I came to a startling conclusion a few days ago: if I’m ever going to date again – and right now, I’d say that’ll probably happen sometime around never – I’m going to have to be fearless enough to dance in public like a fucking idiot.

I say this because I had an experience recently that was both humbling and touching. It happened during my night out on the town about which I’ve written already. I left out this detail because I decided it was a story better told separately.

While seeing the impressive lineup of acts at Plush Saturday night I became aware of a new local eccentric in the grand tradition of Beatle Bob and Baton Bob. Since this relative newcomer doesn’t have a nickname yet — at least not one that I’m aware of — I’ll just refer to him as Business Formal Bob. Apparently, BF Bob shows up at concerts dressed in slacks, a white shirt and a tie that’s about 3 inches too short. He’s a heavy-set man, I would guess he’s well over 300 pounds. He wears black-framed glasses – not hipster glasses, mind you, but nerd glasses, all that was missing was a piece of tape keeping them together at the bridge. If you saw him, the last label you would ever think to apply to him is Lady’s Man.

BF Bob’s routine goes like this: he shows up early at local music venues, stakes a spot on the floor directly in front of the stage and starts dancing. Not, I’m-Young-Gay-And-Free dancing, but rather, he pirouettes, on point, with delicate arms outstretched. He dips and slides his girth all over the floor with the confidence of Baryshnikov. Only he’s terrible! He’s as graceful as a sack of bowling balls. To make matters worse, when I saw him, he was huffing and sweating profusely before the first act ever took the stage. That didn’t stop him, though. He danced continuously for the next three hours until the final encore had been played and the house lights went up.

My friend Tom had seen him before and admitted to feeling some admiration for him for having the balls do what he wants to do. I wasn’t feeling so generous. In fact, I felt judgmental and irritated. I decided he was bucking to be the subject of a human interest story in the RFT. I regarded his twirling and panting as nothing more than a distraction, drawing attention away of the real talent everyone was there to see.

After the music started, Tom and I eventually decided to get closer to the stage, which, of course put us closer to BF Bob. I’m not sure when my attitude toward him started to soften. Maybe it was when I saw a smile of appreciation on the face of one of the musicians. As the night wore on an amazing thing started to happen – one by one, some of the young women in the crowd started approaching him, gesturing a desire to dance with him. To my amazement he never seemed to take their advances personally. He never seemed to think he was going to get lucky with one of these women. He simply took their attention as a desire to tap into his unfettered energy for the sheer fun of it. And he didn’t let them down. He spun them around, dipped them, and slid them across the floor, making each one of them laugh with delight. Over the course of the night there were probably a dozen women who took their turn with him. Even more amazing, was the way he handled the hecklers. There were a small number of mean-spirited young men who tried to dance with him as a way to make fun of him. He merely shrugged them off, which had the satisfying effect of exposing them for the assholes they were.

By the end of the night, BF Bob was my hero. While I stood there with my stock dance floor move – a kind of pumping action with my left knee in time to the music – BF Bob, with all his huffing and puffing and spinning around, had more fun than any of us. And he connected with some of the women in a very soulful, albeit brief, way.

Go bless you, brother. Dance on!