Ballroom dancing is probably the one place left in the country where the old people are cooler than the young people. I don't mean "better," of course--it's rarely the case this isn't the case (okay, so it's redundant phrasing...go screw). "Cool" in this sense means all the things it's supposed to mean: "groovy," "flawless," all the qualities the Fonz used to embody. That was before the Fonz put on forty extra pounds and an extra chin, but that's beside the point. Kim managed to drag me onto the dance floor a grand total of sixteen times, and all of those times, I got showed up by a senior citizen:

Kim: That's great, keep it up Gregg, lift those feet and sway the elbows a little.
Old Man: Excuse me, could you two get the hell out of our way? We're trying to fandango here.
Me: Sorry, sir, I'll just move off to the side--
Old man: Did you look at my girl? I'll kick your ass if you did. I was in the war, you know.
Me: No, sir--
Kim: Go easy, pal. You can tell by looking at him he's got enough problems.

Kim's parents did better on the dance floor, but then, that's to be expected. If anyone had taken pictures, the people around me would have looked like they were in high-speed, while my pose would have been of me arms akimbo, eyes glued to my stationary feet.

Probably the best treat (besides the great dinner the parents bought us) was a day of cable TV. No pay movie stations, alas, but I did catch the middle third of As Good As It Gets. I've got Spawn 2 to watch later, and Kim's watching The Long Kiss Goodnight. (Why did that movie bomb? I'll never figure it out.) So my tradition of New Years movies will most likely go unbroken.