Dance move dilemmas
By Christopher DaCosta
Three stipulations must, I repeat must be in effect in order to catch a rare glimpse of me dancing: flattering lighting (none), adequate hydration (completely sloshed) and an exclusive guest-list. No, I don't lead a secret life as a Vegas stripper.
Fortunately, the stars have not been in alignment long enough to grant party goers the hilarity of the patented DaCosta dance grooves. Despite this, Starchie (my loveable potato-shaped pillow) has received many an eyeful of my daily after-shower booty-shake â€" well Starchie and maybe the occasional unsuspecting roommate.
Perhaps my irrational fear of dancing in public stems from that time my dance partner plummeted to the floor (ok, I dropped her) at a party freshman year. I haven't been seen on a dance floor since and any instance thereof has been conveniently blocked from my memory.
When I go and see "Images" this weekend, I know that I will want to beat my chest in an emotional display of yearning â€" oh the poise, the effortless smiles while successfully executing triple pirouettes and of course, the body-fat-devoid, leotard-clad bodies. How I envy you, dance department divas. You are true artistes who put Wade Robson's urban buffoons to shame.
Not only do students participating in "Images" eat, sleep and breathe dance, they always manage to inspire the double left-footed (a.k.a. me) to pursue a "Billy Elliot"-esque quest to discover true dancing perfection. Being the impressionable clod that I am, I embarked on this journey last weekend, so I'll be prepared to dance along in the audience at "Images".
My first stop in my odyssey to achieve footwork enlightenment was the Super Bowl halftime show. What better place to dig up dance moves than from America's hottest young stars? So I thought, until I saw Kid Rock in all his trailer trash, lip-synching glory. I thought burning our country's flag was distasteful â€" Kid's unsightly attempt at a patriotic poncho was both a federal and fashion offense. And all I have to say to Janet is: "sorry Ms. Jackson, I hope that they're real."
So I didn't pick up any dance moves from last weekend's pop culture and football fusion. However, I did discover a new irrational fear â€" cookie dough. If I am not mistaken, I believe it's a formality in American football culture to gorge yourself beyond belief while viewing the Super Bowl. I did exactly that, devouring many a fistful of the most delectable oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie dough. I also discovered (while praying to the porcelain gods) that a key ingredient is raw egg â€" which apparently does not agree with fruit rollup, heart-shaped cookies and burgers (other items on my Super Bowl menu). I was violently ill and definitely ditched the idea of refining my dance skills.
I decided that it might be best to just let the dancers do the dancing and watch the show quietly. Meanwhile, Starchie can be the sole viewer of my dancing talents.
û Contact Christopher DaCosta at (408) 554-4546 or cdacosta@scu.edu.