Jump Around

I completely forgot to tell this story. On the Friday before Belgium, Travis and I went out with, Zheni, and my friend, Francesco, an Italian who grew up in England. He looks Italian but speaks with an English accent. We went to a real relaxed bar and then, when we should have been going home, Zheni suggested a bar that played American rock n roll music and served cheap drinks all night. I doubted her and was proven wrong. The bar was a bit of a dive with good music and friendly bartenders.

We were watching a black guy dance on stage with his white friends (European men dance with one another whether gay or straight, kinda the way girls do in the U.S.) when Francesco admits that he cannot dance. I have had a few drinks and announce that I can dance like a black guy. Francesco doesn't believe me. I'm feeling so bulletproof that I claim the black guy currently dancing on stage must be "whiting it down" for his white friends because no self respecting black man with any rhythm would dance so blandly. Francesco scoffs at this remark.

Minutes later we are being dragged onto the dance floor by an enthused Francesco because House of Pain's, Jump Around, is playing. Francesco wasn't lying about his dancing ability. He really cannot dance. His arms are flailing in front of him and to the sides with no apparent purpose or link to the song or anything else that could qualify as dancing. Wanting to stop the bleeding, I grab his arms and tell him to keep them at roughly a right angle. Don't mess it up, I say. Girls don't expect you to be able to dance, they just don't want you to mess it up. Flailing around was funny when you were in high school, maybe even college. That junk won't fly anymore. I finally get him to buy into my theory. He has his arms at a right angle with his hands pointing forward and isn't moving them very much.

"Like this?", he asks. "Oh you mean like John McCain?"

Yes, Francesco, exactly like John McCain.