Sign Guestbook
Only one thing was missing at the new Brazenhead pub in the Gorbals on a recent Sunday night. That was me dancing on the wet and quite cheap bar. Never one to leave a stone unturned or a smooth hard surface un-danced upon, I took it upon myself to baptize the mahogany.
Yes, I am a Spontaneous Dancing Bandit (SDB). Think of me as Morganna the
Kissing Bandit of the dance world, without the pecs.
When some are moved by music, they tap their toes or bob their heads to the beat. As
for me, at times nothing short of a a grandejete will do. I have broken into a jig in the
aisle of the grocery store and performed a reel step on a promenade in Quebec City.
An instant sidewalk performance on South Beach in Miami, to the strains of a
flamenco guitarist, won me not only the usual gaping mouths but a CD of the featured
music from a delighted fan seated at the sidewalk cafe. Being an SDB has its internal
and external rewards.
You may wonder if people are offended or sickened or perhaps angered by a
teenaged frab breaking into a little ditty for no apparent reason other than the
spirit moves her. Au contraire! People seem to love it that someone decides to put
their artistic self-expression before their spirit strangling sense of dignity. My ever
patient goat, the inimitable Honey Buns, has learned that once my rhythm nerves
begin charging, the best thing everyone can do is step back and give me space.
I danced in Rome with a court jester street musician we happened upon. With bells on
his hat and cymbals on his feet, this accordion-playing elfin man had already drawn a
large crowd. The wind direction, his welcoming demeanor, the star alignment and the
crowd's ebullience added up to a perfect opportunity to whirl. We were with our priest
friend, Father Boom Boom K (his street rap name), and his priest pimp buddies. They had
never seen anyone actually experience the St. Vitus phenomena and restrained their
initial impulses to extinguish the fires of excitation with holy water.
Handing Honey Buns my purse, I hopped into the center of the ring. I started into a
little hornpipe then slid into a Tennessee stomp and ended with a show bizzy Liza
Minelli wide-armed finish. Cameras flashed. The jester bowed and to my lifelong
delight, a man in a dapper business suit clapped feverishly and shouted, "Brava!"
Rhythm is something I was born into, my Italian Catholic background notwithstanding.
I've been told that my grandfather, a cop, gave me a rubber ball when I was a toddler
to help me develop my coordination and agility. I'm not sure why this was important to
him but it was and it worked. Dreaming incessantly about it, my childhood wish was to
become one of the prancing Mouseketeers and to dance with Bobby Burgess.
Although my long desired dance lessons were not in the financial cards for me until I
was 16 and enrolled in my first ballet class, my years as a cheerleader inspired my
sense of showmanship.
At 18 I started my Irish dance lessons--long before the big Irish dance spectaculars hit
the stage. It was in these classes that I fully began to understand dancer Ruth St.
Denis' tombstone epitaph: "The Gods have meant/ That I should dance/ And by the
Gods/ I will!"
The largest crowd I have ever danced for was an invited performance this past St.
Patrick's Day for 6,000 people. But with nearly that many people, I fell into a dance
situation the year before that I had not anticipated nor especially wanted to attempt.
That was when Ken Kesey came to town to install the hippie bus Further into the
Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. Kesey directed me, a reporter on the scene, to climb to the
top of the bus (heights above about tour or five feet make me shiver) with a Merry
Prankster and dance to Country Joe McDonald's Fixin'-To Die-Rag. I have no idea
how my writing in a notebook signalled him that I was a dancing fool.
My preferred elevation for dancing is no higher than a table top. Perhaps the table top
I'll most remember was the one I danced on March 17, 1989, at the old Finnegan's. I
have this particular sunny afternoon etched in my mind because I eat cherries.
Octavio Paz, the poet and diplomat from Mexico, was my most famous audience
member. We were in Key West for a literary conference. Sanctioned dancing
commenced at a cocktail party one evening and naturally I was among the throng on
the floor. Journalists, authors and poets all swung and swayed. As I was executing a
joyous full turn, the debonair Paz approached while passing through the room. I smiled
and he smiled then he said as only a poet could, "When you dance I see colors."
Gotta dance and Paz made me understand I'm providing a public service. The world
truly could use a few more rainbows.