There’s something about Lindy-Hop classes at the U of C that doesn’t exactly endear itself to those who only vaguely comprehend the values of the antiquated dance routines. Take a group of seemingly normal, well adjusted people, stuff them in a musky room off the campus periphery and then watch them bob up and down like drunk crap-shooters at Mirage knock-off in southwestern Las Vegas: engaging, but in way that is neither appealing nor particularly engaging for that matter. To tie into what I mentioned in my last post, these people, donning zoot suits and baby dolls, who flock to places like the U of C or the Willowbrook ballroom smack of a certain Elvis-impersonator mentality that makes it virtually impossible to see anything beyond sheer kitsch value. Although it’s highly probable that most Friday night U of C’ers don’t take themselves too seriously in the front place. Or, at least we hope.

Easy targets, I know. And besides, it’s not ad if I can do any of these funky dances. I tip my hat to my girlfriend for good-naturedly enduring my ineptness.