8.1.2007
How to Improve Your Dancing!
http://www.netsaga.is/media/files/Ep-IdM11-1.mp3
Oli Thor Eiriks:
How to Improve Your Dancing!
Some kind of dancing goes among all kinds of animals in their courtship.
Many mail birds show humorous tactics when they do their best in receiving the female´s attention and this goes for many other animals.
Of course it goes for the humans also, most often on the dance-floors.
And it turns out that the men who can charm most ladies with their dancing abilities most often return home with a woman-friend.
Eveybody´s able to dance, eventhough many find it an absurd statement.
It hurts to see many men and women sitting throughout the dances at the tables, believing that they´d just make fools of themselves if they tried to shake their arses on the dance-floor.
But what is most important if you´re hoping to become a good dancer is to be able to feel the music how it goes through you, as when you listen to dancable music like Santana or Abba you´ll find an urge to move about in beat with it.
Many take part eventhough they´re stuck in wheelchairs.
This author goes out to take part in dancing quite often, utilizing the magic dancing happens to give him and is supposedly not a bad dancer, but how was he able to become such a "fine" dancer.
I´ve tried attending three different dancing-schools, but I didn´t like it, for I just wanted to feel free about how I shook my arse to the music, but didn´t like others telling me how to do it by some hindering rules.
In my dancing I move my feet in step with the speed of each song, remembering not to be stiff, but soft and remissive.
The best way to become soft and remissive on a dance-floor is by practising solo in your own livingroom.
I recommend that you dear reader will keep on dancing but if you have some dancing-phobia I urge you to go out on the dancefloor, for balls happen to be for dancing and they´re no fun unless you take part in the movement.
And if you´ll do what I´ve recommended your life will become much better and it will probably help you getting playmates for the nights, and remember that researches show that good dancers happen to be better lovers.
I had planned to spend my first Saturday-night in the megacity up in my almost double bed watching something interesting in the telly.
Each morning at eight o'clock there was quite a civilized knock on my door and when I opened the cleaning-lady who was of the Negro-race stood outside with the right tools, a bucket, a sweeper and a rag in her hands. She was quite young and pock-marked and her belly protruded a good foot bearing her first child kicking powerfully inside, which didn't make her job any easier.
It reminded me of my own former fiancée who was pregnant of our first son back in '76 and had to work to the last minute with the extra foot in the air. Such sights make us guys realize how lucky we are after all.
I and the cleaning-lady got acquainted, because sometimes I wasn't fetched before she'd started cleaning my room. Keeping the memory of my woman in mind I tried to assist the pregnant woman, while I inquired into her life. I discovered that she had immigrated to the UK from a paradise-island in the Caribbean Sea, where unemployment is very high. She had been infatuated by an employment advertisement by which the employers were trying to decoy islanders for various jobs in English hotels.
Now back to me, where I was lying flat on my back in the over-sized and wonderful bed smoking and puffing my stinking Lillehammer-pipe I suddenly realize that there isn't much clean air left for my needy lungs because of the thick smoke in the unventilated room, so I stand up slowly, being
intoxicated and glide behind the telly towards the window intending to open it.
I stick my head in the guillotine-like window and fill my aching lungs with the polluted London-air. Then I'm able to hear the resonance of
thundering stallion-mussakk along with an appropriate guitar-wailing reaching me from somewhere down below.
-Perhabs something's happening there worth checking out, runs through my simple mind.
Not being of any waiting-kind I turn off the telly, put on my white sale-purchased blazer and out I go searching for a megacity-adventure.
Outside my room I search through a passage-corridor until I find the elevator. When I after quite a while make it outside to the well illuminated side-walk I cock my ears, but to my pity the only sound I'm able to hear is from a car that rushes by and the hollow sound of the tube from the center of the earth. Still to that day in question I hadn't orientated what was the direction of my window, for the reason that the Grafton had propably often been reconstructed to all sides since its first construction.
With very open ears I search for a while, until I finally reach a small canal into and under the gigantic building. Absentminded like I were in
another world I enter the dark passage, until I come to stone-steps reaching down to a double door that is wide open.
Once I'd come down and inside a uniformed, powerful and bearded man winds himself towards me and politely asks me in his unclean and preternatural Cockney-English, just as a great majority of Londoneers do and sounded to my
ears just like it were bodytalk.
After I'd given it a little thought I realized what he was trying to inquire; whether I had been invited to this private-party of a few business-partners.
I gave him my broadest smile, rose up on my toes looking above this giant's huge shoulder seeming to be looking for someone.
-I was supposed to meet John Smith in this party, I replied using my super pronunciation, like I were of the upper class of this country, where the
toadyism can be quite abnormal. Once a year there's even a big gathering outside the Buckingham-palace cheering the elderly Queen's mum on her birthday.
The doorman believed me of course, because he didn't really know who were invited to this over-crowded party and to show me that I could enter he gave me another piteous mutter.
As I discovered a little later, I had now entered the hotel's cellar, because later in the evening when I was looking for a toilet I opened a door and noticed that I had entered the Grafton.
In the party which was held in a room, approximately 50 meters in length and 5 meters in width there was quite a number of people assembled together to entertain themselves (I presume 'cause there wasn't any other
entertainment) in the dark, smokefilled atmosphere.
The guests were sitting in almost every seat by the tables that stood at the longer walls; at some young men and women, but only men or only women at others.
At the bar four guys were sitting quietly and serious-looking sipping alcohol, but on the small dance-floor two couples and two girls were skaking there arses in step with the groovy music.
I took a seat on a high barstool amongst the
quiet and serious four and ordered half a pint of light ale for the golden pound I had had in my right pocket.
In a short while the quiet-four had really revolutionized their appearance and had become part of the talkative five, when I'd introduced myself and my origin.
One of the Englishmen told me that once, when he'd been on a flight over the Atlantic the plain had made a stop-over in Keflavik-airport. In a lower voice he told me that he'd really like to return for a longer visit in my mysterious country, where the world's most beautiful women were to be found and to emphasize his statement he told me that he had seen both Hofi and Linda who were Miss World in the eighties and that he'd really liked what he'd seen.
When we'd been chatting for half an hour about pretty women and their whereabouts I happen to notice that the number of dancers had increased;
couples of opposite sexes and also just of the feminine one. Suddenly I could feel an uncontrollable urge inside me for shaking my arse on the dance-floor, so I greeted my new acquiantances and started the popular quest: finding a dance-partner.
But it was all in vain, whatever I did or tried using my imaginative charms on the many girls and women sitting passive in the room, none wanted to dance with me, not even a dance.
Though I was disappointed with the girls' responces I wasn't going to surrender, because I still had that uncontrollable urge in my limbs and I just couldn't wait any longer.
I noticed that a few girls were dancing solo.
If they can, then why can't I? Then I made a decision, that has really changed the world, that is my side of it!
I walked out on the dance-floor, just
accompanied with the dare-devil inside myself, and began the arse-shaking alone amongst the couples and the two solo-girls, to the booming stallion-rock.
When I'd soloed a few songs and liking it better with every one, I began wondering why in heaven's name guys my age didn't use such solodancing to
relieve their tension and disappointment when confronting the weaker sex and subsequently an idea came to my meaker head.
I had noticed that my bar-acquaintances, who had again changed into the silent four were all
gazing at me with some kind of yearning in their eyes. I knew they really wanted to shake their arses, but hadn't had the guts to ask the girls,
because they were afraid of a denial.
I gave them a wink, which they couldn't have misunderstood, for when the next heart-stopping rock-song began they'd gathered around me on the dance-floor to start their arse-shaking and hand-waving.
When at two o'clock the party came to an end
a lot of shy men had joined us in this silent revolution to old and rusty customs and all of us shook arses just as we were paid for it.
When we attend balls we're supposed to dance, aren't we, but not to sit at tables with sour faces gazing at others doing it.