Archive for August, 2010

Dancing

Within the confines of my apartment walls, I am the world’s greatest dancer. No question.

Sometimes, at weddings, after having one or seven drinks, I am also exceptionally skilled on the dance floor.

Dancing is innate. It is true. Just go to youtube and check out all the videos that have been uploaded of babies dancing. No one taught them to do this (except maybe this baby. Someone probably taught that baby at least some of its moves. Or it’s really just a little person pretending to be a toddler). And, let’s face it, if someone did teach them, that someone did a really bad job because not one of those babies is a particularly good dancer.

And now you’re probably thinking that I am a terrible person for being so judgmental of a baby’s dancing abilities. To this, I respond by saying EXACTLY. If we are not critical of these babies right from the start they are going to grow up thinking that this kind of dancing is good enough. And then who knows what will happen. It is highly probable that they would go on to audition for “So You Think You Can Dance?” and that would just be a waste of everyone’s time.

But I digress.

When dancing in a non-professional setting, it does not matter if you are good or bad. All that matters is that you are having fun. I mean, if you can look cool at the same time then that is a definite plus, but having fun is pretty high up there when it comes to what you should get out of dancing.

Last month, at my cousin’s wedding, I was on fire on the dance floor. Not literally on fire, but metaphorically on fire. If I had literally been on fire, it would have been, I would imagine, a fairly traumatic day for everyone who attended the wedding.

My dance moves were so intense that evening that people felt compelled to video tape me. Dance moves I called upon included (but were not limited to) the sprinkler, the shopping cart, the lawnmower, the running man, the grapevine and a little something that I like to call the upside down tornado. Yes, it’s true, Internet; I looked incredibly cool that night. All of the other girls wanted to be me and all of the guys wanted to be with me. But what was most important was that I was having a good time.

I carried pieces of that night around with me well into the next day. Mostly in the form of a hangover, but partly in the form of the unadulterated joy derived from dancing.

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An Ode to Hamilton

I see him, without fail, each time I take the dogs for an evening stroll. “If ever someone were to eat 80% of my face,” I think to myself, “it would be you.” When we pass, I look him right in the eye (just one though) to make sure that he knows that I know he is not to be trusted.

Hamilton is a city defined by its people. The thing is that its people are so magically diverse that there is no real way to define it at all.

My apartment building itself is filled with a mixture of the hopeful and hopeless. It was built sometime in the early 20s, meant to house Hamilton’s rich and famous. I like to imagine what it might have looked like in its day. As I walk through the halls, I hear the voice of Ron Burgandy echoing in my head, or maybe I am actually hearing it from someone’s TV. Regardless, Burgandy says, “I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.” If mahogany smells anything like marijuana, Ron Burgandy’s apartment and my apartment building have much in common.

Having been born and raised in a city Hamilton adjacent – one that prides itself on being both morally and economically superior to its blue collar neighbour – I have found myself surprisingly fond of my new home. I like it here.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” I once told a friend.

“You should take that to the tourism office. I think you just found a new slogan. Hamilton: it’s not as bad as you think.”

But, seriously, it’s not as bad as you think.


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