Let's Dance! (Wait, Let's Not!)

With apologies to the late Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Cyd Charisse, Busby Berkeley, Gene Kelly, Donald O'Connor, Francis the Dancing Mule, the entirety of the MGM and RKO Radio Pictures families, the Radio City Rockettes, the Tropicana Showgirls, Florenz Zigfield and her girls, Messrs. Robert Fosse, Robert Stigwood and Alan Carr, certified flying-ace John Travolta, Aussie sidekick Olivia Newton-Johns (no relation), flashdancer Jennifer Beales, footloose blue jean-wearer Kevin Bacon, dirty-minded Patrick Swayze, baby Jennifer Grey, father Joel Grey, the trashcan pounders in "Stomp," the ragtag leapers in "Rent," bowler-hatted Bill "Bojangles" Robinson, U.S. Ambassador to Czechoslovakia Shirley Temple, toe-tapper Gregory Hines and "White Nights" co-star Mikhail Baryshnikov (who should have known better), here are 30 reasons why I don't fancy song and dance, neither in the cinema, nor on the stage: Awkward and unnecessary prancing, dancing, romping, stomping, bumping, thumping, twisting, turning, thrusting, lusting, hustling, bustling, juking, jiving, shouting, shrieking — singing, if you will — grinning, spinning, bouncing, bounding, shimmying, shaking, rollicking, frolicking, kicking, leaping and pirouetting — which is to say, cavorting and caterwauling of any sort — particularly amongst, but not limited to, the ranks of the kitchenry, including the Executive Chef, Sous Chef, Pastry Chef, the Sauce Guy, possibly the Sommelier, the Maître d' and the attendant wait-staff.