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Tuesday, September 02, 2003


That's Right, Uh Huh, Dance Dance Dance Dept.

Due to some technical difficulty beyond my understanding, all 475 channels of my digital cable were playing MTV's new show "The Wade Robson Project" nonstop for the entirety of the Labor Day weekend. Robson is a choreographer/dance prodigy who once shared the stage with Michael Jackson when he was a zygote moonwalking in his mother's uterus (where, I presume, he was relatively safe from Jackson's inappropriate advances). Now Robson is determined to find America's best dancers and MTV is equally determined to film every moment of his search.

After my fifteenth consecutive viewing of the show's first episode, I was stricken with this epiphany:

I just wanna dance.

Everything is ruined for me now. Food is sand, words are hollow, and I can barely bring myself to produce multiple orgasms in starlets-in-waiting whom I've convinced that I'm a producer with greenlight power.

The dance is Life.

There is dancing or there is misery.

I can think of nothing else besides pop-locking, the Robot, the Worm, the Running Man, the Cabbage Patch, the limb-pretzeling contortions of the Roger Rabbit. I realize that these dances are all decades old. But it's been so long since I've danced due to a "horizontal mambo" injury I suffered after demonstrating my once-patented "flipping the pancakes" dance routine (which has since been pirated and produced much more cheaply in Malaysian dance halls) at an open bar function of the Scandinavian Deep Tissue Masseuse Practical Training Convention in Denver. That is a story for another time. (It may seem that there is a lot of sex talk where there should be dance talk, but those of us with the dance in our blood know that they are one in the same.)

I'll be footloose and flashdancey free. My feet will be magic, my upper body moving in a way that suggests that there is delicious evil below in my hips.

I will shake it until I break it, light up the sky like a flame.

I will publicly eschew the lambada in accordance with polite society's designation of it as the forbidden dance. But in private my pelvis will grind and I will sweat to its sweet Latin rhythms.

So I entreat you to join me in the dance as summer draws to a close, waltzing into the autumn as I wait for my regular cable service to be restored.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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