TornWordo proved insightful in the pervious post’s comments. Friday’s meeting and some other minor annoyances (not worth mentioning) put me in a cranky mood over the weekend. To break the funk, I went with a friend to a belly dancing exposition on Sunday evening.
Why belly dancing? For starters, I felt that I should know more about this dance form than what I remember about Kelly infiltrating a Middle-Eastern restaurant in a Charlie’s Angels episode. I suspected that Jaclyn Smith’s performance may not have been entirely authentic. Besides, it’s good for me to get out and take advantage of the few quasi-interesting things that occur in this town.
I would have included pictures of the dancers, but I don’t currently own a digital camera. My phone has that option, but the resolution makes the images fairly grainy. Besides, pictures only distract from talking about me.
Anyway, the performance went fine – until it threatened to expose one of GayProf’s deep secrets. As the music and dancing increased intensity, the audience began rhythmically clapping. If I joined the clapping, I would never keep the right pace. I am always a half beat behind. Most people can’t help getting into the tempo when surrounded by a hundred others all clapping at the same rate. Yet, for whatever reason, I just can’t do it.
You see, dear readers, I lack any and all sense of rhythm. No, it’s true. I could not find the bass beat of a song using a seismograph. I have been mocked (MOCKED!) on dance floors – by MY FRIENDS!
When I go to clubs, I often have to come up with excuses about why I stay chained to the bar all night instead of dancing. “You all go ahead,” I say, “I don’t want anyone to take your purses. What? Those aren’t your purses? Oh, right, I started robbing people before I came to the club. I better keep a low profile then and stay close to the bar.” If they persist in wanting me to dance, I have to come up with better reasons like, “Sorry, I lost a leg in Vietnam" or "I don’t want to leave the bar because, um, I am an alcoholic.” Actually, that last one is not technically a lie.
There are many reasons why one might expect that I should have a sense of rhythm. Christ, I played a musical instrument for six (6) years in school. Granted, I chose the clarinet and sucked at it. Still, you would think something would have stuck.
Small beads of sweat formed on my head as the wave of clapping fervor crested. I knew my friend would quickly notice my affliction. How could she not? What kind of dork can’t, you know, clap? I wonder if it is an inner-ear thing.
Thoughts of potential escape raced through my mind. Perhaps I could feign having caught that bird flu thing. Or maybe I could yell “Fire.” No, that wouldn’t be ethical unless there really was a fire. Wait -- I could start a fire.
Alas, there was no escape and I had to join the crowd. My friend instantly noted that I could never quite match the rest of the audience. She is no longer my friend.
Being gay and part Latino means people expect things. I have failed my people. At least I can take comfort in shattering stereotypes. That’s something, right?
All of this proves one thing that I always suspected. One should never question the validity of the original Charlie's Angels.