I am not much of a dancer. As a child then as a teen I was ever conscious of my utterly absurd body shape, which unfortunately was then compounded by poor choices in clothing (1). The last time I can remember actually dancing all the way through one song was Billy Joel's 'We didn't start the fire' at a high school social (2) in the late '80s. I remember aching towards the end and just wishing someone would put out the flames already.
In uni days I detested going out dancing ... but went anyway because that's what you did. However inevitably I'd end up on the balcony, usually during the colder months since that's when classes were on, half-cut and having a shouty conversation with someone I'd bailed up in order to pester them about my own world and cultural views. Kind of like blogging live to an audience who couldn't get away. Being a regional country town with a university it meant a fair amount of fuckwits were compressed into 2-3 drinking localities down town, and I'd have to endure their menacing of my short and stout person—a classic jape being the yanking of my then ponytail.
So no ... I don't dance. Well ... not in public. At home, with the music pumping, I will dance on occasion. Though being bio-mechanically restricted my dancing basically looks like one of those inflatable blower men that advertise the giant p0rn clearance sales along Gladstone Street in Fyshwick.
I had a hip replacement in early December. In the past few days I have managed to get around without crutches. I even went down town—well, Woden—without them the other day. As long as I moved slowly I was okay.
Today ... today it feels almost as bad as it was before the operation. Which is to say a lot better since the operation. My hip was well-fucked before it was replaced, don't get me wrong, but I could still walk normally—just in a fair amount of pain and occasionally having to press the flat of my hand against my thigh as I walked to relieve the pain.
So I can walk around, relatively normally, but with some pain and discomfort. That will eventually pass and I will be better than I was. Fortunately we have The Purgatory Cart (3), with the standard now five kays to aim for (and achieved in 17 minutes), helping the recovery speed faster along (4).
I was singing 'Wonder Boy' to theBoy and on a whim summoned him to the end room where the new and improved desk top machine lay in order to take in its goodness on YouTube. He didn't like it—mainly because his eyes was attracted to 'the fire one!' (5), which was in the row of 'you may also like' suggestions of other Tenacious D clips; in this case the one for 'Tribute' which showed a fire-limed Dave Grohl as the Devil.
Eventually, though, we started clicking on to non-Tenacious D stuff.
It was then my body demanded it dance. So I did, doing the inflatable blower man, however still being careful not to put too much weight on "the bad leg".
And the choice of song?
The Bloodhound Gang's 'The Bad Touch'
PS We're off to Casso's for New Years. Oh and fuck you, 2011.
(1) Such as my infamous "all brown" outfit of years 8 to 9.
(2) In Oz, for the benefit of no one else, we call school dances 'socials'. A British hang-over? Perhaps.
(3) Pried from the clutches of the swamp-hag Casso whose green-streaked hair, long nails, and snaggled teeth has excited would-be seekers of extreme sexual congress for centuries. Only I think she bites their heads off afterwards.
(4) theWife goes after me and matches time served ... plus a few seconds or a couple of minutes more than me. She's so competitive!