hen it came to scoring with the ladies, I was amazingly ill equipped.  Regardless, my formula was surprisingly simple.  I was never the most handsome, richest, smoothest, best groomed, most sensitive, or even marginally interested in conversation, but … I could dance.  Hip hop.

They called me White Chocolate.  Here is my story.

My Credentials: Now before I start on my story let me prove my dance legitimacy for those that never saw.  One of my best friends had a college graduation party and invited all of his aunts, uncles, and extended family to a rented party hall for food and music.  As a basic, but essential premise to this story, he’s black.  His family is black.  The DJ is black.  I was the only whitey in the hall.  I was 22 years old.

There were two types of music that were being played.  The older, slower, and sometimes funky songs, such as White Horse by Laid Back (I told you I was down) or even older into the soul days.  The other type was for the youngsters, such as Dre, Pac, etc.  Remember, this was 1999.  Regardless of which song was played, I got the same reaction – just expressed in different ways.  From the old folks, I got compliments, black slaps, and big aunties pushing up on me to freak with the wonderbread.  From some of the younger folks, I got sharp looks that seemed like I was threatening a domain that I was not supposed to be threatening or perhaps questioning, “who the hell taught you that?”

I was in there.  I was in white boy heaven except … that this particular family is particularly over-populated with two hundred pound football players rather than sexy divas in my age group.  I talk a little bit more about them in my Black Up column if you remember.  So while there was no trim to be had at the graduate party, there are still other benefits in having an entourage of Flex Wheelers.

Regardless, my reputation though was established.  I still remember to this day, one of the older ladies, named Flo, coming up to me after a song, saying in her exasperated and disbelieving tone, “Robert … you got rhythm!”

Why yes, Florine, I do.  I do have rhythm.

The Unlikely Origin: I knew what they were thinking when I first sauntered out to the dance floor with my baggy Levi’s and tennis shoes.  There is no reason that I should be able to dance.  I know, because I was thinking it, too.  I mean just look at me … I look like a paperboy from Mayberry.

There is nothing in my early days that would indicate my meteoric rise to dance super stardom (maybe I’m exaggerating a bit much here … screw it … I was like Michael at Motown in ’83, I was like Ginuwine on X, I was like Usher with a penis).  I was raised on a steady diet of Ann Murray, Kenny Rogers, the Oakridge Boys, John Denver, Jesus Christ Superstar, the Star Wars Christmas Special, Burl Ives, and Fr. Carey Landry.  My dad even subjected us to Leonard Nimoy records.  My grandma added her own blend of Neil Sedaka and fat Elvis.

I didn’t even get the cool, skinny Elvis.

My first forays into non-parental music selections starting in fifth grade went towards heavy metal.  Megadath, Metallic, Slayer, Danzig, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, SoD, Motörhead, Anthrax, and a host of glam rock bands decked in lip-stick, mascara, and more hairspray than a West Texas prom queen that are best not mentioned.

I grew my hair out, wore ripped up jeans and death metal T-shirts, lost 7% of my hearing at a single Metallica concert, and smoke a shitload of weed … all by the seventh grade.  My timing was off, I should have saved my party days for college, but I was a high achiever.  I would post a picture, but I don’t want to.  So there.

Enter the Hammer: Somewhere in junior high and high school, I decided that not getting any chicks sucked far worse than making my own personal statement of conforming to the other white trash, non-conformists.  So I started going to school dances, listening to the music and observing.  And here is where the story truly begins.  Enter MC Hammer.  You rang?

I secretly purchased Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em and began … well … I’d like to call it dancing in my room on my mini ghetto blaster, but I think it’d be more apt to say I just freaked out with the music playing.  I looked like I had the holy ghost at one of those pentecostal churches.  I learned all the words, all the singing parts, and one day dreamed of being a cool kid in the middle of my very own dance circle to the chant, “Go Rob, Go Rob, It’s your Birthday, Get Busy!”

It looked hopeless.  But here’s the thing that I didn’t tell you … I grew up as a young kid during the Thriller age.  Every person with two legs could moonwalk, and those with one leg peg-walked.  It was pandemic.  In addition, my dad was in the Army and just at the peak of MJ-mania, I was stationed in Seaside, CA. In the ghetto.

After school, while I was practicing the head nod to my friends across the street, practicing backflips off of the swingset at the park, and drinking Flavor-Aid with double sugar, I was learning the kick worm, the head spin, and break dancing.  By the way, the kick worm is specifically intended for people whose testicles have not dropped yet.  Try it now – I dare you.

So while I was practicing to my Hammer tape, my oldest sister’s Technotronic CD, and a recently acquired Salt-n-Peppa Black’s Magic, I was remembering my younger days and putting the pieces back together.  I was too scared, of course, to unveil my unique brand of dance epilepsy in public.  Particularly, when Chris Polonchek (obviously white with that last name) had the market cornered on white kid that can dance – he even had the denim over-all shorts with graffiti on the leg.  I’m not kidding.

That all changed when we did a secret Student Council trip to a dance club in Tulsa, the Midnight Rodeo.  All the crazy hot girls were there, such as Keri Hurt.  I was too shy to talk to any of the girls, so I just danced off to one side in the mix of the crowd.  The next day, Behfar (my future former boss at InterWorks), mentioned that no one was actually dancing, but me.  He didn’t say if I was dancing well, average, respectable, or anything – but my face lit up … he recognized my girations as dancing!  Aha!  Eureka!

College: My forays into public dancing continued throughout high school until graduation. I got bolder with my moves, knowing that everyone looked at me as such a willing jackass that if my dances weren’t any good, they would think it was intentional.  And, there were a few times that they were.  I swear.

By the way, I completely, 100% faked being hypnotized at Senior Prom.

Whew!  That feels so much better to say.  I guess I owe Meisenburg an apology for going back into my “hypno-trance” with my head face-down in her lap.  Sorry!  Back to the story -

My sophmore year, I went to Marquette University in Milwaukee, WI.  I’d like to say that it was my intense loyalty to Jesuit educational philosophy, but in truth it was because of a girl.  I liked to say her name JOO-lee for some reason.  We broke up for good in the first semester (surprised?), so I started hanging out more with the fellas in the O’Donnell dorm.  There were a few dances that I went to and out of nowhere, I was suddenly the only person there that could dance.  Remember, this was a private, Jesuit college in WISCONSIN … not exactly Grambling.

One year later, I returned back to Oklahoma State and joined a fraternity.  Fiji.  My pledge year I discovered there were these things called Functions … where girls (hot girls, mind you) showed up willingly, beer was served, and dance music was played.  Awesome.  Again, this is Oklahoma and Greek.  Again, almost 0% brothers.  So I danced.  And all of the sudden, there were crowds.  People were chanting, “Go Chico!  Go Chico!”  (It’s another nickname that I got, best not to explain how).  A few of my pledge brothers asked me to teach them how to dance.

After the first function, I remember thinking “What in the HELL just happened?!?!”  Well, I quickly got a reputation as a good dancer and as a “fun date” for parties, etc.  Of course, I never really parlayed this funness and dancability into actual girlfriends per se, but hey it was better than before.

How I Did It: Now with all white people that can dance, I had the following things:

1. I had a black friend that was willing to show me a move or two without too much ridicule.  I think it was a social experiment for him, liking teaching a gorilla sign language or a prairie dog to jet ski.
2. I religiously watched Showtime At the Apollo late at night as well as the Fly Girls on In Living Color.
3. In my dance area of my room, I would attempt to recreate these moves.  I studiously practiced by myself in the mirror in my room.

There were definitely sacrifices.  I was upstairs and the house that I grew up in was 80 years old.  My grandma could hear every single lyric and footfall that eminated from Club ROB upstairs.  She would shout at the bottom of the stairs for me to turn it off and I would respectfully obey … for about 3 minutes.  Hey, I was on a mission!

With all of that being said (and growing up at the start of the black culture explosion in the 1980s), the biggest thing I had going for me was that I quickly learned to not care.  That’s really the biggest thing about dancing, not being concerned about what other people think.  In truth, if you look like you know what you’re doing, white people will assume that you do.

This does not always work with real dancers, such as black people or Vietnamese breakdancers.  They’ll pull your card if you don’t watch yourself.  Trust me, you don’t want to get into a dance-off with an Asian … they will smoke you and then talk about you in another language all night.

Dancing Styles: I’ve thought a lot about this because you find yourself in either one of two dance scenarios – exhibition or booty-grinding.  I’m all about exhibition, meaning “Hey, look at me, I’m about to do the rodeo ride with no bones in my ankles – woo hoo!” This is my breakdancing roots coming through.

Remember, I said that I didn’t get a lot of chicks.  Or at least ones that saw the light of day without bursting into flame (my beautiful wife excepted of course).  For this to work, you need space and the right type of song.

For example, as fun as Eazy is his music is normally way too slow to do anything cool.  Also remember, this was before the Crip Walk or Blood Walk, where you could look cool to basically any beat.  Great songs to break some shit off to?  Really any Daft Punk hook or an obscure favorite of mine – Run DMC vs. Jason Nevins, “It’s Like That” … off the hooooook.

But the booty-grinder is different.  They can dance to any beat, in fact the slower the better.  But and this is a big but … they must have a partner to grind on.  Girl or boy, we’re not judging your preference.  This is a great style to pick up trim with because there is no hiding … um … It.  You know … It!  Case in point the lyrics of Too Close by Next:

All the slow songs you requested you’re dancing like you’re naked
Oh, it’s almost like we’re sexing (oh yeah) yeah boo, I like it
No, I can’t deny it but I know you can tell I’m excited, oh girl

When you first start doing this type of dancing, the natural tendency is to shift and hide, but that will get you nowhere.  Put it on ‘em!  That’s the key.  Of course, I’m not a booty-grinder dancer, so this is all hearsay.  But I’m saying what I hear a lot.

Now my boy, Johnnie, is an all world booty-grinder.  Would he be mad if I mentioned that he’s won Rump Shaker competitions at training trips for his old company?  Probably, so I won’t bring it up.  He’s got one or two moves that he’ll break out when he’s showing off, but basically when he’s dancing solo, he’s on the prowl looking for any opportunity to jump on it.  And he’s good at it.

I’ve seen him dance with corpse-like white girls that are bobbing on 1 and 7 rather than 2 and 4.  If I were trying to dance with the the Rhythmless Nation, I’d probably accidentally put my elbow into her thoat or crack a sternum trying to match her movements.  I think Johnnie’s secret is that he doesn’t try to match her, but he pulls her close enough that she basically relaxes as he moves her with his body.  I’m guessing here.

I just coudn’t do it.  I’d get frustrated and pull away to go back to the “LOOK AT ME” dancing that attracts a crowd.  Despite that flaw in my game, I did master the grinding face.  The face is important.  You can’t just be smiling from ear to ear – it freaks people out.  The mouth is either 1) pushed up like I’m trying to pick up something from a table using just my lips or 2) I’m biting my bottom lip in a mix of menacing cool/sultry sexy.  Eyes are down.  Dudes look down, not up.  Never up.  Girls can look either way.  That’s basically it.

And that, my friends, is how I became White Chocolate.  Of course, I’m old as hell and my knees have been sacrificed on the altar of soccer, so there is no telling what horrors I’d unleash if I were to try to dance to Soulja Boy or some other new school dumbass.

But … I leave you with this … the House Party dance off.  Check out 1:51 of the clip.  And yes, that is a skinny Tisha Campbell.  Enjoy!

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