I cannot say for certain that I have ever seen the Ooby Dooby done but there was one night in east Texas outside of Tyler when I witnessed, if not the thing itself, then something much like it. It was in a private club that had, as far as I could understand, only two requirements for membership: to be white and to bring your own bottle, I qualified. The place itself was unadorned, more of a hangout for working stiffs in their 20's, a place to dance and drink. I was enjoying the latter when the Ooby Dooby moment came.
There were two young women on the dance floor wearing the smallest, whitest, tightest pants I had ever seen worn in public. The effect of the white was enhanced by the blacklight that was ubiquitous in that era. So I, moderately oiled with gin, sat rapt, mesmerized by the fulness of these twin orbs that leapt and shook to the music in the hazy light. They called me.
It has been my good fortune to have a keen perception of the inherent decorum of any of the drinking establishments I have visited. I know what is and what is not acceptable and have been able to avoid confrontation. So I knew that no matter how much it seemed to me that these lovely young women appeared to beckon, it would be a serious breach of etiquette to approach them. In one scenario I would slip onto the dance floor ask to join one or the other and dance with her, and talk, and share a drink, and perhaps step outside to share a moment of privacy, whereupon the local boys would beat the shit out of me to preserve the honor of their ladyfolk and my membership would be suspended. I kept my seat.
I chose to content myself with an appreciation of the aesthetics and the sociological import of this most delightful display that had all the elements of the Ooby Dooby: "wiggling to the left, wiggling to the right, a wiggle and a shake like a big rattlesnake." Yes, I am convinced that this was it: a rockabilly ritual whose meaning could only be truly perceived by those in the cultural milieu of its origin. Oh, I could tease it out intellectually, put aside the lust it inspired in me to imagine what long term contract the viewer was invited to consider, what mixed joy and sadness lay before them in this country that was too big for comfort, that would always drive them to seek some small nest of joy to shield them from the immense, uncaring land. I could think it but never feel it.
And yet, when I stumble upon the Ooby Dooby again it makes me dance, even alone, as I imagine I am one of them, that my heart beats to that rhythm, that life comes struttin' across the dancefloor lifting me from the ordinary to the divine.
There were two young women on the dance floor wearing the smallest, whitest, tightest pants I had ever seen worn in public. The effect of the white was enhanced by the blacklight that was ubiquitous in that era. So I, moderately oiled with gin, sat rapt, mesmerized by the fulness of these twin orbs that leapt and shook to the music in the hazy light. They called me.
It has been my good fortune to have a keen perception of the inherent decorum of any of the drinking establishments I have visited. I know what is and what is not acceptable and have been able to avoid confrontation. So I knew that no matter how much it seemed to me that these lovely young women appeared to beckon, it would be a serious breach of etiquette to approach them. In one scenario I would slip onto the dance floor ask to join one or the other and dance with her, and talk, and share a drink, and perhaps step outside to share a moment of privacy, whereupon the local boys would beat the shit out of me to preserve the honor of their ladyfolk and my membership would be suspended. I kept my seat.
I chose to content myself with an appreciation of the aesthetics and the sociological import of this most delightful display that had all the elements of the Ooby Dooby: "wiggling to the left, wiggling to the right, a wiggle and a shake like a big rattlesnake." Yes, I am convinced that this was it: a rockabilly ritual whose meaning could only be truly perceived by those in the cultural milieu of its origin. Oh, I could tease it out intellectually, put aside the lust it inspired in me to imagine what long term contract the viewer was invited to consider, what mixed joy and sadness lay before them in this country that was too big for comfort, that would always drive them to seek some small nest of joy to shield them from the immense, uncaring land. I could think it but never feel it.
And yet, when I stumble upon the Ooby Dooby again it makes me dance, even alone, as I imagine I am one of them, that my heart beats to that rhythm, that life comes struttin' across the dancefloor lifting me from the ordinary to the divine.
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