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By Daniel Weinshenker
Maybe Billy Idol was onto something back in the '80s. I shudder to even speculate that that could be somewhat feasible, but maybe "Dancing With Myself" was a keen observation on American culture, if not an astute and accurate foreshadowing.
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At least, that's what I'm thinking as I stand here in the Woodrow Wilson High School gymnasium, struggling through ballroom dance lessons amid a sea of pathetic stiffs, present company included. Here I am, a rhythmless gnat, trying to learn to dance, trying to regain a sense of culture and tradition from a man named Albert with a silent "t".
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This conflagration of cultural desire was ignited about a year ago, when I got invited to a friend's wedding. I did everything right: rented a tux, razed my nose hair, brought an expensive-looking gift (truth is, it was a mauve fondue pot I found in the reject bin at Target, and I got an additional 10 percent off that with my student ID card — but they would never know). The ceremony was beautiful, full of symbols of union and togetherness.
At the reception we ate dry chicken and crappy wedding cake, but it didn't matter — we were in the presence of love, dammit. Then the DJ fired up his apparatus of lights and music and smoke, and we all got up from our chairs to dance.
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I had taken this girl that I really had the hots for. I had decided that this was going to be the defining moment of our relationship, that if something was going to happen, it was going to happen while we were dancing.
We watched the newlyweds embrace each other in front of the DJ. The first song was "Careless Whisper" by George Michael. It's always a slow one first... probably just so that no one there will know that the bride and groom can't really dance. And that's the thing, I guess: All of us got out there, and it was supposed to be this great union of people, and everyone had told me that a wedding was the best place to meet one's future wife (or at least one's bedmate for the night), and no one was touching anyone.
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It's true. We were all out on the dance floor flailing our limbs around like a bunch of eplileptics. But no one touched each other. What was this? It was about as sensual and unifying as walking together to the parasite lab to deliver our stool samples. There was no romance in this, there was only individualism. And sweaty individualism, at that — I saw a couple guys in the bathroom afterward wetting their heads under the sink faucets. Meanwhile, I searched for Fred Astaire in the stalls, desperately groping for some authentic morsel of help, but couldn't find him.
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Outside, the older generation took the floor. They clasped one another in sweet embraces and twirled around the floor. These were the same people we had all mocked for not being "hip," or "da bomb," or "down with O.P.P." These were the people we accused of being devoid of culture as we knew it. And as I sat there, dabbing my forehead with a paper towel, looking nothing close to romantic or sexy for the woman I was attempting to court, I tried to figure out where we had gone wrong.
Where have we gone wrong?
CONTINUE >>
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