My whole relationship with the art of dance has been a tempestuous one. I was good at square dancing in second grade but not so good at the moonwalk in seventh. Likewise, I could never pick up the cotton-eyed Joe but voguing came naturally. Tap-dancing lessons without tap shoes had no meaning, but I threw down on the ländler (look it up). I took well to the waltz and the Charleston; throw in some swing dancing and some two-stepping and, by golly, my dancing feet were tired. What I've yet to try is channeling my inner Antonio Banderas with the lively Spanish dance of flamenco. Perhaps I'll get a taste this weekend,... More >>>