Excitement abounded Monday as 8pm drew nearer and nearer. This magical time (called the Twitchin’ Hour) is of course when Hip Hop Dance Class at Zenon would start.

Day 2: The Deuce.

A buddy of mine (who had been present at one of the aforementioned “Parties” where I had suggested Hip Hop Dancing as recreation) had decided to join us. While he didn’t choose to enroll, he did have a genuine interest in the class. For reasons (buried like wads of lint deep within Rosie O’Donnell’s nether-regions,) I can’t begin to fathom.

And then there were three. We were now a crew. Or at the least, a posse.

I instructed him that he would require three things in order to succeed tonight:
1) A lightweight, breathable shirt.
2) 11 dollars.
3) Soothing ointment.

Now watch me youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.

The evening streets of Minneapolis sighed heavy and warm like a ho on deez (n.u.tees). But up on the 4th floor it was hot. I was sweating before I signed in. The lobby was packed with adolescent girls fanning their faces. Whether it was because of the temperature or in anticipation of my steez, the world may never know.

Mr. Jew Fro was nowhere to be seen.
I guess he wasn’t as hardcore as I thought he been.

Newcomer said with a laugh “Let’s get in the back please.” I chuckled and convinced him that we should get in the second row, otherwise we wouldn’t be able to see him, nor hear him over the beats. He relinquished, and we started stretching in the second row. Mr. Arturo Miles came in and repeated almost verbatim the speech he gave last week.

No other people filled the row in front of us.

However, what did occur was an illustration of the Age Gap between my posse and the rest of the class.  A girl of no more than 15 showed up beside us, wearing “shorts” that were so scant they elicited Marge Simpson hums of disapproval from all three of my crew. If Hotpants were the randy aunt of the Shorts family, this garment would have been the slutty niece of Hotpants.

We three were like the disapproving church mothers of Hip Hop class.

The stretches and warm-ups began, including the promised “75 situps with legs splayed in the air.” Pretty sure I strained my hip flexor. And that’s not a good thing in a Hip Hop class.

After stretching we began some warm-up “top rock.” This is pretty much footwork, stepping back and forth in time, side to side, or back to front, whilst flailing your arms to the side like a beautiful peacock looking for love.

If you do it well you look pretty cool. If you do it poorly (read: me) then you look like a leprechaun on a Redbull binge stomping on spare change for bus fare. Observe.

After toprocking, the sweat pooled free and thick. Did I mention I had a killer sunburn? The day previous (Father’s Day) I had spent a goodly portion of the day in the pool at my parent’s house, scalding my skin a deep red shade of melanoma. It hurt to sleep, it hurt to shower, … it hurt to wear clothes.

For what I’m sure wouldn’t be the last time in my life, I was glad for a little lubrication.

We began practicing the same routine we had done last week. I was pleased with this. I figured it would give me a sense of progress. Unfortunately that sense of progress was flattened under the crushing weight of inadequacy. No roofs would be set a-fire by the heat of my moves. Not this week anyway.

So we started:
Left foot back, kick, down, right foot sideways stomp, turn, stomp, pop, stomp, pop, turn, “grab the rope.”

I did better this time. Let’s just say the “rope” was “grabbed.” And with style. Even with marked improvement on such maneuvers such as the “and eight” and the hip-swerving move I call “Sunshine of Your Love,” I did however have trouble with the move that went “one and two and pull-out-yer-groin.”

Overall on a scale of Wanksta to Gangsta, I’d say I rated at just under “jockin’.“

I have enrolled in a Hip Hop Dance Class.

When I ask myself for the reason this has been done, the answer is not hard to come by.

“Days Go By” by Dirty Vegas

I had actually all but forgotten about this video. While writing this I had to sit and think in silence for close to three minutes to come up with the song or the name of the artist. But what I could picture clearly was that man, standing in his khaki suit, looking all the world like a robot from planet awesome.

The dancing in that video, when seen by my tender eyes years ago, planted a seed deep within the secret chambers of my heart.

A seed of purest superfly.

It lay dormant for many years, until last winter at a party. I was inebriated, and in some strange non-sequitur I said “We should take hip hop dancing classes.” The seed of superfly had borne fruit. And the fruit was deemed Ridiculous.

Fast forward to March, a friend (not present at aforementioned party) asked me if I wanted to enroll in summer Hip Hop Classes at Zenon Dance in downtown Minneapolis.

For all practical purposes it seems that when I get drunk I talk about hip hop dancing.

I went down to the studio the next day, which is about a block from where I work. A petite redheaded young lady was there to field all my questions about the class. Like what I’d learn, how the classes differed, and if I’d have to Stomp The Yard on day one in some sort of street-wise Hip Hop initiation ritual, whereupon “Being Served” I would be deemed worthy to begin my apprenticeship.

We enrolled shortly afterward, and waited anxiously for the first class, which occurred last night.

Upon entering 15 minutes early, there was a line for class sign-ups. Looking around, my friend turned to me and said with a chuckle “You’re the only Dude here.” It was true. I was in a room full of females in tights.

I smiled.

“Who do you think feels more awkward?” I asked her. “Me, being the only Dude, or everyone else because there is actually a Dude here?”

“Hahaha, … you.”
“Mmm.”

After we were signed in, we stood around looking as casual and as hip/hop as possible. Sounds of what I can only describe as block-rockin’ beats issued from the adjacent studio. Small talk was made. The beats changed into a tribal drumming and humming. After listening to this for some time, my friend turned to me. “Sounds fun.”

To me it sounded like the demonic drumming of a bunch of crazy-eyed pygmies in a peyote trance getting ready to throw me into a volcano as a virginal sacrifice to the gods of Power Jams Volume 11.

When the tension couldn’t get any worse, the doors burst open and out poured a mob of red-faced, crazy-eyed, horribly sweaty people. But instead of hoisting me above their heads and dragging me to the inferno, they simply shuffled to the drinking fountain. The mob contained a couple Dudes. Gangly, somewhat pimply, at-least-10-years-younger-than-me Dudes, but Dudes none the less.

It may go without saying at this point that everyone within view was White.

Oh. And two Asians.

The new class shuffled into the studio, and stood around awkwardly. About half of the other class which had just terminated joined our class. Whatever ideas I had about being Hardcore quickly faded at the sight of a sweaty teenager with a jew fro jumping up to touch the rafters before busting some rapid footwork borne of unadulterated excitement and dedication to taking back-to-back hip hop dancing classes (level 1).

The studio had about thirty prospective dancers in it. Mostly girls in leotards. Meanwhile, I’m looking around for our teacher Amy Sackett. I had researched her the previous evening. Apparently she was well-known in the hip hop “scene” around Minneapolis. She’s also nowhere to be found. At this point a tall young gentleman in blue track pants comes in and says “Hello my name is Arturo, I’ll be subbing for Amy during the month of June. She’s in Vegas blah blah blah.”

Arturo? What the f*** is this b*******?

Smithers! I know nothing of this man’s street cred! Release the hounds!

I turn to my friend to say “Let’s go get a beer,” when the music comes on. Loudly. So loudly in fact I can barely hear Arturo speak any more. He signals the class to begin doing stretches.

By the end of the stretching routine I had broken a sweat and aggravated my groin.

The class begins. Arturo teaches us series of steps, which we repeat four to five times to the music. The steps go as such: left foot back, kick, down, right foot sideways stomp, turn, stomp, pop, stomp, pop, turn, “grab the rope.”

“YEAH! NICE!” shouts Arturo.

I bungle through this charade like a railroad hobo with a kidney stone dancing for a can of Bush’s Baked Beans. Arturo then adds another sequence of moves, as follows: step right, rope tug, rope tug, cross legs, hands down left, step, hands down right, step step, schwaaa.

This position of schwaaa is called “eight” (meaning, it happens on beat eight) and sort of looks like a gay dracula taking a pace forward while flourishing his crimson cape. Arturo will say “And eight!” about fourteen dozen times throughout the rest of the evening, causing the class to schwaaa on command like a bunch of alzheimer’s-stricken Jets in the Saint Alfonso’s Home for the Agéd’s production of West Side Story.

I would have laughed aloud if I wasn’t struggling for breath.

The routine went on, and on, and on, each sequence harder to mimic than the last. As we ran through the routine over and over, Arturo would call out “Nice! You’ve got it!”

I never found out who he was addressing.

The hardest part of the dance sequence for me to wrap my head around was the portion where we would turn backwards and “grab the rope.” This is because every time I turned around, I was greeted by the wide, scared eyes of the black-haired girl standing behind me, who seemed to be frantically trying to glean from my movements what, exactly, she should be doing. Unable to speak, I could only use my terrified eyes to communicate to her that she should look elsewhere for proper guidance, and do so immediately.

Those eyes startled me every gottdam time and I never could quite “grab the rope” successfully.

And so for an hour I stepped, stomped, turned, popped rectangles and kicked like some sort of deranged Quasimodo on an Adrenochrome binge.

It was actually pretty fun.

More to come next week.