I Carried a Watermelon

Twenty years ago, a girl and her family drove up to the Catskills for a relaxing summer. There, the girl fell in love with a dancer at the resort. He was a bit older than her, and definitely more experience in the ways of passion. She was entranced by his dance moves and the quick thrusts of his pelvis as he shook the sweat from his brow. She later agrees to fill in when his dance partner finds out that she's pregnant, and her father is furious to see his little girl cavorting with a scummy floor show dancer boy. Now she must choose between discovering her blossoming womanhood or staying loyal to the stern guidance of her family.

If you don't already know, I'm talking about Dirty Dancing! May 1 is the twentieth anniversary of the release of one of my favorite films of all time. You bet your sweet patootie that I'm going to see it in the theatre.

I wasn't old enough to go see it when it first came out, so I had to watch it on HBO. At first, I thought it would be a nasty movie because of the title. I was heavily into porn at the tender age of eight. There was nothing nasty in it, but I was pleasantly surprised by the fun songs of the 60s and the suggestive dancing moves. If the sight of me dancing and singing along to "I've Had the Time of My Life" didn't alert my family to my latent homosexuality, then I don't know what did.

There's no reason why people can't celebrate this movie as much as they do with The Sound of Music, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, The Goonies, or Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I can totally see people showing up to the theatre wearing the Johnny/Baby outfits. Or they can stand in the lobby and pretend to search their purses for their beige iridescent lipstick. I'd be the one in the dumpy outfit carrying a watermelon.

If you didn't get any of the references in that last paragraph, you obviously aren't a fan and therefore you should kill yourself. Seriously.