Who can resist the power of Donna Summer? Those first tenuous strings, the lilting flute, Ms. Summer’s voice shyly peeking from around the corner…

‘Last dance, last chance for love…’

You know why that flute is there? To give you time to get to the dance floor.

There’s no mistaking the introduction to that song with anything else, and my body tenses when I hear it. Not that I need any help, but the chances of me making a public nuisance of myself are greatly increased when disco is involved. If you’re an employee of Johnny Rockets, it’s a certainty.

Johnny Rockets is an international chain; a diner-style restaurant dripping with Americana, whose employees will spontaneously launch into a floor show at the drop of a nickel.

There are worse things than being forced to dance to Donna Summer.

We were there last weekend, milkshakes in hand, when Last Dance started playing. The employees gathered in the dining room, I started impatiently tapping my foot. They started dancing, so did we.

We all know that Ian loves to dance. Say what you will about the evils of television, but apart from Dirty Jobs and Thomas the Tank Engine, DirecTV also has XM Radio, and a 24-hour disco channel. It’s not free entertainment, but it comes close.

When the music started, so did Ian. He was limted by the booth, but he can get an amazing range of motion from just his head and shoulders. I grabbed his arms and started rocking back and forth, Ian giggling and pretending to pull away.

When Ian was born, one of the first rules Kelly established was that I could not use our son as a guitar. I broke that rule for the first time in three years.

The wonderful thing about being three years old is that you can do pretty much whatever you like, without being arrested or causing women to clutch their purses. So I lifted Ian and set him on the floor.

He stopped dancing. With a little encouragement, he started shaking his leg a bit, stomping a foot here and there. But his groove was far from on.

The music stopped, and the employees scattered from the floor as the next song started. Something by the Bee Gees, I think. I looked down, and Ian had flipped. Apparently his former co-stars had been holding him back, and he’d decided to save his reputation.

His arms flew, he spun in circles, his hips shook back and forth. He nodded his head and shuffled his feet. He may have bit his lower lip. All of this movement culminated in a serpentine full-body wave; one fluid motion that started at his head and went to his feet.

We howled with laughter. Only slightly less so did the people watching Ian. I knew he could dance, but I didn’t know he could do it well. Someone get this kid some tap shoes!