Dance 'Til You Puke

My life in music has not been all dance offs and dreams. Oh no. Yesterday, my friend Laura reminded me of the gritty underbelly I've often seen on this beast known as pop.

A few years ago, I was dancing at an Atlanta club called My Sister's Room, and I got so into my moves, flailing my arms and such, that I smacked a woman in the face. I was so focused that I didn't even notice. Laura had to point it out to me, and then I was able to make the necessary apologies. Dancing: 1. That lady's face: 0.

And a few years before that, I was in the basement of the SPICE House, a now-defunct co-op at Emory University that was meant to house Students Programming for International Cultural Exchange. Instead of international students, though, it mostly held artsy folks and liberals. (I lived there for three years, two as RA. Holla!)

Anyway, during my SPICE time, I frequently hosted a party called "Club SPICE" that turned the basement into a disco. In fall of 1999--the very first Club SPICE--I was getting jiggy with my friend Katy Carkuff.

Now Katy and I were both theater folk, so we liked to add a little flavor to our dancing. At one point, she somehow got my belt off me and started whipping it in the air. You know, to add emphasis. And on the third whip, she cracked the shit out of my arm. It really, really hurt. Dancing: 2. Me: 0.

At next fall's Club SPICE 2, I danced until I threw up. I was already exhausted when "Ray of Light" came on, but I couldn't say no to one of the best dance songs ever! So I went all out, literally collapsed on the floor from fatigue, got helped to my feet, staggered to the bathroom, and puked.

And I wasn't drunk.

So remember everyone: Just like love, pop is a battlefield.