We could dance if we wanted to

BY PATRICIA STRINGEL

REBECCA ROSENTHAL/YH

REBECCA ROSENTHAL/YH As a lone Yalie dances in a corner, the girl wearing plastic behind her does the old "pulling a string of lights out of my nose" party trick.

It's true that without a little liquid courage, most anal-retentive Yalies would never let loose, and that's a damned shame. If you can dodge the head-nodding white boys, estrogen clusters, and random raver who nearly pokes your eye out with his swinging glowsticks, dancing can be the highlight of a typical evening of party-hopping. Though they're few and far between, there are some Yalies who can really dance, and they quickly draw a crowd of astonished and confused onlookers when they show their stuff. Variations on this are the severely wasted rogue dancers who draw a fascinated audience with their arcane '93 bar-mitzvah moves and the exhibitionist drunken couple who, oblivious to voyeurs, proceed to sloppily get it on. All three scenarios rely on a staple of the Yale dancing scene, the Onlookers, who have turned "dancing" into a form of observation.

REBECCA ROSENTHAL/YH "Hey, where the party at?" It's where the Bacardi at! Or where the Schaefer's is, at least...

You know the type. Who are you kidding? You are the type. You don't think you can dance, so you don't. It's nice that you're, uh, committed to excellence. But not shaking your butt just to protect your ego would be a fine excuse if this were, say, Harvard. But no, we're at Yale: to maintain our reputation as one of the nation's top party schools, we should at least try to look like we're having a good time guzzling that warm keg beer.

REBECCA ROSENTHAL/YH

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