'Solid Gold' ... with Farah?

Chris Farah Farah's Faucet

I tried so hard. I gave it my all.

I didn't know what I was doing. Not at all. But I gave it my best shot. If a lack of technique was my weakness, I thought, maybe I could make up for it with an overabundance of effort.

So without even thinking, I just did it. I gyrated my hips, moved my pelvis rhythmically, swung my body up and down, up and down, up and down ...

Wait a minute. Vile, sick-minded reader, what are you thinking? For shame! Even if I would stoop low enough to use a graphic description of sex as a cheap tease for my column (and I have far too much integrity for that, I assure you), remember who you're talking to.

Not, of course, that I personally have anything against sex or any kind of intimate contact with another human being. No, of course not. It's just that sex requires the participation of another human being in the first place (under traditional circumstances, anyway).

Ahh, now you see the error of your ways. Obviously, if you were thinking what I think you were thinking, you were dead wrong.

Foolish reader, I wasn't talking about sex. Not that you were that far off. What I'm talking about also involves a lot of sweat, a lot of movement and the potential for great embarrassment.

OK, fine. And I guess if you're good at it, you could also have some fun.

Dancing. All of us have some kind of experience with this monstrous form of social entertainment. House parties, clubs, senior prom ... The evil has found many forums, many ways to stretch its horrible tendrils into the lives of unfortunate, uncoordinated souls like myself.

My most recent encounter with the beast known as dancing came over spring break. Our spring break is not, of course, actually a spring break. Coming in early February, "spring" break is just a chance for those stuck in the north to dream about a warm and sunny climate, as they watch the icicles outside their windows grow longer and longer.

This year, I said screw it. I was finally going to go to a place where the people wear less clothes outside than I normally can wear around my drafty apartment. And so a few brave friends and I made the excursion to mighty Ft. Lauderdale, haven of pink and lavender buildings, palm trees, g-strings and suntan oil.

And then there are the clubs. Granted, dancing at a party or high school social is no picnic, but at least you don't get physically injured too often. The whole atmosphere of these places turns whatever dancing goes on into something like sexual molestation.

I've been to clubs in Canada and Michigan before, but going to one in Ft. Lauderdale is a completely different experience. Forget about ladies' night. The motto of these places must be, "Freaks get in for free."

Every single guy there had a neck at least twice as wide as his head. The bouncers, instead of checking ID, simply pulled out a measuring tape to screen undesirables. I wouldn't have made it inside, but I was so much smaller than anyone there that I just walked right by them - below their line of vision - and they never even noticed.

Also required were a large hoop earring dangling from each lobe, extremely tanned skin - use body paint if necessary - and a ponytail, preferably crimped. If possible, males should also be named "Nico" or "Chaz" - nothing over two syllables, unless it's foreign-sounding.

The women at these clubs were incredible. There must be something in the Florida air that causes breasts to grow three times their normal size. Then again, the silicone probably helps, too. The women, proudly carrying their miniature backpacks filled to the brim with a single lipstick, were just as dark and oiled-up as the men.

I'm not exactly sure what the attraction of grease is. Maybe it acts as insurance - if somebody who isn't quite hip enough for your tastes grabs onto you, you can just slither away into the night.

Yep, I think lubrication is probably a key ingredient. No, I'm not going back to sex (for shame!) - I'm talking about the dance floor. Dancing, at least the traditional concept of it, doesn't really occur in these clubs. It more amounts to some kind of slithering and sliding around. People are wearing so few clothes that their greasy skin provides the perfect surface for slapping against each other.

It all adds up into one kinky orgy on the dance floor - the only thing missing were the whips and chains, though I think I may have seen a couple of those, too.

You can imagine how shocked I was, being an innocent young man from the Midwest. Not that I've ever been much of a one for dancing.

I had fun at prom, but that was only because we could gamble - even if the grand prize was a free pepperoni pizza from the school cafeteria. If my date (yes, I did have a date, and she did choose to go with me of her own free will ... though the $100 cash might have helped) tried to drag me to the dance floor, I'd just stand on the edge, watching.

Once, she tried to pull me out to the middle. I went along with her, but then I just stood there. "You look a lot more stupid doing nothing than you would if you danced," she shouted over the music.

"You obviously haven't seen me dance before," I shouted back. And I just kept standing.

That's something funny about women. They seem to enjoy dancing, just for the sake of dancing. Men will dance if they're forced to, but only when it involves women. Women, on the other hand, seem to enjoy dancing with each other.

On every dance floor, there's at least one group of six or seven women, standing in a circle and just, well, dancing with each other. For some reason, this is accepted in our society, but can you imagine a bunch of men standing around in a circle, dancing with each other?

"Hey Bill, check out this new step," Jeff says as he does the running man.

"Wow, Jeff, you really know how to move. All day at the office, all I could think was, 'I can't wait to go out and dance with the guys tonight.' Maybe later we can all catch the midnight showing of 'Titanic.'"

As shocking as it was, when dancing is done right, it's done with a member of the opposite sex. That's what I really learned at the club in Ft. Lauderdale. Dancing, at its most basic, instinctive form, really is just a socially acceptable version of sex. As time progresses, the two just get closer and closer together.

Hmm. So what does that mean for rhythmically impaired white boys like myself?

Sign me up for the next lesson. Tango, waltz, lambada - here I come.

- E-mail Chris Farah at cjfarah@umich.edu

03-26-98