Classic Think About It: The Problem With Something New
I was reminded of this story earlier today and I felt the need to get out there and share it with you guys. I once won second place in a Dance, Dance Revolution contest.
I kid you not.
From Sept. 6, 2003:
THINK ABOUT IT: THE PROBLEM WITH SOMETHING NEW
Certain friends of mine have suggested that I can improve the overall quality of my life by getting out and doing new things. As this is a far superior strategy to my own, which includes a bag of Doritos and the second-season DVD of “Futurama,” I make an effort to follow this advice whenever possible.
Finding new things to do isn’t as simple as it would seem. I’ve learned that if I could think of “new things” easily, in most cases, I’d already be doing them. Sometimes, though, it seems like whatever cosmic forces are in charge of my fate feel the need to drop in a new experience just to get in a few extra chuckles. Sometimes, friends, new things happen to you instead of the other way around.
Case in point. Last weekend I was out with my buddy Jason and we wound up at this restaurant/pub we frequently go to. There are three reasons we go here: 1-It’s close to the movie theater, 2-the food is good and 3-the waitresses are cute. As any good restaurant reviewer will tell you, these are the three factors most important to consider in any eatery. We go here so frequently, in fact, that most of the staff knows us and if we go more than a few weekends without coming by people start looking for our faces on milk cartons.
Jason and I had just completed our regular routine (movie, food, beer) and were about to pay the check when a certain managerial-type of our acquaintance named Holly came up to the table carrying a clipboard. I was unable to think of a single instance in my life where a clipboard ultimately meant good news.
“Hey guys,” Holly said, smiling. “Do you want to enter our dance tournament?”
Keep in mind who Holly was asking this to -- Jason, a broad-shouldered guy only slightly whiter than your average “Friends” cast member, and myself, who has a body type somewhere between Jackie Gleason and John Goodman. Jason, proving that given the proper stimuli he can think far faster than I can, gave her some lame excuse about a sprained ankle. (I won’t believe this until I see the MRI.) Holly then turned her attention to me, at which point I was effectively doomed.
“C’mon,” she said.
“Eh,” I replied.
“You get a keychain just for signing up,” she offered.
“Oh, well then,” I said, signing my name as though the only thing missing from my life were a Bacardi keychain/bottle opener.
Jason and I meandered to the “tournament” area, where we saw exactly what I was in for. It was a video game (on the restaurant’s big-screen TV, of course) where one has to step on arrows on an electronic pad in time with the arrows on the screen. I've seen larger versions of this game in arcades, and frankly, it frightens me. I suspect the game is actually a top-secret device used to monitor and recruit members for future boy bands, not unlike the video game in the documentary motion picture The Last Starfighter, and I worry that any kid who does exceedingly well will soon find himself in a limo with a guy with no face and Justin Timberlake's android double.
The girl I was scheduled to “dance” against, a waitress named Julie, asked, “Have you ever done this before?”
“No,” I said, “but I just remembered I have no dignity, so I should be fine.”
My plan was to get up there, flop out quickly and sneak out the back way. This plan was effectively ruined when, defying all laws of probability, I won the first round.
In round two, the arrows went by much faster. This was a relief. I’d just look goofy as usual and get out. I took my place and started tapping, only to hear unusual shouts from behind me.
“Look at him go!”
“Whoa!”
“Dude, he’s only using one foot!”
The time ran out and I stepped back, thinking my sentence was over. Except it wasn’t.
“I demand a recount!” I shouted.
“But you won!” said someone behind me.
“I know! That’s why I demand a recount!”
As I sat next to Jason, who at this point was paralyzed with laughter, it occurred to me what advantage, if any, I had in this game. The electronic pad didn’t measure grace, it measured precision, and I had nine years of marching band experience under my belt. Not to mention only one beer, which definitely gave me a leg up on at least some of my competitors.
As I stepped up for the last round I heard a voice from the billiard table shout out, “Five bucks on the fat guy!”
Great, I thought. Now I’m responsible for somebody’s fiscal solvency.
The last round, again, was lightning fast, and this time the laws of physics reasserted themselves. I lost. But not by much. And I still, somehow, came in second place overall. As a reward for my efforts, Holly presented me with a Miller Lite t-shirt which was entirely too small for me. I gratefully accepted it.
“Hey, that took guts,” Jason said as we were finally leaving.
“Guts nothing,” I said. “That just proved I’m incapable of saying ‘no’ to a pretty girl and I’m too darn noble to just skulk away after I’ve given my word.”
Jason found himself completely incapable of arguing with this.
Usually when I tell a story like this, folks, I want to apply some sort of moral lesson to it, and this time is no different. The moral of the story is actually quite simple.
Always fake a sprained ankle first.
Blake M. Petit has long believed he has the heart of a dancer. This has been the source for more than one argument. Contact him with comments, suggestions or any video game that only requires manipulation of the thumbs at BlakePT@cox.net.