I used to be one of THOSE people. Yeah, you know if you’re old enough and lived in a big enough city with clubs and nightlife. Yeah, I was a dancer… or a “dancer”, but not on a weekly basis like many, many others who caught the bug that turned into Saturday Night Fever or Dance Fever later on. I think I had the milder version that didn’t morph into Dance Disease, so I’m lucky. I didn’t do a LOT of clubbing with the intention to dance, as hey, no lessons plus terminal terrified shyness isn’t good for steppin’ out at all. Thus the wonders of booze loosening the brain and legs was discovered and some embarrassing flailing away for a few rapturous minutes later, one steps away from the scene, hot and sweaty and smiling at the effort put forth.

Eh, it always worked better in the cartoons. It took me a while to realize this until I got the flu ans camped out one weekend in front of the tube. Go Woody!, Go Daffy, Go Bugs! Too much of that and I was CURED, never to shake that tail feather again. This is how it should be for some and how it is these days. You want me to dance? You’d better be throwing some bills on the floor or have a gun with blanks pointed at my feet.