Thank you very much.
I'm going to start off with--
a couple of years ago my wife decided
to take me to go have dancing lessons.
[LAUGHTER]
I learned to hitchhike.
Something like that.
But anyhow.
But after you got out of line dancing
we decided to go and take Salsa lessons.
And was I ever so glad to take that after Ricky Martin showed
up.
Now, I know what he's all about.
And I'm going to read my Salsa poem.
It's-- you know, taking that line dance I thought I was
at a senior citizens home, kind of like recreation after
dinner.
"The Half Hour Salsa Lesson."
"In time I'll be that old man in a white belt, the three
buttons of my Hawaiian shirt undone, gold jewelry jingling.
I'm taking my first salsa lesson.
My teacher padding about in Kung Fu slippers.
Relax, she tells me.
But I can't do that, I think to myself.
To relax means that my face sags,
my belly spills to my knees, my false teeth hang from my jaws
like a Venus flytrap."
I don't have a set yet but--
"I press my hand into hers, salt to her salt. I look around:
beginners asleep in the arms of their partners.
Pantyhose twisted around ankles, polyester slacks
puddled to shoes.
Relax, our teacher scolds again.
My pompadour collapses, my intestines
sink even further down into the sink the silken cavern.
And across the country, at that financial moment,
my mutual funds flatten to 4%."
[LAUGHTER]
I think the older set understands that joke.
"I struggle with gravity, the mean stepsister of age.
And struggle with my teacher, who spins me away,
then back into her arms.
Mambo kings to her hips, the fire
stump of a Cha Cha in her feet, and timbales
and trumpets going wild.
I can't keep up.
She dips me like an ironing board, blood rushing
to my head, scared that I'll fall and be run over
by the tremble of the beat.
In time I'll be that body near the fire exit,
the door nailed closed and black smoke
rising from a burning heart."
[LAUGHTER]
Yeah.