the real shady

Sunday, June 18, 2000
@ home      1802 hrs

    Recently I’ve been accused of being fake, naive, and uncaring of others.  Forget the fact that these accusations were tossed by someone who knows very little about me (she knows nothing of any importance which the regular reader of this page can’t gather).  I’m certain there are others in the world who feel that I perfectly fit her characterization.  Therefore, I feel it is my responsibility to respond to such accusations in this public arena.  

    Truly opening oneself up is a difficult task.  A task made even more difficult when you plan to put on display this open self.  Or when you plan to chronicle publicly your attempts at breaking the defensive perimeter of your psyche in order to find what most expect to see:  a truer self, a truth.  I’ll set aside the argument for or against such an expectation; let it suffice to say that many, many people believe this to be true and this drives their voyeuristic forays into worlds such as this.  

    At the same time, one must remember that my journal hasn’t been only an avenue of healthy self-deconstruction.  I’ve spent considerable amounts of time and words critiquing organizations, political personas and the like.  Although these two things are rather complementary:  the institutions surrounding an individual have their effect on him or her.  

    The truth is:  I don’t know how not to be fake.  What is fake?  According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, two definitions are:

                                                                fake [4] (noun)

First appeared 1827

: one that is not what it purports to be: as

a : a worthless imitation passed off as genuine


    What have I professed to be and not been or become?  I can only admit to being human, and if I’m an impostor in that domain, I’m a fake all around. 

   I’m not a dancer.  At all.  But last night I was hanging out with Wendi (the former-B&N-cafe-wench-turned-massage-therapist) and her lesbian friend, Danielle (I only add in the lesbian thing for coloring purposes and maybe to help her get a date) at PlatinumX, a dance club on Austin’s Sixth Street.  I’ve never been to a club like that before, save the ones we frequented around Keesler AFB, but those don’t really count.  I repeat again:  I am not a dancer.  But I did get out there on the floor a couple times (try everything twice). 

   The two girls had tried to coax me out there earlier, but I’d start to walk out and, as soon as they turned their back, walk back to the table.  I don’t dance, I had warned them earlier.  Finally, as I sat there alone awaiting that usual wave of depression to wash over me for being such a dumbass wallflower, pictures of my favorite Individuals flashed through my mind:  Jim Morrison being a stand-out in my memory now.  The first step in self-discovery is not caring what everyone else thinks.  I gave myself a bit more time to convince myself of that and walked out there. 

   I was a complete idiot.  I should’ve stayed back at the table.  Sure, no one there save Wendi or Danielle knew me, but I still felt stupid.  I moved around a bit, not sure what to do with my hands, losing the beat thanks to the deficient DJ and my own whiteboyness, and finally, after the girls told me to move back because they needed more room (which I took as their way of saying, “You’re right, you do suck at dancing.”), ended up standing in the corner of the dancefloor created by a large speaker and the wall. 

   Back at the table I smoked a clove and visualized the best strategy for a squadron to implement in the hostile takeover of the club.  Obviously the frat boys would be the first to get rifle butts to the head.  Needless to say, it was an interesting creative exercise. 

   Later, after the girls had been on the floor for a rather long time and waved to me join them again, I acquired a cup of water from the pretty waitress and, after drinking my gulps, headed down onto the floor to share and try my luck at the whole dance thing again.  I was asking for humiliation.  I could only hope that the rest of the club was drunk enough not to notice.  Smartly, I’d watched other guys dancing between my attempts and found that, really, they only do two steps with each feet — each foot back and each foot forward with the beat — and the rest was hands (sometimes) and pelvis.  As Wendi had said earlier, they just fuck the air.

   I wasn’t much into the idea of fucking the air, but I could do the little foot dance thing and move my arms around a bit.  It seemed to work fairly well.  I don’t think I was horrible, although I know I wasn’t great by any considerable stretch of the imagination.  I danced thirty or so minutes with them and then we left.  Hot and sweaty enough to love the cool night air and not care so much about the huge crowd that had gathered on Sixth Street since we’d entered the club at 10 PM — it was now a quarter or so after 1 AM. 

   On the way back to Ruta Maya, I picked up one of the thousands of flyers covering the street that evangelists had passing out to party-goers who just dropped them as they walked off.  It said, “Accept Jesus As Your Savior And Save Your Soul From Hell.”  So, for a few minutes, I walked down the street, preaching to the girls and passersby about the sin of drinking and their need to find Jesus.  “Practice random acts of Jesus.”  Part the puddles. 

   So… maybe I am a fake. 

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