American Hustle

I taught a junior level course in public speaking at the University of Florida in the spring of 1978.  One Friday evening during the spring quarter I ran into one of my students, a junior named Debbie at my favorite Tuesday/Friday/Saturday night hangout, Nichol’s Alley.  It just so happened that Cindy, my bride of less than a year was out of town doing some promotional work for her brother Don in Jacksonville Beach, about 90 miles away.

Meanwhile back in Gainesville the music was blaring, the beer was flowing and the entire weekend was in front of me.  That night Debbie and I did something I never thought I was capable of doing; I didn’t have the desire, I didn’t have the required skills and most of all, I didn’t have the know-how.  But beer will do strange things to your mind, and then it’s only a matter of time before your body falls in line. 

Debbie, on the other hand had all three on her side: The desire, the skill and most definitely the know-how.  After all she’d been doing it for quite some time.  It was on this night that I was formally introduced to the deep, dark and mysterious world of…

Disco!

That Friday night Debbie did everything she could to teach her graduate assistant instructor how to let loose on the dance floor to the music of Donna Summer, Santa Esmeralda and the Village People.  Take into account this was during a period in my life when I wouldn’t even think about stepping foot on the dance until I was A.H. (adequately hammered).  I could always tell when I reached AH level: The moment I got out on the dance floor and honestly thought my back-and-forth-overbite-shuffle was hot sh*t.     

To realize what a difficult job Debbie had teaching me the finer points of the controlled chaos that is disco, imagine trying to teach a bull to take your American Express card, saunter into a Royal Copenhagen store, purchase a set of fine Floral Danica dinnerware for eight and sign the receipt.  Then take it back to the store the next day and return it.  Without the receipt.  For cash.  That’s what Debbie had to look forward to one Friday night in the spring of 1978.           

When Cindy returned two days later I told her about my Friday night with Debbie.  (In hindsight, ‘I had the best time with that blonde in my fifth period class Friday night’ wasn’t the best line to open with when she walked in the front door.  Live and learn.)  Before long Cindy and I were taking disco lessons every Tuesday night at Gainesville High School; you could tell we were serious because you might have noticed we gave up up one of our traditional Nichol’s Alley nights to take the class.  We learned the fine art of ‘touch dancing’ and how to do the Pretzel, the Hustle, the Walk and the *Floor Dip.

(RE: The Floor Dip.  It takes a great deal of strength and flexibility to do a textbook Floor Dip.  In 1978 we had a great deal of strength and flexibility and could do a mean Floor Dip.  But things change.  Today I can load a dishwasher with the best of them and Cindy can fix a killer grilled cheese sandwich, neither having anything to do with a Floor Dip.  Why am I telling you all this?  So I can tell you what a great Floor Dip we were capable of in 1978.  Try to keep up, will you?)

If you know anything about disco music, you know (a) all of the songs have that same ‘thump-thump-thump’ thing going on, (b) the majority of the songs are really, really long so you better be in good shape if you get out on the dance floor because you just might be there for awhile, (c) it sounds so much better when accompanied by a revolving disco ball and (d) it sounds even better when you’re AH.      

So let’s dance, the last dance

Let’s dance, the last dance

Let’s dance, this last dance

Tonight