Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Dance Partners Not Required
Last Sunday night, a Las Vegas lounge featured a talented cover band and three patrons who spent the entire night dancing solo. I admired their bravery.
The first was a tall, thin, cleanly shaven black man. My sister refers to such as a "Cocoa Puff." (She's allowed to do that because she's quite tan as well.) I admit he was pretty. He was a good dancer so, naturally, I made assumptions. The ladies in our group must have had their signals jammed.
"Wow. Look at him move. I'm going to go dance with him."
"I wouldn't do that."
"I don't think he's interested in your type."
"The type with all innies."
"So, you think he's gay just because he's attractive and fit with nice clothing and can dance."
"Prove me wrong."
She strutted out and within two moves he shut it down, said "oh, hell no," and stood at the side of the dance floor with his arms crossed until she vacated his area. I laughed and pointed like I saw her walk into a sliding glass door.
Dancer number two was a woman around sixty dressed in a lovely striped dress and heels. She tilted her head back and smiled seductively as she slowly moved to what's probably not the ideal song for such: "Everybody Wants Some" by Van Halen. My female accomplices pushed me to join her so they'd have retribution. I avoided rejection by feigning a low-ankle sprain, which I medicated with bourbon.
The third dancer was man in his mid-sixties dressed to the tees with a white derby and white fringes hanging from his pant legs over his shiny shoes. He would dash out to an open area on the floor and go through a number of poses. (Think the final move of every Michael Jackson video.) He'd spin, crouch, grab his hat, and give a bug-eyed look of determination. Yep, he was high on mushrooms.
Would you dance alone? I wish I had the balls. I feel like dancing every time I hear a song. I just don't want to be judged by critics or people-watching freaks like me.