soapboxdiner

The story of the chicken and the zebra

When I was 16, the folks finally broke down and got cable television. We'd never had it before, as we were a lower middle class family. Cable television just wasn't a high priority for the folks. Being 16, I felt completely cheated by the no cable situation. So when we finally got it, I made sure to give myself a healthy dose of BET and MTV. It was more like an OD, really. I taught myself how to dance off BET. I, most assuredly I knew, would hence forth be One Cool Chic.

The first dance I learned from the pop cult classic I Talk To Myself (cuz there ain't no one to talk to). Do you all remember this song? It was by Christopher... something - Williams, I think. He was a one hit wonder - but as Thomas She Blinded Me With Science Dolby once said on VH1 Where Are They Now, "I may have only had one hit, but that's still one more than you."

Anyway, the dance had something to do with a lot of arm flapping and fandango feet and stuff. But if done properly in purple and pink zebra print Hammer pants, it looked damned cool - and so I mastered it.

Mastery had, I couldn't wait to show my new friends. I say new because, well, they were new - or more, I was. I went to 14 different schools K-12, and this was school 14 - year one.

Yes, so there I was with new friends, a new dance, and an old, old desire to impress. You know what happened next, right? Very good! Indeed, I did the Chris Williams I Talk To Myself dance for my friends. It was twilight of a spring eve. We were loitering in the suburban street in front of Kim's house. We were drinking 40s of Olde E, if recollection serves.

And I said, "Watch this!"

*boogie boogie boogie to the swish of Hammer pants*

Stacey watched appreciatively with a straight face. When I was done she said, "Hang on. You have to show that to the gang."

And the gang arrived. I boogie boogie boogied again. *Counts steps in her head.* Don't trip, for the love of all that is holy, DON'T TRIP! *Counts steps again.*

When the pants stopped swaying, I looked up from my carefully observed feet and delicately wiped my brow of it's thin film of perspiration. Expectantly, I waited to be recognized for my ultimate coolness. I ached in those eternal seconds of silence.

And then Stacey at last broke the quiet with these immortal words:

YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKED UP CHICKEN ON CRACK!

And they all laughed.

Today, for some odd and inexplicable reason, I feel an awful lot like I did at that precise moment.

Boo hiss growl.

10:41 pm - 04.15.03
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