Yeah. So the whole “Three (or More) Faces of Insta-Princess” was an OK idea in theory, but so far the execution sucks, wouldn’t you agree? For that reason, I’m taking a little hiatus from that project and making this post in honor of my long-ago friend Mike.
No, he’s not dead. He just disappeared for a long, long time, and has recently reappeared thanks to the miracle that is Facebook which, as we all know, gives us a gift as close to a time machine as we may ever get.
So journey with me on my own time machine, y’all, back to a time when I was a spry young thing. I was just out of college. I was skinny (Lord, so skinny). And broke. And braless (and, for that matter, boobless). And all sorts of other things that go along with being young and carefree. I used to stay up all night long and toast the sunrise with a Red Stripe. I used to wear boys’ jeans from the thrift store. I used to eat giant hamburgers slathered with mayo, melted cheddar and bleu cheese, and then slurp up every last fry without guilt. I used to smoke. I used to kiss all of my friends on the lips (except for Mike– his standard greeting was to sneak up behind you and bite you on the butt; I was always a little bit flattered that he managed to find mine).
And I used to dance. Oh, children, Mama used to dance!
Damn near every Tuesday night that the good Lord sent, I could be found in a little place called the Star Bar for its Funk Night, shaking my . . . er . . . little-boy-booty and singing silent praises to the Tuesday night DJ, Romeo Cologne, for his fine, fine taste in music.
And Mike was the best dance partner ever. All he needed was a little “Love Rollercoaster” and that man was a bona fide boogie machine. Ahh, I remember it like it was yesterday.
Then one day, family duty called my little-boy-booty back to Topeka, Kansas, where I spent the better part of a year with no boogie. Of course I wrote to Mike to lament my funkless fate, and in response he wrote for me a little disco ditty to get me through the dark times, a ditty I’ve kept for all these years. (And if you know me and my rabid propensity to purge the artifacts of my life, you know what a miracle it is that I’ve managed to hold on to Mike’s letter for . . . holy crap . . . 15 years now.)
So without further ado, I will now keep today’s Facebook promise to my old friend Mike, and publish his song in all of its funk-filled glory:
My Baby’s Stuck in Kansas
I can’t boogie
I can’t boogie
I can’t boogie (high falsetto) NO MO!
Just can’t shake my groove thang (high falsetto) ON THE FLO!
When my baby’s stuck in Kansas,
my booty’s stuck in park
Since she can’t dance in Kansas
I don’t disco after dark
Don’t point my car to Star Bar
I ain’t dancin’ on my owns
With my baby stuck in Kansas
I got a Cleopatra Jones
I’m talkin’ (high falsetto) COLD TURKEY!
Not (high falsetto) JIVE TURKEY!
(Needless to say, Mike’s songwriting skills far surpass my own.)
From my disco-deprived year in Topeka, I moved even further away from my life o’ funk, to San Francisco for grad school. But I never forgot Mike or, more importantly, The Boogie. Both of ’em still possess a little bitty chunk of my soul. The chunk now resides in a body that goes to bed at 9:30 and wears bigger lady pants than I’m willing to admit (which gives the term “booty shaking” a whole new meaning), but it’s there. It’s a full-on funk chunk, and it’s memories of Mike and his disco ditties that keep it alive.