Tag Archives: dancing

Went Dancin’ Last Night

10 Mar

Went dancing last night. Yes, I know, disbelievers, but I do dance. No, not by myself.

Seems S-S and I crashed a party. We’ve done that before at a Parrot-Head convention in Key West but that’s another story.

For the first Twenty minutes or so of music we were the only couple dancing, the sole, single solitary couple. An eerie feeling. Had we crashed a funeral? So we took a break and went outside for a bit of fresh air.

Well it seems that before dancing can start there must be three conditions met:

  1.  Wine and beer must be consumed in copious quantities
  2. The meal must be served

And then the most important condition of all: 3. The DJ must play Alice. You know, Alice. A little dittie about living next door to Alice. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.

The tune started. The dance floor was instantly packed, like the Tokyo subway in rush hour

You haven’t lived until you’ve seen and heard 60, 70 and 80 year olds screaming out the improvised, four-letter add-on to the song. On one level I see it as  a celebration of life; on the other hand, aren’t they just ‘dirty old people’?

I tend to lean to the former since I was also up there yellin’ and hootin’.

Living Next Door to Alice

Living Next Door to Alice

Here is a link to the song just in case you are still pretending to not know what I’m talking about.

There now, aren’t you happy you are enlightened. I know some of my children think I walk on water and am above such crass things as dancing but the truth is, life is too good to just keep getting your feet wet, and I do like to dance.

And for those of you who still claim to have not known the song your life education is now complete and you have discovered a new ear worm that you can hum along to in a crowded elevator or in a business meeting. See who joins in.

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Blisters On The …

23 Jan

This post may contain content and language some may consider offensive. Get a life!

Feet on Fire

Feet on Fire

Have you ever had one of those cringe-worthy moments that you wish you could forget but pop up unexpectedly? Read on.

The trigger was recently having to sleep in a top – wait for it – bunk. Don’t ask why I was doing this but I was. The ladder to climb up had small metal rungs that were quite painful on the soles and balls of the feet.

Flasback. The scene: the early ’80s; a conference in St. John’s, Newfoundland, in an old convent that had been converted into a hospital/nursing school; last night of the conference with a dance in the gym.

In those days I used to kick off my shoes to dance. Better foot action. Lordy I was good! The music was loud and fast. My feet were like lightning. After about an hour my feet felt like they had been hit by lightning: hot and tender and blistering.

Sister Pius Condemnata

Sister Pius Condemnata

Slowly I hobbled off the dance floor and almost crawled to the nun, Sister Pius Condemnata, sitting at the hospital reception. She looked at me as though I had just come from some satanic orgy. I started to say, “I have blisters on the balls of my feet.” She immediately shrieked, “You have blisters on the balls?” and then in an octave and 20 decibels higher, “He has blisters on the balls!” Like ninjas a half dozen student nurses appeared out of the shadows chanting, “Blisters on the balls, blisters on the balls …!” The next thing I knew I was thrown onto a gurney, eager female hands pulling at my belt and slacks. What a male fantasy! “No, no,” I eventually and feebly protested, “It’s my feet, the balls of my feet.” Instantly those grasping, exploring hands bounced back like I was some Ebola patient. “Oh!” and “Eeuw!” became the new chant. The angels quickly became white ghosts and disappeared into the shadows from whence they had come. I was there alone on the gurney in the middle of reception feet still burning. Out of the shadows came a hunched, black-cloaked form, Sister Geriatrica Extrema, with her potions and bandages muttering in Latin, or maybe Newfoundland-speak, “Next time, Bozo, wear shoes when dancing.”

It’s amazing what climbing up a ladder into a top bunk can dredge up. I can remember every detail of that time over 30 years ago. Now, if only I could remember what I had for breakfast this morning?