several other members of a blogger consortium and I,
did a post on the ramifications of dancing.
And got a lot of insight,
and very amusing feedback,
and by late late night telephone call,
some with heavy breathing,
(probably a dance studio owner practicing the jitterbug,)
into what dancing today really is.
apparently, there is more dancing going on today than ever.
Men in the computer biz here in Gutenberg Land,
are advised that,
since they ignore their wives the other six and a half days of the week,
they should pay them back for hosting formal dinners,
and taking cordon bleu cooking courses,
and deportment, (!)
and flower arranging,
(yes, I am serious-
it still happens here,
in true Father Knows Best style)
on Friday nights,
from eight to twelve,
taking them out to sponsored dance events.
And here, I would like, for anyone who hasn’t seen it,
to plug one of my favorite,
if slightly cheesy and just this side of trite
“buck the crowd and do your own thing” films,
an absolute Aussie ode to joy.
As were the mob-in dance performances at malls and airports,
before the days of “spontaneous equals danger.”
(And here just a quick tooting of my own personal I love close harmony horn:
two people who like to sing is a duet,
three is a trio,
four is close harmony.
More than that is mouth percussion.
Which says a lot about our society.)
that the powers that be,
and make such decisions for us all, thank heavens,
believe that someone in a striped vest and straw boater
singing “My Evaline”
“Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah”
can not possibly be a terrorist.
A slight over-simplification, perhaps,
at least in my humble opinion-
ie she who once ended up being strangled by a tenor in a dramatic death scene
dressed in a mob cap and flowered shower curtain,
(yes, of course it was intrinsically meaningful)
surely chances of being dangerous,
or becoming a dangerous mob,
are definitely higher among:
the Masons, the Elk, the Moose…
Uhm, odd fellows?
Not that I really know anything much about such groups.
And please don’t think I find anything odd about a ferret in a fez as a mascot.
Believe me, I never pre-judge such social and benevolent groups,
or ferrets in a fez, for that matter,
when in trouble,
there simply are no better neighbors.
(The societies, not the ferrets.)
As are the Jehova’s Witnesses,
just a branch of Baptist, people,
or the Mormons,
or any of the groups continuously being made fun of
that no one, sadly, really knows.
(Although I freely admit I’m not much of a fan of trying to convert someone to one’s own personal beliefs.)
Still, though, it is apparently fully P.C. to make fun of some,
but not of others.
Like here in Gutenberg Land,
where it is the common sport to make fun of those who don’t drink,
and of the settlers of the next town over,
who shall remain nameless,
but who are known to mound their white asparagus hills so high they have to get on a stepladder to tend them.
Or as the saying here goes,
“When God looked at his work
Lo, they were the …”
Town name withheld since I sometimes shop there.
Which is probably why it is good that people are socializing by dancing more today.
But there still has to be a limit.
Like: that a choir can’t go on a stage here without some kind of ridiculous hat,
preferrably nearly brimless,
and dance steps.
And as for the dating public,
Machines or electronic games that show you,
in groups of two or more,
the steps to the latest dances,
are evidently all the rage here.
Or pianos you dance on.
Which reminds me of something that was commonplace when I was a child:
perhaps Arthur Murray,
sold a sort of map of the dance steps,
and paper cutouts of feet.
Left foot, right foot.
You consulted the map,
laid the steps out on a rug,
put on a record,
Left, right, cha cha cha.
As you fell over the dog,
your younger brother rolling on the floor laughing,
And the older members of the family,
hastily called to the scene,
camera in hand,
showing you how they used to Lindy Hop.
Dancing was family time.
maybe if we work at it,
we can finally get R-2 D-2 programmed to not only clean up the house,
Eat your heart out, Anne Miller.
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