I was a nun. I’m not sure which church would have played a Justin Timberlake song in the middle of services, but oh well. This is what got me through dance class.
So anyway, every time I hear that song, my head always goes back to 9th grade dance class. That song was the background to all those memories.
When it came on in the bar, I realized that the song would now also be the background to the memories of this night. This song is what I heard when I was interacting with people.
It made me start comparing the two experiences. Here’s Justin Timberlake singing as I stumble my way through dance class way back when. And here’s Justin Timberlake singing as I interact with people in a bar setting. Justin Timberlake and Me, the dancer. Justin Timberlake and Me, the person interacting with other humans.
I gotta say, of the two ……I’m a much better dancer.
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