Tag Archives: id

Sure, I’ll Slow Dance

I would love to keep my blog entries current.  But, sometimes days will go by without anything amusing to write about.  That is not to say that my life is currently boring.  There are just good days and then there are very odd days.  Please don’t worry about my state of mind.  All is well.

You’re not worried about me, are you?  No?  Fine.

Ok.  I thought I would dig deep and bring to you story from my college years.  About twenty years ago.  Crap, I got old.

I went to school at Ohio University.  Note that the word “the” does not appear in the previous statement.  OU!  Home of the Bobcats.  Harvard on the Hocking.  Beautiful chunk of our country–rolling hills, green campus, no need for city buses, etc.  Hey, that is the description of an old guy reflecting upon his college years.  As a student back then, I didn’t really care or even notice the hills, unless I was lugging a backpack of books up them.  As a student, I would gladly tell you about the awesome engineering school that can be found there, or perhaps the uptown bar scene, where, back in the early 90’s, they would let anyone drink regardless of age.  Total non-discrimination.

There was this one particular bar called (back then) “The Greenery”.  This was a bar that looked the other way when checking your ID at the door.  The act of handing your ID to the so-called bouncer was just a show for… for who?  No one was watching?  Clearly this was a great place for freshmen to gather in order to discuss the finer points of the theories presented in the last experiment conducted in the physics lab earlier that week.  A place to develop student friendships.  A social gathering point to bond lifelong relationships.

Or maybe it was just a place to drink many pitchers of Brain Stoppers.  Man, they were yummy.

I remember the first time I attempted to enter this reputable place of business.  I handed my ID to the guy at the door and actually told him that I was underage.  I explained that I just wanted to see what the inside of this place looks like.  He said, “Sure.  Come on in!”  And then he marked my hand with that “approved to drink whatever” stamp.  Good times.  Stupid times.

There was an upstairs floor to this bar.  Up there music would be cranking out sounds of the late 80’s over the dance floor.  Young adults (too young to be there, but I wasn’t complaining) would be dancing, jumping, screaming, wiggling, and barfing to the beat of the tunes.  The smell of spilled Brain Stoppers filled the air—both serve and post-consumed.  The dance floor occupied a small area of the upstairs and a full mirrored wall made the place look like there were hundreds of students jammed in and having fun.

A little background about myself.  I am a Caucasian American.  You know the type, the non-dancing kind.  I’m also a tall guy.  I’m just under six foot five.  My dancing skills were never honed at all.  I was typically seen biting my lower lip and flailing my arms like I was trying to get a bathroom light sensor to turn the lights back on while trapped in a stall.  (Sound familiar?)

But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t dance well.  It’s not like this place was packed full of Footloose stars.  The likes of Kevin Bacon were nowhere to be seen.  So I’m out there with all my friends having the time of my life when I noticed this guy jumping around like a fool, waving his drink in the air, standing a good foot taller than everyone else on the dance floor.  What a dork!

Now, I’m not one to judge him based on the level of my own dancing skills, but that guy should go sit down.  He doesn’t realize that he is embarrassing himself.  Then a thought occurred to me and I froze.  I probably look just as dumb as him.  And then it was confirmed as I realized that I was looking at my own reflection in that mirrored wall.  That was my last fast dance.  Ever.

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