So, You Think You Can Dance… Your Way to Hell?

10 Dec

All  lives fall apart in their own way.  The warning signs are there but we blow right through them.  Like a white Bronco on the freeway.  How did mine crash? Mambo.  Mother cursin’, soul cripplin’ Cuban/African dance. The freakin’ pagan dance of the damned, Mambo.

I had just chucked my Harvard law degree and guaranteed 160 K a year  job to start new career as a shlepper  in the mail room of APA.  Six months later I optioned two high-concepts and a notion that could be either a reality series or a web comic to a production company in one of the former Soviet bloc countries.  Plus my agent said that he was on the verge of getting my screenplay, based on the life of Julian Assange, to either Zac Efron or January Jones.  I was hotter than Independence Day in the Mojave.  Then I made the mistake of attending my cousin’s wedding.

I was fine through the Bunny Hop, the Alley Cat, the jitterbug and  the cha-cha.  I even had a go at the Chicken Dance.  But then they played a mambo. The #$%%$ Mambo!  I was hooked.  That syncopation of a four-beat rhythmic pattern with accents on the second and fourth beats was like firewater in my veins.

I bribed the band to play six in a row. When the groom objected, I bloodied his nose. They tossed me into the gutter.  Slightly concussed, I wandered into a Spanish movie house.  Cantinflas was starring in  Mambo Internacional. I mamboed  along in the aisle until the acomodadora doused me with golden flavoring and  threw me into the alley.

From there I spiraled downwards, mamboing from sleazy roadhouses to fly blown discos.  I hit bottom the day I raged at the roaches in my hotel room for bumping their hips in a horribly non-syncopated manner. Say, you don’t happen to Mambo, do you?

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One Response to “So, You Think You Can Dance… Your Way to Hell?”

  1. richie December 10, 2010 at 11:27 AM #

    one of my faves so far

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