Mad Ism

"Kick it wit' me I can mold yo life, you lookin' good girl show you right/Dre told me you tha proto type, I can make you a celebrity overnight" - Twista, Overnight Celebrity [buy the album] Cody's spinnin' club bangers and, of course, I'm dancing. I kept it easy as my dance partner did several versions of the same move, hitting none of the beats as she smiled and fumbled around, ever a threat to bump into those around us. She leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I know you're thinkin' to yourself that this white girl can't dance." Yup. Exactly. But that doesn't matter, ma, I can dance enough for the both of us. We're at Vermont. I've been here before. It's a LA kind of birthday party. Expensive drinks, sexy clothes, nose candy in the bathroom, excess everywhere you turn. After drinks and laughs and conversations I've tired of, I'm in my own world on the dance floor. Dancing with no one, everyone, the world. I was all set to break it down to the breakadawn when I glanced up and saw her. I'm sure the smile on my face was ridiculous. We locked eyes for a moment and pointed, I cocked my cap to the side and made my way to the table. We hugged like we'd known each other forever even though we've only hung out once before. I took her hand and brought her back with me to center stage. She's the partner I've been waiting for. Her hips rocked in the same time as mine. We mouthed the words to every song. I hugged her again as she said, "I like you so much I don't even know what to do." Her friend joined us and hugged me as well. "I've been thinking about you all week. I've been watching your show. You know, Ja totally reminds me of you." "You know why," I asked. She looked at me. "Cuz we both got that ism." She laughed. I raised an eyebrow, kicked a hemp shelltop back and returned my attention to her. We all retired to the Mondrian and continued our night of decadence. Spin the bottle, making out in the bathroom, political discussions, emailing dirty limericks to Oz, doorbell ditching with European tourists, drinking copious amouts of red bull and vodka, all while alternating between The Grey Album and Get Rich or Die Tryin' on the stereo. In between, she and I sat side by side on the bed clowning people while discussing her current love/hate relationship with the culture of celebrity. She wore my hat despite my warnings that it was sweaty. We promised to make plans to hang out soon. And, at some point, I became a little smitten. I don't even care that she's just 23, has a boyfriend, and is going to be trouble. There's something about Marilyn.