To watch Frankie Manning at work is to learn humility anew. I'm leaning against the doors at one of the big rooms at Mesa Centennial Hall, waiting for Manning to finish one of the morning classes he's teaching at a weekendlong workshop presented by the Arizona Lindy Hop Society. There he is, in the middle of the room -- a short, bald black man in loose-fitting clothes and a cap, smiling, gliding effortlessly among ungainly looking white thirtysomethings. They stare at him intently, hoping he'll impart to them some faint wisp of his magic. He's trying, but it's hopeless. Still, most of his pupils are doing better than I, who have all the grace of a wildebeest full of Seagram's, would do under the... More >>>