I can stand the psycho wincing <br />trauma of beginning violin players, <br />or the clay footed <br />surrender to gravity of <br />novice baseball players, <br /> <br />but somehow with belly dancers, <br />especially if they’re adults, <br />all I can think of are clichés – <br />fingers on the blackboard, <br />making a beeline for the exit. <br /> <br />A woman I once dated invited me <br />to watch her perform at a club <br />whose owner apparently thought <br />afternoon amateur belly dancing <br />would somehow attract patrons <br />to his dingy nicotine-stenched <br />piece of shit club. <br /> <br />It attracted several of us anyway, <br />each marooned at our own <br />lonely little tables for one. <br />And out they came like steer, <br />following their paint-by-numbers <br />gyration-like awkwardness <br />like the center posts of washing machines, <br />remembering to say cheese and <br />drape the requisite scarves over <br />our shoulders, stepping semi-nimbly <br />in bare feet over cigarette-burned <br />threadbare carpeting. <br />I can’t remember another time <br />something was so painful <br />it made me laugh. <br /> <br />I did not wait a polite length of time <br />before making the proverbial beeline. <br />I called her later and apologized, <br />explaining I’d been sick to my stomach. <br />While on the phone, <br />I thought about those college students <br />who yell at politicians, “Have you no shame? ” <br />or throw pies in their face.<br /><br />Michael Philips<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-munch-s-scream-experience/
