Drunk of the Week
Sometimes it's good to be a doctor. The other night in LoDo, for example, when those tens of thousands of dollars in tuition debt came in handy for diagnosing a medical emergency.
It was a beautiful night, although apparently the folks at Rio Grande thought it was a beautiful night in Miami, where you cater to retirees, because the Rio was closing up just as the fun was getting started. So instead, we parked ourselves on the patio at Jackson's All-American Sports Grill (1520 20th Street), where a bunch of statues were playing Jimi Hendrix. I love Jimi, but any band not headlining at Red Rocks is awfully presumptuous to fire up any of his signature tunes -- particularly when its members' lips (and bodies) aren't moving enough to breathe, much less punch out "Voodoo Chile."
After a short break, the statues shuffled back on stage, resumed their bedrock positions and kicked into a reggae set. That's when a guy walked onto the dance floor alone and started seizing. A neurosurgeon buddy and I were ready to lay the guy down on his side so that he didn't aspirate, when we came to a horrible realization: This guy was dancing.
I like to cut a rug once in a great while, but only after sufficient alcoholic lubrication (meaning drinking enough that I shouldn't drive for the next two days). There were several problems with this guy's display, however, not including the fact that he showed less rhythm than any of the contestants on American Idol. First, guys do not dance alone. Women can pull it off, but typically only if a pole is involved in their routine. There are only two times a guy should be alone on a dance floor, and both are associated with his wedding. First, a guy can be alone on the floor after his buddies blindfold him and put him on stage at the skin club of his choice during his bachelor party. The second time is one or two days later, as he sways romantically to the song his bride picked for their first dance together. Unfortunately, the romance often seeps out of this moment when you look closely at the bride and note her expression: a mixture of disgust at the tequila seeping out of his pores, the strain of holding up a guy struggling to stand upright despite a monumental hangover, and the satisfaction that she will be able to make him pay for this far after the dumb phase of his hangover is gone.
Guys should never even dance in a group, unless that group is at least 50 percent women. That way, at least every guy is dancing with someone who knows what the hell she's doing so that onlookers are distracted from his uncoordinated motor activity. Failing that, guys should sit back and watch groups of writhing women and bitch about how stuck up or slutty they might be, while secretly wishing they had the cajones to go up and ask one of them to dance.
So while all this should be instinct, guy rules of dancing have been developed to guide you. First and foremost: We were not created to be out on a dance floor alone. And if you still feel compelled to venture out solo, make sure you have qualified medical professionals nearby.
Or a good stiff drink.
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