Flirtatious laughter, vibrations tingling your toes, black-light teeth, noxious amounts of cologne and glittering globs of body-bronzer depict a typical weekend night at any club around the globe.
But what makes the Mill City party circuit unique to its rival Bean-Town haunts? Dance-phobia has polluted the minds of our native sons and it’s contagious.

Speaking for all of the dancing divas out there who spend endless hours sashaying local laminated floors with no contact from the opposite sex: we want you there! Unless our whip gets great gas mileage and our cellie has free long-distance, we feel no urge to zoom 32 miles south to boogie with Boston-ballers.

My male friends are all stricken with the flat-footed fear. I have not witnessed one with even a bounce in their step or a sway in their stance. The 978-man’s club conduct consists of forming a barrier encircling the dance floor so all fox-trotting females have to pass through them to enter and exit. I call it the “guy gantlet.”

I am assuming that they feel awkward busting out their moves around future steadies, but we’re not looking for Justin Timberlake. In fact, a woman does not want their mate to dress better or dance better than they do. Why do you think Britney dumped Kevin Federline in the first place?

But why are the Capitol city clubbers more adept to finding a rhythm than their northern homeboys? One theory may reside within their beverage of choice: Red Bull and vodka. Many metro-men lap up this infusion in a bingeing fashion similar to my beer-loving buddies.
Maybe consuming this golden potion at high rates of speed combined with the thumping bass sends the male body into a spastic tempo?

I decided to investigate further into this regional dance mystery. With the high-energy melodies pumping from the speakers Friday night at The Brewery, I felt this was the ideal opportunity to put the hypothesis to the test. The subject of my experiment had to be willing to forgo his brew for the fruity concoction. Luckily for me one of my buddies was low on funds and obliged to have anyone buy him a drink.

I handed him the 10-ounce cup smirking as he seemed bewildered by the mini-stirrer resting against the rim. “Thanks, but I don’t need a straw,” he grumbled.

Unaware that the carbonated golden elixir was not a Miller Lite draft, he chugged half the cup.
Flabbergasted by what he just consumed he peered into the plastic goblet and then at me. “Did I get your drink?” he deplored.

I responded by telling him too bad if he did because I was not about to trade my full glass for a half. With no recourse but to finish, he guzzled the rest.

I waited patiently for the next couple of minutes to see if the mixture would take hold. As if on cue, his fingers began to tap his thigh, his heel clicked on the floor and with a beat in his step he turned to me and said, “Let’s hit the floor!”

I glanced away for a minute to try and locate my girlfriend and boast that I was right on the mark about the effects of the energy drink and distiller. That’s when I heard a holler from the dance floor. There he was atop a speaker with his shirt twirling helicopter-style over his head.
I learned my lesson and now I will happily glide through the “guy gantlet” any Saturday night.

Have a safe, happy and fun Folk Fest weekend and e-mail your tales to lowellita@lowellsun.com.