You must be jam, ´cause jelly don´t shake like that.

I was persuaded to go salsa dancing last night. Myself, Angela (a fertilizer saleswoman 6 months out of the year from Utah. -She makes enough in 6 months to travel the rest of the year), Shireen (of Norwegian, German (unsmelly) & Pakistani decent), and my new housemate, Cameron from Australia, went to the Salsa bar "Ille Habana". Ill it was.

If you have ever been on a dance floor with me, you know i am not afraid to make an ass of myself. While this has not always been the case (i came in 4th in the pairs dance off at my 7th grade Sock Hop), on this night, it was clear that I would look like an idiot.

When we got there, the dance floor was hopping. Girls were being spun, flung and generally macked upon by smooth Chilean operators. All eyes turned to one couple who, on any given sunday, would wipe the floor with the best dancing combo you´ve ever seen. (Possible exceptions: Swayze and Farley, the sprain).

The guy dancer turned out to be the leader of the dance floor. He had a goofy smile and was wearing capri jeans, bowling shoes (or colorful puma´s), and a cut-off T-shirt with the number 69 on it. While my first inclination was to poke fun at him and his attire, it was readily obvious that he excelled at his craft and probably gets more female companionship than ______. (insert any ass-getting noun here. ex: Wilt Chamberlain, toilet seats, Stephon Urkel, etc).

Throughout the night this fellow would teach the crowd Salsa steps, and then expect us to demonstrate our newly learned skills. This is where i decelled. However, a nice Chilean lady (who reminded me of Sharol Crow (with smaller teeth)), tried helping me learn the steps. After many failed attempts and probably a hairline fracture of her big toe, she informed me that there are lessons every Tuesday and Thursday night, and I should strongly consider attending. She then left. Probably to go make out with the capri pants guy.