John Travolta Microphone Dance Boy

They were mean men; also I would like to add the fact that they were big men, strong men. Maybe eastern block, or even Russian. They might have been involved with the Soviet mob, which basically means they were ex-KGB. Did I mention that they beat me severely? They beat me until my teeth caved in and my mouth was nothing more than a crushed cantaloupe of a cave, a carved out pumpkin with that pulpy sting like matter hanging from the inner walls, except that stringing matter, judging by the feel of it, was really my nerve endings dangling against the cold air of despair, but I am no doctor. So they beat me, and this is what they told me.


The part where they tell me something supposedly very important to them:

“Do you like John Travolta?” Followed by a thud of raw hamburger like fist upon the side of my raw hamburger head.

“Aah, Jooohn Trafffolta?” Which just seemed to evoke more beating upon my cranium, a beating that was now becoming rhythmic, almost, but not yet danceable.

“Yes, you know, John Travolta, the Urban Cowboy… Do you know the movie with Debra winger?” The fists that are beating against skull are now a full-fledged techno song.

“Yeaaaah.”

“Excellent, because guess what? Now it is time to dance.”


The time I danced like I had never danced before; a prelude:

They had given me a microphone, a very small one that hooked to my shirt collar. It was very important that the microphone be small, for the dance number I was to perform was from the movie Urban Cowboy starring John Travolta, and the opening act required me to strip out of my working overalls, and rip off my hard hat… if the microphone was to rub up against any articles of clothing during this dance sequence, there would be a loud static-like feedback sound that would reach out and scream into the audiences ear. This would not make for a good performance, and most likely result in my premature death, or unwanted castration. There was no room for error; I had to nail my performance. To strip off my working overalls and dance like I had never danced before, to sing like I had never sang before, (I have never sang or danced before, unless you count 5th grade when I tried to impress Kimmie Wilson with a rap/breakdance number that was inspired by Beat Street). Soon the van had stopped moving, and my blindfold was taken off, which was a relief because a moment longer would have resulted in me puking all over myself. I had never done well with motion, especially motion accompanied with blindfolds and severe beatings. But I would not let this stop me. I was tough, maybe the toughest American these commie bastards had ever seen, that is of course if they were commie bastards. I am guessing they were by the thick accents and the social equality in which they seemed to distribute their beatings, and finally because when opening the van doors, I was immediately greeted with the cold sting of what I imagined only mother Russia could provide… It was cold all right, it was cold and white, white with snow, and there were people, thousands of people wearing furry hats, scarves, and snowshoes. This had to be Russia, or maybe it was Minnesota. I didn’t care if it was Rockefeller Square, I was here to perform, I was here to dance like I had never danced before.


As it turns out, it really was Rockefeller Square.

Immediately, I noticed a fat colored man with a microphone, and I began to panic. The fat man was protected by an almost cosmetic pedestrian barrier that stopped the eager crowd from bum rushing my Russian van. (Sounds funny, huh? Yet true.) Most of the people were holding signs that read stuff like:

“Just married”

“Recently divorced and looking for love”

“Recently received heart transplant from my identical twin that fell of a skyscraper and plummeted to his demise”

“Hello Florida! It is cold here in New York”

“Two sets of identical twins getting married today on top of a sky scraper”

If my performance was to go right, the fat man with a microphone and the greedy desperate fans needed to stay back. As you can see, I was quite concerned with audio feedback…


Ok, I know this sounds gay, but let me tell you:

Ok, I know this sounds gay, but let me tell you, the fat man with a microphone approached me, and my heart began to tremble, my still hamburger head, and my swollen lips that were a strange mixture of dried blood and frozen steel some how managed to spit out, “Get away from me you fat bastard, and let me do my thing,” which caused my nipples to get hard. I assume this was due to the cold weather.


The story that never seems to end, but ends now:

There was a beat, and that beat was all I needed to do my thing. I tore off my work overalls and flung off my hard hat to a crowd of screaming females. I danced like I never danced before, I gyrated my hips and flexed my biceps, I sang my song until there was nothing left to say. I cut open my wrists and bled my soul upon the dance floor. This cold, cruel, cynical world, which has shown me nothing but brutality. This cold world, which wears a velvet glove upon an iron fist. This cold world that is loaded with mean Russian men and identical twins. A world of desperate, artless, uncreative people who feed upon me and my art… I bled, and all around me they fed, lapping at my wounds like suckerfish, like eels, or flies, or mosquitoes or anything that is slimy and sucks blood. Like vampire bats, I tell you… I sang until my cold empty body, drained and limp, eventually collapsed upon the floor. Exhausted and beaten to a pulp, I was left to die, until the fat man, the warm jolly fat man, the colored warm jolly jowly fat man picked me up into his cellulite arms and pumped love into my heart like the electric paddles of a cardiac arrest, until my heart began to beat. I was alive, and for the first time in a long time I knew what it was to feel warmth, to be loved. In a world that didn’t understand me this fat man named Al Roker took me in and showed me the light. And to him I am forever grateful.

This is really the end:

The end.

You Might Consider Visiting

Our Online Shop

or

How You Might’ve Found Johnny America #9: March, 2004 »

« Treasure: Found Snapshots