Note: This was originally created as an email with "voting buttons", so you could vote on whether I should continue my funk dancing career or not. The class concerned has long since passed, but I've kept the voting option as a form at the bottom of page so you can have your say anyway.
After I released the expose on the fascinating world of funk dancing, people said I was spending too much time talking to Jørgen. They said that soon I'd be doing funk dancing and listening to the Pet Shop Boys and generally being totally gay. I scoffed at this nonsense, and assured people that my interest in funk dancing was over. Then...
It's been a weird weekend. I listened to people speak about databases in Russian at 3am in the morning and I danced to Indian Punjabi dance music (not at the same time). The weirdest thing of all happened on Saturday. Depending on who you ask, I:
It would never happen, I said. I'm totally unco, I said. I have publicly mocked the very idea of it, I said. Jørgen was unmoved. Through an insidious campaign of brainwashing, harassment and logical argument (the latter was particularly unnerving); he wore me down until it seemed like it couldn't do any harm. It even seemed like it might actually be a good idea. It'll be character building, I thought. It's always good to expand one's range of experience, right? Try anything once? At 4pm on Saturday afternoon, all these rationalisations vanished like decorum at a Guns n' Roses concert. I was at my very first street dancing class and I didn't have a fucking clue.
I had arrived early and engaged in nervous chatter with fellow aspirants, stressing that I was uncoordinated, stressing I was an utter beginner and just stressing. I was wearing my favourite t-shirt, which boldly proclaims "I'm not even supposed to be here today!": never was it more appropriate. How the hell had I agreed to this? The teacher was a friendly chap who did his best to put me at ease, as did the other women who declared themselves as beginners also. I suspected our definition of beginner would differ. After about the 20th woman arrived, Jørgen showed up, grinning like a Cheshire Cat on uppers, looking forward to showing off. By way of greeting, I made some remark along the lines of "What in goddamn-purple-bleeding-fire-fuck have you got me into, you fruity Euro bastard!?"
And so we began. First we warmed up, which involved doing a series of alarming stretches to music. During this time a few stragglers arrived, including two other guys! However, they arrived together and one was wearing a pink tank top, so the class continued to conform to my fearful stereotype for the moment. Once I had proved to the others just how inflexible I was, we began the lessons proper. There was no introduction, no theory, just a quick overview of the philosophy behind street dancing. What was a book-learnin' nerd like me to do? Then BANG straight into our first routine!
I kept up for a while. At least, I moved in the same general direction doing the same general thing at the pretty much the same time as the other people. The actual execution of the each move was less than exemplary. Indeed, with my loose grey tracksuit pants and my bum which sticks out, I probably appeared something like an upside-down severed elephant leg twitching with residual nerve electricity. As the class progressed, it took me longer and longer to learn each bit, and I fell behind, just a little at a time. A few times I got it, and it felt really good, but they were few and far between. At other times, my mind still had something of a grasp on the concept of left and right, but my limbs were operating in an alternate multi-dimensional universe.
Towards the end I tired and found it harder and harder to learn the new moves. During our penultimate runthroughs I courted disaster, then became engaged and married it in the final dance. Luckily, following Paul's Guide To Funk Dancing For Complete KnobheadsTM, I had strategically positioned myself at the rear, in the corner and behind the piano, so very few could see me. I did, however, take some measure (probably a teaspoon) of pride in completing the whole lesson: one girl sat it out after a while. And then, it was over. Now I had true personal experience of funk dancing, and could write about it with some authority. Thus, it was time to move onto other things. Any journalistic instincts I may possess told me it was time to stop. Common sense told me it was time to stop. Anybody who was at the class would tell me it is time to stop. But, now that I've started...should I not carry it through until I have truly proven my unsuitability? Maybe I might get better. Should one not do one's best and give it a red hot go for king and country, old chap? But should I put myself through that again? Uncertainty prevails. So, I am turning to the non-funk-dancing public for an answer.
In the spirit of self-obsession and reality television, and in the mistaken belief that anyone cares, I am inviting anyone to vote on the immediate future of my funk dancing. To help you with your decision, I have listed the pros and cons of continuing:
Pros:
Cons:
Vote Early, Vote Often.
See also: Part 3 - Funk Dancing: The Horrible Truth
©Copyright Paul Bird 2001