I have a repertoire of exactly five dance moves, four of which are bad decisions.
There are a litany of reasons why I know this to be true, not the least of which involves James Brown, my old boss's wedding (can I get a whut-whut Doug? Jen? Byron? No one?), and the rapt attention of the photographer at the event, who captured a whole lotta raised eyebrows and slack jaws on that dance floor. In the spirit of full disclosure, I just looked through a handful of images from that wedding thinking I might post a few examples evidencing my dawning suspicions about the fidelity of my groove, but the reality is ruthless and in the light of day, even three years later, those images exist as a reminder that copious amounts of hair flipping belong on the stage of a hair metal show. In 1985. Why I ever thought I could whip my mane around with the same panache as Bon Jovi or even Meatloaf is beyond me, yet here I am in 2007 at Doug's wedding, doing just that.
See that? Stunning. Which says nothing of my dancing compatriots, and I do take solace in the fact that I wasn't alone in drinking that much pinot noir that night, and I clearly wasn't solo on that dance floor. Still unconvinced of the magnitude of dance floor crimes committed that evening? Oh, okay...because there's this:
Oh, and definitely this:
I rest my case. And while many of you are likely thinking that the real culprit responsible for that last bit of wholly ill-advised shoulder shaking is the pinot noir (and you wouldn't be entirely incorrect), it behooves me to hang my head in shame and admit that yes, I dance like that all the time, whether my carafe overfloweth with water or wine.
The most damning evidence of all, however, came swiftly on the heels of the first Fauxchella. Specifically, the morning after the performances and the earth shatteringly awesome dance party that followed when Jessica's folks plugged in the camcorder they'd been hoisting around the entire evening and pushed Play. What followed was the hip bumping equivalent to the walk of shame, wherein our actions, as laid bare in the harsh light of day (equally deflating as the grainy night vision quality of the tape, I assure you), came into startlingly humiliating focus. I watched myself with stern disapproval as green-eyed night vision Me flung herself from one physically improbable contortion to the next and back again, literally pinballing from one checkpoint to another, racking up points like an arcade demon playing a few hundred rounds of Oh No She Didn't: The Game!
Not only did the unfriendly and ultimately scathing addition of 24 frames-per-second render my dancing queen dreams null and void, but it revealed an even more disheartening layer to my reality: I only had 5 dance moves. And literally no variations therein. Five. Five moves. Four of which, please say it isn't so! But it's so! It's absolutely SO! are bad, bad decisions.
I was crushed. What I'd long suspected to be true was true with a bullet. BANG. Four outta five is pretty bad, it turns out.
All of that to say, I am fairly certain that I was every bit as wackily demented on the dance floor at this year's Fauxchella, but Adam Sjoberg, in his infinite goodness as an artist, managed to capture a moment - scant, to be sure, a teeny gold nugget gleaming amongst a steaming pile of proverbial poo - wherein I look like I'm having fun. And my hair! My hair is having fun! And my chin exists somewhere and my eyes are more or less focused, and my hips haven't dislocated and staged a mutiny on my shoulders! It's a dance floor miracle! And, in case you haven't guessed by now (and you probably haven't), the whole point of this post was to direct your attention to Adam's blog, where he's posted more sneak peeks of the Fauxchella Documentary. But this wouldn't be Blinking Against The Brightness if it didn't take me at least two anecdotes, three parenthetical asides, and eighteen paragraphs to get there.