Growing up on a hog ranch wasn't always a picnic. Pardon the pun, but I'm what you'd call the poor man's Kevin Bacon. Seeing as dancing was outlawed on the premises, I too wore fitted muscle shirts atop tight, tapered jeans and allowed my zeal for gymnastics to take flight whenever I fell into a fit of range. After all, an overflow of testosterone screams for an overflow of well-choreographed dance steps and high kicks, ne c'est pas? But bountiful testosterone wasn't my only problem. I loved the Reverend's daughter, and I loved the sweet, sweet jive of rock and roll music. But, amidst the tractor fights and farm-town shenanigans, I had little to no sense of my own true identity. Sure, I was popular. I was the biggest cowboy this side of Saskatoon. Hell, I was voted "Most Available Barn Bachelor 2002." But, if your heart aint loose, what does it matter if your feet are?

So the town social came and went. Wild synchronized square dancing was, of course, off limits for the time being. But, not to worry, the awkward attempts at conversation and unelequent standing that ensued were sufficient enough for this fella. I found my heart fulfilled as I hovered by the spicy salsa, uncomfortably searching for my drowning chip and feverishly avoiding eye contact. I also found my heart burning. I had a bad case of the heart burns; a bad case of the blues. Let me clear my throat, uh-huh. Uh-huh.

That night I took my sweetheart by the train-tracks where we lay gazing at the stars. As we heard the train a'comin, my lady took me by the hand and whispered sweet (kind of) nothings in my ear. "We all used to ditch class and come down here," she told me, her sweet breath unpleasantly caressing the basilar membrane of my inner ear. "And when we'd hear the train coming," she continued, "we'd all make out like crazy!" My heart stopped. She was so crazy, sexy, cool in her cowboy boots, and her hair teased three inches above her scalpal epidermis. It was like a page out of a Fabio-adorned Danielle Steel novella. Nay, it was like a scene right out of a movie. In fact, to avoid copyright infractions, let me note that this exact conversation took place between Kevin Bacon and the Reverend's daughter, Lori Singer (the designated town bicycle, mind you) in the 1984 hit musical dramady, FootLoose. And thus we danced. But dancing wasn't all we did.

Later that evening, we strolled along lovers lane only to return to my humble shanty and settle in for our ritualistic viewing of Married: With Children. While other episodes where Al sticks his left hand down his sweatpants and Peggy complains that he doesn't make sufficient love to her never struck a chord with me, somehow this one did. That evening, I realized what I had been missing my entire sad and uncomfortable adolescent life. I knew that I wasn't cut out for this country life—the rodeos, the clowns who laugh on the outside but cry within. "Country!" didn't scream at me when I looked in the mirror, but "Loserville, Population: You" did. I needed to see the world, to see what these Chicago citizens had that I didn't. Hence, I embarked on my journey and set sail on a cruise line to view the tropical islands of the Caribbean. I felt that if the mean streets of a Canadian province couldn't teach me anything the mean sway of an American cruise line could. So, I got out my tacky tourist garments, my lasso, leather chaps and cape. I got out my novelty pair of binoculars (in case of an emergency stalking), I packed my satchel, tied it to a stick and hit the ground running in my new, off-white high-top sneakers. Lord, I knew I looked the part of a grizzled city boy, but did I feel it. Hell, I felt it in my veins like a tuberculosis immunization.

Speaking of foreign diseases, I quickly found that my plans were foiled. Quite literally, they were covered in foil much like a tuna melt floundering in a microwave. On accident, I set sail with the Navy Seals and, let me tell you, they made a man out of me. A severely malnourished and self-conscious man, that is. I found that I wasn't quite cut out for "hell week," nor was I expecting to be caught on camera for The Learning Channel documentary on the "Making of a Navy Seal." I spent most of my days, shivering and crying quietly in the lower cabin of the seacraft where they store the grub. I lost contact with my friends and family. I lost contact with myself, but I still had my dancing feet. I still had my dancing feet.

I've never been one to brag, but upon returning to my home and native land, I was given the hero's welcome. The local town folk showered me with praises, stones and dirt. So I thought, "Hey, life's too short, if you don't stop to make out like crazy by the side of the train tracks, it just may pass you by." So, I coordinated a secret western dance in a barn on the dangerous side of the cornfields. It was your modern-day mélange of Montegue and Capulet together at last. The dancing was coordinated to perfection. Not one single hint of sexual repression was felt in the room. Only passionate, passionate choreography. So, to conclude, I give credit where credit is due. I'd like to thank the great Kenny Logins for writing the words that inspire me with my every living breath:" Please, Louise, pull me offa my knees. Jack, get back C'mon before we crack Lose your blues Everybody cut footloose."