David, the Dancing Ghetto Suburbanite

I am watching Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog as I write this, so please forgive any lack of coherency along with any random and slightly familiar lyrical additions to my story.

On Friday night my friend Anna and I were going to go to a concert in Minneapolis. We have kind of gotten stuck in an activity rut lately wherein pretty much every single Friday night we go to this club in St. Paul called Valentinos. We were planning on mixing it up a little by going to a place called Honey for some live-music dance partying. Unfortunately, we parked in the wrong place when we got to Minneapolis and, after asking a couple police officers if they knew about the place we were looking for, we found out that we'd have to walk 7 blocks (in our super cute, super painful heels) to the venue. And then, of course, we would have to walk those 7 blocks in reverse after dancing blisters into our feet. Anna decided (wisely) that that would be a bad idea and instead we tried to be spontaneous and looked for something to do nearby. We were, after all, in downtown Minneapolis, and although it is no NYC or Chi-town, we definitely have a good selection of places to do things.

We couldn't find anything. We felt overdressed for most of the venues, and the one that we did try out was dead and not playing any music that we liked or knew. We each took a shot and then left, which was kind of lame because we had just stood in line for a solid half hour. (Also at the end of that half hour about six people cut in front of us, which was extra-lame. The guy at the end of the budging group started drunkenly small talking with us and evidently I responded kind of coolly, because he commented on my nonchalance by slurring"Don't worry...I don't have a gun or drugs on me or anything. I'm not into that stuff," clearly implying that because he was black I assumed that he was a gangster or morally corrupt individual of some kind.

I got my snarky on and said, "No...you just cut in line, right...that's your thing?" at which point his companions turned around to give me angry death-glares. I added a "I'm just playing, I'm just playing," to soften what was evidently an earth-shattering blow to the group's collective ego, and then we were friends. Or something. I also obtained a new ghetto clubbing name. 'Tis G.G. Or JiJi. Or GeeGee. I don't know. JeeJee? You get the point.)

Anywho, after that clubbing failure Anna and I decided to default back to our regular Friday night excursion of Valentinos dancing, which wound up being the best choice we could have made. I danced with a few people, most notably a blond-haired blue eyed (not my usual, but nice) fellow who went by the name of David. Hands down the best dancer I've danced with (recently?) and fricking wicked attractive. He also tried to convince me that Apple Valley (a suburb of the Twin Cities) is ghetto. Something about the inherently ghetto qualities of apples? Also a former swimmer, with the remnants of a six pack he showed me as testament to that claim. And you know the best part of the story? I didn't get his phone number or give him mine because (CAN I GET A DRUMROLL PLEASE)...he told me he's studying to be an accountant.

The instant he said that he became at least 40x less attractive to my drunken self who was, at that particular moment, lusting after adventure and could not possibly abide to associate herself with anything so conventional. Sober me says who really cares if there is one not so savory piece to him (and accountants make bank, so the gold-digger that lurks deep within all women should have perked up at such a revelation, yes?) Everything else he said or did (except for his intial attempts at complimenting me) made him seem pretty stellar. I mean, we're talking sex-god level of attractiveness here...There are definitely worse unsavory characteristics than accountantism, but...

Things like that are what make me Holly.

As a sidenote, I have a new favorite song. I would like for it to be my life theme-song because it is that good and it sums up my life-philosophy pretty well. Please allow me to introduce you to Frank Turner's The Road. Love, love, love.