Why CAN'T White Men Dance?

It occurred to me sometime around 7:15 that I had lost my rhythm. As a white man, I’m sure you assumed once you met me that I never had it to begin with. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that you were wrong.

Once upon a time I did have rhythm. You cannot have 3 sisters and not pick up a few things along the way. But what happened?

I’m a young white man and my most current dance move is the Roger Rabbit. How did that happen? Why is it that my best moves stem from nostalgic beats from the 1980’s?

And if they went as far as Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo, is it too much to ask for them to complete the trilogy?

If I hated the New Kids on the Block so much, why can I copy them fluidly? God forbid I try to dance to anything with more soul than that, though. And how sad is that, to admit to yourself that your soul stopped growing back in the Donny Wahlberg era.

The funny thing is that I remember keeping the beat much better back in college. Sure it could have been the rum and cokes shakin it out there, but I could swear to you that there was a time when Blackstreet ruled the radio and I owned the dance floor.

I remember it well, crowded floors packed with women in all black outfits, guys with white baseball caps and jeans, lights, the stench of sweaty alcohol filled stale air trapped in the bar, with some upstate NY DJ swearing he could make it in the big city spinning, despite the fact that he was using a 5 disc changer and playing a bit too much Ed Lover.

I never was the one out there doing the Ickey shuffle, right, left, throw the hands down and snap the fingers, repeat. I had moves. I had boogie brilliance, god damn it.

The music blasted out my ears, but who cared when every woman out there was on fire, pulling out moves from their repertoire, like they were acting out some grand ballet. Where the hell do they teach you girls this? Is that what’s in the video they pull you aside for in the 3rd grade?

Or did god just figure that in return for the pain of labor that you could have a lifetime of laughing your ass off at our expense? And what’s with pulling this off in high heels? What does dancing come so easy that you just need to throw yourself another challenge? Or is it just another way of rubbing it in that you are better than us at something?

But something occurred the other day, looking out upon my friends and realizing that the dance floor needed an air traffic controller. I saw her and I realized that she was my wife.

When woman dance, sex is in the air. I don’t care if you are black, white, red, yellow, or green. If you are a guy and are reading this, you and I know that the dancing was your way of standing out from the pack. If someone stood from afar and filmed us, I imagine not much would separate the mating rituals of migrating geese from clubs on a Thursday night. Men dance to prove virility…or at the very least release sexual tension as they grind themselves on some poor unsuspecting co-ed. Men are dogs indeed.

But I am married now. I have nothing left to prove anymore. There are no more dance clubs once a week. No more smoky crowds and slick floors of spilled drinks. I don’t have to listen to the remixed version of a Madonna remake if I don’t want to.

I am simply going to come right out and tell you, I can't dance anymore. I had it once, and I’ll look back at it one day, recalling stories to my grandchildren about who Kid N Play were and how I got this bum hip trying to do the running man at my friend Chris’ wedding.

Sure I’ll miss the good ol days when I had rhythm, but maybe this is all part of the way it’s meant to be. Maybe rhythm is something meant to be utilized to help us match and procreate, and then it is lost. Like a snake shedding its skin or a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.

And maybe I can rationalize losing my hair like this too.

---

If it was only this easy.

Singing in the Rain

Mahna MaNOOOO!

I believe that most of you know that I write commercials for a gay/lesbian TV channel called Here. Well today I had to view a German 'coming of age' film called Summer Storm for their June lineup.

First I must rewind and remind for you. I am the youngest in my family and have THREE older sisters. I have endured more HOSPITAL TRIPS in my life than a 12 year old ambulence. I have dated LESBIANS multiple times in my life. At work I have written on projects for HERE, NAKED NEWS, and PLAYBOY and EDITED a seminar presentation about X-RATED COMMERCIALS.

I sort have felt that all that and everything else I had the dignity not to remind you of had given me the ability to think that I really had seen everything.

Then I reached the mid-point of this film.

It's your typical gay coming of age film, which is a phrase that I find slightly disturbing to use considering that it means that I have seen so many of these films by this point as to have broken the formula of gay cinema down. Not that there is anything wrong with gay films, just the fact when it's about gay men its all nudity and hardcore sex, but when its about women its tender and emotional. Seriously, gay directors, please, throw this straight writer a boner just once in a while.

But ANYWAYS...the movie is about a rowing competition at a summer camp. During the obligatory fast paced montage of the boy trying to avoid his innermost feelings, we find our protagonist running through the camp, looking for a friend by peeking into all of the other boys tents. Inside each of the tents the boys were masturbating.

Now wait for it because that's NOT what actually traumatized me....what did was the music in the background, which paced the action as if it was composed entirely to harness the feelings of desire and guilt inherent in denying your sexuality...

The song was Mahna Mahna by the Muppets.

Seriously, is there nothing sacred in this world?

---

The classic in all it's glory: Mahna Mahna