Thursday, November 13, 2014


Sometimes when I’m at Club Shimsham and I’m making a twerk or doing a sick move of dance I get so immersed in my own drumbeat that I forget who I really am. Am I still that innocent, great, lovable, handsome, hilarious, chiseled guy from an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the heart of Denver or am I a sad, lonely drifter from Topeka destined to work in the sporting goods section of Walmart because I once scored a touchdown in JV football so many years ago? I don’t even know. What I do know is I can feel the rhythm of the beat from my head to my feet. Sure, I’m well aware that my next-level moves are 100% grade-A infectious and inspiring to those around me, but when I do a deeper dive, I’m wondering if I’m still that lovable, black cruise ship bartender with a million dollar smile and a ten million dollar mustache. Is he lost forever? Is he still in there? Sure hope so. But for now, I guess I’ll just keep on dancing because it feels hella good.

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