for the love of paula abdul

I have several pet peeves. But one of them trumps all the others. The mother peeve. And that is: bad hip-hop dancing. Now, I warn you, some parts of this post may be slightly offensive or stereotypical. But I'm tired of lounging beneath the PC umbrella. Today, there is no protection. Slather on some SPF and let's go.

Gripe 1: Bad freak-dancing.

Oh, ooooh .... where to begin? Freak dancing. Grinding. Do y'all know what I'm talking about? This is not the equivalent of Baby and What's-his-Name getting it on in the basement with all the other people while Penny's all knocked up. This is two bodies glued together to the hip-hop beat. This is how 50 cent intends people to dance to his "songs." Freak dancing is what goes on in the Candy Shop.

Here is a step-by-step. A girl with some rhythm and some back backs (hah!) into a male and their hips move. There are two criteria: the two dancers are in sync with each other AND with the music. Not one or the other. BOTH. Both people. And it has to be sexy. Both parties need to feel it. If they don't, it looks like an episode of America's Most Wanted.

It is terribly painful to watch when this delicate art gets butchered by people who:

a) can't dance
b) are too drunk
c) are too drunk and think they can dance

I guarantee you have all been witness to this debacle. Have you ever watched the Real World? It's right there for you. Unfortunately, I had to experience this again first hand this past weekend. It was a good friend's birthday, and we all headed out for some dancing.

A disclaimer (and a blatant self-indulgence): My friends can dance. We tear up the dance floor. And we're damn good. Gloria Estefan's got nothing on Indo's man. The rhythm has not only gotten us, it inhabits us.

So as the brown-brigade is getting this party started ... there was a lanky drunk white guy trying to freak dance with a woman. He was obviously wasted as was his poor little victim. It hurt my eyes to watch, but I couldn't help it. Maybe I could rescue them? We need to do an Extreme Makeover, Funk Edition. He kept running around, trying to grab this girls hips and then make out with her. Oh man.

Now, here's my not-so-PC element. Often, it does tend to be the white people who can't dance. I'm sure you all can jump, but the hip-hop-hippity-hop sometimes eludes you. Please don't hate me ... your brown brothers and sisters are here to help! And that's not to say that some of you have not mastered the art. I've seen some amazing dancers from the other side of the Thanksgiving Table (get it? Because I'm Indian ... haha).

But if you are new to the grinding scene, don't jump in feet first. Take it slow. Get the hips moving. Then get the attitude going. THEN back it up, back it up, back it up!

I truly don't mean to offend. That being said, I'm likely addressing one person here since I think that is the size of my white readership. Hi babe! You know who you are and I love you! Please still be my friend. Not only because you're an amazing friend, which you are, but also because you may be my only white friend and I'm going on a quota system here sista-girl.

Gripe 2: Dance classes ruined because of certain people who can't dance.

I went to the gym yesterday. I'm trying to be good again. I got to the gym at 6:00, and noticed that there was a class called "Multi-Groove" at 6:30. Hmm ... maybe I will try out said Multi-Groove. What a disaster.

The instructor was this fine African-American guy who could dance like nobody's business. However, he couldn't teach a baby how to cry. He kept zoning out and doing his own little dance moves. Which is fine, if you're at home or in da club, but not IF YOU ARE TEACHING A DANCE CLASS.

The demographic of the class was pretty interesting. There were about 10 people. All girls, except for the requisite 40-something skinny yoga-doing new age white guy who wants to experience every culture under the sun. Of the girls, half were black, half minus 1 were white, and the 1 was me. The instructor played reggae and hip-hop.

In addition to the instructor's non-instructional nature, I was quite distracted by two people: the old white dude (he was trying so hard, but my god, he looked like he was continually doing the chicken-dance), and a young pretty white girl.

The girl obviously was a trained dancer. A trained ballet or jazz dancer, I suppose. Because she got every move down, but she did the moves as if they were ballet. She made what was supposed to be rough gentle. Her facial expression made it look like she had just wrapped herself in a bunch of towels that were fresh out of the dryer and smelled like Snuggle. Instead of emphatic spins she twirled gracefully.

It's HIP HOP. There is attitude! I certainly don't mean to say that I was doing to the moves right or that I am a good hip-hop dancer. But girl, be pissed off! Have sass. Think about the last guy you dated and think about kicking his butt. That's how to get this party started!