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11:15:03 - 2000-02-27

I WANNA PUT ON MYMYMYMYMY BOOGIE SHOES

"Let's go out dancing," the wife says to me after her little Lifetime movie was over.

I looked at the clock.

"It's 9:00 on a Saturday night," I said. "Are you crazy??"

The answer to that question is "yes". Apparently your Uncle Bob has gone and married himself a psycho.

So at 9:30 last night, we found ourselves at Celebrations, a club I deejayed at two summers ago for a few months. It's basically a meat market with all the women dressed in their tightest clothes and their brightest makeup, and all the guys standing around in semi-circles, inebriated and wishing they had the guts to ask a woman to dance.

As soon as we walked in the door, Susie had a purpose. And that purpose was to get her groove on on the dancefloor.

Two things wrong with this picture...first, NOBODY gets on the dancefloor as early as 9:30 at Celebrations.

And second, they don't play slow tunes at Celebrations. The pace is frenzied the entire night. I've usually GOTTA start with a slow song to get me outta my shell.

"Let's dance," she said, pulling me towards the empty dance floor that was loudly pulsating at 140 beats per minute.

Confession time....I am NOT a dancer. I know...you're sitting there in yer jammies, crushed ...your head is pounding with that latest bombshell..."Uncle Bob's not a dancer, Uncle Bob's not a dancer..."

Rest assured dear reader ... I CAN dance. I just don't LIKE to dance.

See...there's a little code amongst us men. We will dance our asses off while we are single. Dance dance dance.

But as soon as that ring slips on our finger, the dancing shoes get thrown at the back of the closet and the only dance we're gonna be doing for the rest of our lives is The Horizontal Bop under the sheets, baybee.

Sure, guys like Dlovewill tell you they're good dancers and that he loves to dance. I'm sure he is.

But I'm just as sure he doesn't.

See ... my man, D-love....he hasn't had that ring slipped on his finger yet. So...by virtue of the Code for men ... he HAS to pretend to love the dancing gig.

And he's also a smart cookie. Because D-love KNOWS women love to dance. Therefore, the sonofabitch went and got good at dancing, just to impress the ladies.

I know this. He confessed it to me during a particularly awkward drunken phone sex session he tried to engage me in last week.

But that's not important.

Six years at the Arthur Murray studio paid off for the slick bastard as he gets all kindsa tail from being able to move like Englebert Humperdinck.

Me? Why I dance like every other caucasian male in his late 30s. I just play air guitar like the guy from Night Ranger, big boy. That's the secret to my success.

Love ya D-Man...you know it...

Anyway...where was I....oh yeah...last night...

So I stop dead in my tracks, which almost yanks my wife's arm out of its socket.

"Let's sit down and have a drink first," I pleaded.

"We've been sitting down all night," she argued. "I came here to dance, not sit and listen to music. I coulda done that at home."

"We could have danced at home," I offered.

"It's not the same," she countered.

We got on the dance floor and I went through that whole transformation from "Guy who was just walking around a few seconds ago" to "Dancing Guy".

For me that's the toughest part of dancing. The first few seconds of getting your mack on. For me, I tap my left foot a few times. Then shift to my right. I start swaying my arms gently. Then before you know it, I'm gyrating my hips, shoulders, and neck and moonwalking across the dance floor in my red leather outfit and mirror shades and one glove. My big move is when I put my right hand on the back of my head, point at nearby women with my left index finger, thrust my hips and scream "WHO'S DA MAN, BITCH??? WHO'S DA MAN??? THAT'S RIGHT...UNCLE BOB'S THE MAN, BITCH!!!" Then I move on to the next woman to give her her personal thrill as well, etc.

Oh baby. I'm one hot mover and shaker, lemme tell ya. When I dance, traffic stops. Mainly to see if I need any medical assistance, but it stops nevertheless.

Actually, I have about the same rhythm as Christopher Reeve.

I don't really stand out in a crowded dance floor. But if you put me and my wife out there as the only couple on the dance floor, I'm as out of place as David Duke in South Compton.

My wife, a former dancer for 18 years, LOVES to dance. Unfortunately, her dancing background is in ballet and tap. And, as you may have guessed, neither ballet or tap work very well on the lighted dance floor of Celebrations while Tupac is crooning an homage to his dead homies (how ironic). We tried a few pirouettes and pas de deux ... but the crowd really wasn't into it.

Luckily for me, about 20 seconds into Tupac's song, the deejay threw on the Electric Slide, which is STILL a huge song in the clubs of this bass-ackward state. I'm dreading the day when these people get around to finding out about the Macarena.

As soon as the Slide came on, the dance floor was packed with about 40 women all doing the Slide with each other. I left Susie to dance with the horny throng and walked off the dance floor.

I stood back and watched this ritual that I knew all too well, being a club deejay myself for years. While the Slide played and all these women were up there dancing, it looked like some sort of bizarre beauty contest/cattle call.

You had a large group of women on the dance floor, all shaking their booties and hoping that they would attract the attention of MR. RIGHT by making "their" Slide the most erotic one of the pack. NONE of the women smile, except for my wife who was getting into the whole scene.

Meanwhile, all the men are standing around the dancefloor watching with serious looks on their faces too. In fact, the only people in the building smiling are me and my wife. My wife's enjoying herself and I'm humoring myself by watching this Pavlovian reaction.

All conversation hits a standstill as each man surveys the dance floor and tries to pick out who he feels is the sluttiest looking dancer on the floor. After The Slide, each guy will work to get the nerve up to talk to her, by which time she will be too inebriated to deal with him, and everyone goes home drunk, horny and desperate.

...With many of them stopping by the computer to update their Diaryland Journal in various stages of inebriation.

We danced a few more dances, had a few drinks and carted our asses home by midnight. No sex as we were both exhausted.

And as she said herself, "That should do me for a couple more years."

Which, hopefully by then, I'll be married to my next wife who I hope has no legs.

A man can dream, can't he?

***********************************

Ooo! Ooo! I wanna leave Uncle Bob A MESSAGE and make sure he gets it immediately!!

If you want to read my diary from 1980 when UNCLE BOB was 18 and pitiful , CLICK HERE

Soooo...how bad did I suck??

This Diaryland Ring of Wackos site is owned by

the estate of the late Charles Schultz.


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