Archive for June, 2008

Hip Hop Dance Class: Day 2

June 20, 2008

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’.