the point of no return

Chris has allowed me to borrow Forever Freestyle, a two-disc compilation of freestyle classics and, by his account, "the only comp I ever felt compelled to purchase off a television commercial." Made by the same company that perhaps erroneously titled another comp Tha Down Low. The cover art of Forever Freestyle is a photorealistic depiction of two hot boricuas standing, sweatily, along the NYC horizon -- illuminated in red, presumably from the heat off all that trebly synth. It's one dude in a white fluffy shirt and a lady w/doorknockers and a gold lame disco dress a la Donna Summer, both looking like they're finna find a good time, out here, tonight, in 1987. Oh yeah and the lady has Giant Bangs.

More importantly: Freestyle: You Will Never Die. I mean, okay, I have spent nights in 2006 at the spot when DJ Ayres delves deep into his mind-crest and drops Noel or Stevie B, and the dancefloor clears except for me and perhaps five others, among a crowd waiting for the next reprisal of "Hustlin," or waiting, perhaps, for a super-exclusive Baltimore refix of the Golden Girls theme song, or some other such cross-conversational wacky-tude. But seriously: "Point of No Return" followed by "Bad of the Heart" followed by "Can You Feel the Beat" followed by "Together Forever" = a mindful and unfuckwithable selection of dance CLASSICS. Few of these cats could really sing like church-sing, but it didn't matter so much because you could tell they felt it. And it's relevant today, I think, because newer non-singing minor dance-pop singers (i.e. Cassie, Amerie, and lesser-known ladies like Paula DeAnda) are "in the spirit of" freestyle, or at least similarly hitting the right moment (and the right production) to bestow them with a coupla hits. Tho freestyle's purpose was always a little more chaste, depicting love or dancefloor politics and sometimes drama but rarely sexual fortitude, explicitly or otherwise.

I have a video of myself in 4th or 5th grade doing a choreographed dance to Expose's "Come Go With Me."

Memo to Sofia Coppolla: after the 52nd minute of watching dainty Kirsten Dunst try on Manolos, eat petits fours, and NOT do it with Jason Schwarzman, I was ready to storm Versailles, too. I mean, I feel where you're coming from on the teen-sympathy defense (though you were a little untenably mushy about it) but like... comment-dit "narrative arc"?