Last weekend Paul and I went to Disco America—a Hustle dance competition. When I say, “Hustle” to people, it conjures up big mustaches, gold chains and skeevy guys. Lots of cologne, Saturday Night Fever, gold lamé, Scarface, white polyester, bubble machines and feathered hair.
It wasn’t quite as awesome as all that—but it was pretty awesome. Even two days later, my feet hurt, and I’m still exhausted—a measure of plenty of good dancing. And how I am now too old to be awake at two o’clock in the morning.
The quality of the video isn’t fantastic, but the dancers are.