I'm not quite sure why I catch random strangers getting their groove on in public places but it's been happening frequently lately, which leads me to believe there is either some sort of lunar equation in motion or I simply have a knack for finding partially obscene attention seekers. If you think I'm waxing on about sex, you are wrong...flat-out wrong. I'm talking about un-choreographed rapid dance steps that make Napoleon Dynamite look like Peter Allen of yesteryear cascading across any given Broadway stage, secretly wishing he was a cross-dressed version of Liza Minnelli, before their divorce of course! In recent months, I have been witness to people with absolutely no dance talent rock out to the music in their head as gawking onlookers pass by, commenting on the hush hush. Maybe it's the rise of television shows like You Think You Can Dance or Dancing with the Stars that have made ordinary citizens kick up their heels, bang their heads and openly embarrass themselves. I'm not sure of that theory just yet but it is my belief that when people try to imitate fantasy, they usually end up making fools of themselves or at best end up with a spare room filled with late night As Seen on TV junk or a warbled homemade sex tape that somehow ends up in your neighbors DVD player.
My first incident was last summer when I came in close contact with the Irish clogger way down yonder in the vicinity of Riverside and the Boardwalk ala Long Beach, New York. A woman of a certain age (that means over 40 readers) dressed in a lovely Danskin leotard number, with small strapped heels on her feet, held on to the railings of the boardwalk, shoulders straight forward, hands partially folded together that lay against her belly as her legs spasmed sharply, tapping heavily on the splintered wood. The right leg seemed to the ball and chainer while the left one came up quickly, creating almost a figure four yoga move along her right knee. I suppose it would have looked better with a whole host of clogger's but there was only one and to be honest, she was horrible. I couldn't stop looking at her. My fascination in the bizarre was peaked. I was hooked and as my Ipod pounded out dance tunes of the late 1980's on my walking play list, I imagined a beach version of Lord of the Dance with beach cloggers rising from the sands of Long Beach, grabbing the railings and holding on as if an earthquake was eminent. This woman was in her own world. People stared and she flecked. Young couples snickered as they shuffled by on their daily walks while geriatric locals shook their heads and rolled their eyes. It's obvious that Ms. Clogger had either hit a bit of the bottle for medicinal purposes or she was loopy and needed to do the ball change/leg fleck while humming a nice lively version of Mick McGilligan's Ball. Hmm. I thought about stopping and pointing her to the nearest Hibernian Hall but then I thought about it and decided to let her run the gamut of limited dance moves in her cache. She was over before she was discovered. And as I moved slowly past her, I crooked my neck to catch one last glimpse of her slightly pear shaped body, harboring away to the bagpipes in her head.
My next encounter with solo public dancing happened several years ago when I moved close to the Nautical Mile in Freeport New York. On Saturday nights, we often visit the restaurant laden area for dinner and a well earned Ralph's Italian Ice. The mile long restaurant row is packed with a very eclectic group of people ranging from boaters to look-a-like Mafia enforcers with bleach blond broads that look much too young to know better. Next to the the ice stand is a canal bar with an eternal;y bad Jimmy Buffet band that plays an occasional Lynrd Skynd song for the die hard bar flies. It seems that every time I frequent Ralphs on a Saturday evening, there is this has been woman in her 50's drunker than a skunk, doing some superlfy fancy dance steps to the sounds of the Shrimp Shack Shooters. Their version of Sweet Home Alabama seemed to take on a funkadelic beat that rivaled any Earth Wind and Fire song. Ms. Superfly's scraggly graying hair was swaying in the bay breeze as she swooshed her hips side to side and slammed her head to and fro. I was dizzy from just watching her but something inside me felt deeply sorry for her. Alone and drunk on a Saturday night is no way to spend the summers, especially in your 50's. I think her life must have held a lot of sadness and lonely feelings. I'm sure some drunken boater was going to take her home that night and screw her brains out, making her feel momentarily wanted, but when the sun comes up and the hangover hits hard, her male Casanova of a few hours earlier now looks like a dirty slob...an opportunist who wiped away her sweat as she wore the soles off her $9.99 Payless stiletto specials. For some reason, I want to call this woman Tanya. The name seems to fit her perfectly...slightly trashy and most definitely easy...she parades her sagging boobies in a low-cut stretchy shirt, exposing the faded rose tattoo on her breast. Too tight Capri pants in white expose her black thong that bulges out of her low riders making her look pathetic and very desperate. I'm sure she quietly gathered her clothes after her romp and fuck, wishing she had better judgement when it comes to men but then again, she needed it just as much as he did so she brushed those thoughts aside and realized she was still a little horny, dropped her clothes and went back in for another side of toast. Easy to read but not easy to forget. Hey, tomorrow is Saturday, want to meet Tanya at the bar or at least drink some cheap beers and dance your ass off to Blue Beards Brothers...I heard they play a mean Beatles set.
My final encounter with humiliating dance queens came last week while I was on my way to work. As usual, I'm always rushing and running late, driving like a maniac up Grand Avenue, through the streets of Baldwin New York on my way to Hofstra University. This morning proved different as I made my usual left from Jerusalem into Ingram Estates and saw a Latino woman well into her 30's free styling on the corner. It was 10am and I knew I was half asleep but much to my wondering eyes should appear but a Spanish Chiquita outside a storefront church throwing her body around like she wanted to slam dance. I slowed down, stared at her as she did a mix of old school break dance moves and head banger's moshing. It appeared she was not wearing an Ipod or Walkman. I rolled the windows down to see if I could hear any music but all I heard was the sound of her dirty white Capizio's swish against the pavement. I winced as she threw herself forward thinking how badly my back would hurt lest I too fell into the microcosm of Long Island women who dance alone. This woman was clearly in some sort of a trance. Maybe she was in a cult, I thought. Maybe she was trying to exercise the evil demons out of her. Maybe she was possessed. At that thought, I hit the pedal to the medal and flew through the nearby stop sign, eager to rid myself of these nuts.
Sting wrote a song about dancing alone. Billy Idol sang about dancing with oneself and Robert Plant wanted to dance on his own but I'm sure all these artists never thought about the foolish beat that these three woman danced to.
I do have one suggestion for any of my male readers...take a nice late winter's walk on the Long Beach boardwalk next St. Patrick's Day for a private Irish lap dance from The Clogger. Hey, wait, isn't Irish Day in September in Long Beach? You can get your clogging yaya's out even sooner!
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