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Showing posts from August, 2013

late night dance parties

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Sometimes I wonder what a passing motorist would think about Adrianna and me, if they were to catch a glimpse of us through the open windows that face the street. They'd see two girls leaping, twirling, even hair-flipping in the light of two lamps. They'd see us jumping on the couches or stomping on the floor or advancing toward each other with threatening uppercut gestures parroted from YouTube kickboxing workout videos. Yet there's something so electric about spinning until you can't stand with your eyes open, dancing worse than Elaine Benes on Seinfeld (see below), and knowing that nobody cares because it's just you and your sister and the world outside your window, maybe, if anyone takes the time to look.
On that note the word of the day (which I won't keep up every day, because I'm just commitment-phobic like that--also, I realized that "cross my heart and hope to die" may not be an especially potent promise, since I'm still kicking) is …

Flooby or Fly

I wrote this in response to a challenge from my friend to use the imaginary word "flooby," so here goes...



LaRousse took a guess, that he was floobier than fly,
but the crowd met his bet with derision; they cry,
“LaRousse! Don’t do it, you’re throwing away
your money, our goodwill, hear what we say—
you’re fly more than flooby, trust our advice,
instead of taking this guess and a roll at the dice!”

Yet LaRousse said, “I’m flooby,” with a chin set so firm
that his mother winced and his father sat stern,
as he stepped up to the table, took a swig from his flask,
and threw down a card without stopping to ask.
“What says it?” screamed the people, all bending to look,
and a glance at the “f-l-o” was all that it took,

They cheered him, he beckoned for drinks to be brought,
“On the house!” said a barmaid, hefting a draught,
and the naysayers said they’d been jesting, for sure,
they knew he was flooby, just been trying to lure
him away from the bet that was right.
And LaRousse hides the floobies he’s…