Gratuitous Motion Girl

My favorite part of the Jim Rome Show is when clones call in to "war" one thing or another. "War the guy in a suit who rides his bike to work." It's essentially like saying "What's the deal with?" I don't know the origins of the clones' use of the word "war" in this context -- I'm sure a quick Google search would explain it -- but it usually precedes some arcane social observation that is funny and tinged with a trace of anger and/or annoyance.

"War the guy who turns to you in the elevator and says, 'Nice day, huh?'"

I went and saw Devotchka (which is Serbian for "girl" -- I knew it was something all along) last night with Jamison. I got two free tickets, actually, courtesy of my good friend Sarah, who knows all the Chicago rock stars, including Jeff Tweedy, a married man whose wife was informed by Sarah's daughter Pearl that her mommy "loved" Mrs. Tweedy's husband.

War the guy next to you at the urinals who pees like a self-milked cow: standing up and squirting in powerful, intermittent gusts.

And war the offensive lineman chick with the gelled, short cropped and bleach blonde hair, tats up and down her arms and back, piercings galore and a black wife beater who enters your peaceful dancing space and, as Jamison put it, despoils the soothing music with "gratuitous motion."

War the gratuitous motion girl.

"I can't take it, man," I would yell between songs, after another tune in which I couldn't concentrate at all on the music, so savage were gratuitous motion girl's shoulder bumps and foot stomps. "I can't take it anymore."

Jamison, who was positioned slightly in front of and to the right of me, out of range from her salvos, would just cackle, barely audible over the sound of the music pumping out of the speakers less than ten feet away. "You should fight back, man!"

But I was scared. Gratuitious motion girl was huge. Fat, yes, but more scarily, strong. She could definitely take me. And her fullback friend, slightly smaller but still a fan of Campbell's Chunky Soup, could easily take Jamison, who has pretty big muscles, even for a guy. They could take us.

"No way." And I'd try in vain, once again, to simply scoot over more.

But scooting over just wasn't working. La Zona Rosa was packed, and there was nowhere to move. The few inches of free space I had to work with only translated into the expansion of her territory by a few more inches -- nature, and butch girls who dance with too much gusto, abhor a vacuum.

If you give gratuitous motion girl an inch, she'll take a mile. So I decided to fight back.

After three or four songs of getting manhandled, I let loose with my own wave of shoulder bumps and foot planting. Now I was the one all up in her space as she tried to enjoy the show. I timed it perfectly so that our shoulders were ramming into one another at the exact same time. And with a six or seven inch height advantage, I was making my presence felt. Sometimes I'd add on a little something to make it felt just a little more -- the left forearm came in handy in those situations. And the battle for field position was raging the whole time. My left foot, and her right, were the yard markers in that struggle. Whoever could plant their respective foot the deepest into the opponent's territory maintained a significant tactical advantage, sort of like controlling the Golan Heights, or the really big sand castle in the final scene of "Glory." And once that foot was down -- or at least, once my foot was down, seeing as I can't even be sure gratuitous motion girl ever knew there was an actual battle taking place -- it wasn't moving.

We duked it out like this for a few minutes a couple of times, but I just couldn't take it. She was too strong. I thought maybe the fact that I was being so annoying with my shoulder bumps and unnecessary flailing of the arms would alert her to the fact that, "Hmmm... maybe I'M annoying HIM, too!" But no. Like the overweight pit bull that she resembled, she had no inhibitions or concept of doing unto others.

This was when I redoubled my efforts in the field position game. Lebensraum -- all I wanted was a little living space. So when her guard was down, I pounced. My earlier Blitzkrieg tactics had not worked, but if I could get my left foot planted as deep into her territory as possible, it would create a set of facts on the ground that could not be denied. Like a West Bank settlement, facts on the ground create a new reality, one where my dancing space is not under dispute, and thanks to which I can live out the remainder of the show in peace, free of strife and gratuitous motion. And this is what happened. She let her guard up, and BOOM! Look whose foot is all up in your space now!

For about two full songs, my body looked like an oil derrick in the process of slant drilling. My left leg formed a 45 degree angle with my crotch, and all the pressure of my 175 lbs. pushed down on my right knee. I was in pain, I wasn't dancing, but at least I was free from the bull rush of the white, female Kevin Mawae. My foot was quite a separation barrier.

Finally, as often happens at Sunday shows, the crowd started to thin out, just enough for me to be able to simply scoot over a few feet. And like pulling the plug out of a bath tub drain, gratuitous motion girl immediately went back to her swirling and twirling, safely out of range of my shoulder and foot, though, finally.

The end.