Saturday, April 1, 2017

Boogie man

Well, if nobody else is going to make a big deal out of it, I guess that it’s up to me to bring this travesty to the nation’s attention. For some reason, unknown to most intelligent people, I have once again been passed over by the selection committee at “Dancing With The Stars.” I know, I can’t believe it either. 

“Dancing With The Stars” has become a staple at my house. My wife and daughter watch it religiously. I usually purposely miss watching it with them because I become somewhat of a stickler when it comes to judging the Paso Doble and especially the Viennese Waltz. I don’t want to hinder my family’s interest in dance by appearing too critical of the art form. That would just be wrong. 

However, my wife “made” me sit and watch the show with her the other night. Little does she know, and let’s keep this just between you and me, nobody has to “make” me watch “Dancing With The Stars.” Nope, I was born with a song in my heart and a twinkle in my toes. Not many know the 1977 movie “Saturday Night Fever” was based loosely on my life. Especially that part when Vinnie Barbarino carries those cans of paint down the street. I do that all the time. 

I just simply adore dancing of all kinds. Be it ballroom, hip-hop, ballet, tap, country-line, conga-line, break, macarena, flamenco, river, the Lindy, the Charleston, the Moon Walk, the Twist ... I just love it all. I’ve always been known to wiggle my groove thing whenever the opportunity presents itself — birthday parties, anniversaries, funerals, prostate examinations … you name it, and I’m out there shaking my tail feather. 

Movies like “Dirty Dancing,” “Footloose” and “Flashdance” really speak to me. When that bouncer from “Roadhouse” says, “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” I know exactly what he’s talking about. Sometimes, late at night, when everyone else is asleep, I’ll pretend I’m Kevin Bacon and strap on my Sony Walkman and go dance on the hood of my yellow Volkswagen Beetle. And then there are those times I put on my leg warmers, hang a bucket of water from the ceiling, lean back in a chair and let the liquid cascade over my body. Oh what a feeling! 

When I’m out on the dance floor shaking what my mama gave me, I enter another world. Many times in the past, especially at wedding receptions, I’ve disguised my dancing skills by playing a part I like to call, “stumbly, bumbly, kinda-drunk, middle-aged, white guy.” I play this part so others won’t be intimidated by my artistic styling. This calls for me to pretty much stand in one spot on the dance floor and slowly rotate my torso to the left and right while having my arms bent at 90-degree angles. Sometimes I push the limits by sticking my thumbs out like Fonzie. It also usually involves me bobbing my head and uttering, “Oh yeah” whenever the DJ plays anything by Meat Loaf or from the Blues Brothers soundtrack. I refuse to do the Hokey-Pokey. I believe that it is beneath me. The Chicken Dance, however, is another matter. 

My daughter has taken dance classes for several years of her young life, so it’s kind of nice to see that my love for dance will live on long after I’m gone. Several times I have thought about signing my wife and I up for some ballroom dance lessons to attempt to instill into her just some of the passion that I have for this art form. But then I realize it’s probably a waste of time. Such is the choreography of my life. 

Other than dancing, the only thing that I like more is when this column comes out on April Fool’s Day. It practically writes itself. 

You can contact Wallace at You can follow him on his blog at

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