Run That Back: Whatever happened to the dope dances?

One of the things that bores me about clubs now—as I get older—is people don’t dance no more. We really don’t. If I see another two-step, I’m gonna yawn. If I see another 3rd-grader’s-spazzed-out-Ritalin-fit -turned-latest-dance I’m gonna scream.

We need to run back some real dancing.

For example:

The Bird. One of the many things I loved about Morris Day and the Time –besides Jerome’s mirror and the two-finger dap was The Bird. Only a real man can flap his arms till his wrists crack and do a hooded-out pimped-up hokey-pokey and get away with it.

I swear I'm pullin out the gators, hitting the spot and the first up-tempo beat that comes on, i'm clearing out some space and lettin' my freak flag fly. Birdman, baby!

We need The Bird.

The Bump. Everybody couldn't bump. The hardrock wannabes thought doing the Bump was an affront to their manhood--like most dances. But the bump was the easiest way to dance with a girl and have fun because it was almost impossible to do wrong. The Bump was sexy, but just silly enough that doing it didn’t mean you wanted to go home with your dance-partner after the song.

The Wop. I loved the Wop. Woppin wasn't confrontational—tho you could accidentally punch a really tall person in the head if they weren’t paying attention. Other than that, woppin was about feelin’ a song so hard that you lost your mind, the mouth came open with a big “Oh!” and then you side-stepped, stomped, wopped the shoulders to the beat and just got down for the crown.

The Pee-Wee Herman. Yes I did the Pee-wee Herman. You had to. It was just too fly for its own good. The best thing about doing the P was, well... Hmmm. Lemme see if I can remember how the Pee-Wee went. I think it went something like this:

All I’m missing now is my high-water paints and 5-inch heels.