There are plans to get in one more karaoke event before the end of summer, as well as perhaps a later, special despair-e-oke event where we do nothing but sing sad songs and lament Jerry's return to New York and other karaoke departures.
The latest call to karaoke arms has included a call for accompanying dancers. While my normal karaoke is that of enthusiastic audience participant, I have sometimes appeared onstage to "sing," or whatever it is one would call that thing I do with my voice. I do not, however, dance. I do not do "The Robot." I do not do "The Breadmaker." I do not do "The Gecko." I do not do the latest dance craze that has swept through sociology-karaoke circles, "The Manversation."*
I could cite faculty dignity by way of explanation here, or my narwhalish figure, or my complete lack of coordination. But today I was reading Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans, a collection of "humor" from McSweeney's, and I see that a certain friend of mine--you know who you are--has sold them the transcripts from a particularly ill-fated attempt to provide me with dance instruction. This gives you a sense of the psychological trauma that dance dredges up for me.
Thanks, pal, I hope you got thirty pieces of silver for selling that interaction to McSweeney's as "fiction." No, what I'm doing now is not some new creative dance move of mine, but rather struggling to pull the stilletto out of my spine.
* How it's done: clench your fists, hold them up in right angles to your body, raise your shoulders slightly, furrow your brow, and then move your fists in a horizontal-figure-8 motion and cock your head from side to side while you sing in a faux deep voice. Even better if you are holding a glass of scotch while you perform.