Hey Bo Diddley

"...this here next one's rock&roll..."

A voice from my past: Fillmore East, 1968. My sister took me. I remember the show.

Thirty-seven years later, here I am, slipping the CD out of the box: "Happy Trails", Quicksilver, into the computer. The first notes - John and Gary duelling guitars, Elmore's drums, Freiberg's grinding bass - jerk my head up.

The tremolo shimmers. So does my memory. So do my hips and shoulders.

"....Hey, Mona..."

Bo Diddley wrote it. Quicksilver nailed it. And here I am, dancing in my office, the walls shaking, thankful to be alive, thankful to be rockin' on.

One thing I think about when I think about him is that we couldn’t slow-dance. If I clasped his hands, we became a statue, slightly mangled by the heat(or by the sculptor’s deranged plan, who knows? By the time we were old enough to kiss like we did, it barely mattered anyway.) But I had to give up my television-nurtured head on my shoulder fantasies, stop wishing for a John Hughes moment.

I dance better when I am alone, I think. No slow songs, though; slow songs are for couples. I turn up the radio and hope for “Money” or “Respect” to come on and when they do, it’s like I never heard the phrase “mobility problem” I am in a world outside bodily function where nobody has to move more than this. It’s just fucking good enough to raise my heart rate and have a benign sweat.If somebody were to stare at me as I roll it out to “I’m Too Sexy”, I might sound like the New York I never knew: Hey, asshole, what the fuck are you looking at? I both fear that I’ll do this and dare some neighbor to linger too long at my window so I can mouth it at them, but so far it hasn’t happened yet.

Whatever they are looking at, it shouldn’t be me, today. This isn’t training, or therapy, some thing they send some consultant with no makeup on who can’t wait to tell me she went to Northwestern, to make sure I do properly. Women like that can’t believe that this ever exists for me, a fleeting moment of self-love. Crip funk.

Erika, as usual, incredible and unique voice.

I say "as usual" but never get the idea I take it for granted. You are an amazing writer.

erika, you just knocked my socks off. That's a nice dark alley you get to if you hang a hard left out of mine, or vice versa; anyway, they're companion pieces, in a way.

And I've got a question, especially for Teppy. What would people think about annthology, a collection of these in book form? I could pitch it to my agent, if everyone wanted to play.

Deb, erika, those were wonderful. And even more interesting back to back.

What would people think about annthology, a collection of these in book form?

I would play. What a fun idea.

Oh, thank you... funny, I was expecting something else entirely but I'm beyond pleased at what I got. You can call it anything but "Outsider Art" because I just saw the "King of The Hill" where poor Peggy ends up in an exhibition with Arlen's local half-wit called "I Ain't Got No Learning" and that's what the called that.(And the disability-rights part of me is upset that I typed "half-wit" but that is what Jimmy Whitcher is...his character is not full enough to encapsulate "man with a cognitive disability" or whatever that part of me might insist upon.) I'd be interested in being anthologized, Deb.

I think these would make a very interesting anthology. Mmmmmm. There's some dark delicious words looking to get out into the world.

And I've got a question, especially for Teppy. What would people think about annthology, a collection of these in book form? I could pitch it to my agent, if everyone wanted to play.

I think it's a GREAT idea! And, certainly, not everyone has to play; it could be strictly opt-in, on a drabble-by-drabble basis.

This one couldn't be in it...it's fanfic of one of the great televised dances ever, imo. My absolute last "Autofocus" H:LOTS fic.
The first day of being Sergeant sucked. No celebration, and jerked out of my own environment to work murders in a bank, which was more like sitting around with my thumb up my ass. Beau and I always had this joke that there was mojo in my desk that kept my clearance rate high,but if that was true, it didn’t make the trip. Be careful what you wish for, huh? I had made up this dumb lie about a date so that I could be free to celebrate my promotion my own way, but, hell, might as well celebrate my next burning bladder infection as that.So I was taking up stool space at the Waterfront, after deflecting Munch’s nosy question with a lesbian joke.

It made me smile when he remembered my drink. My smile is harder to make than my hard face. When did that happen? A couple hundred murders ago, huh? People tell me I was fun once. I barely remember now.

”Dance with me,” he said, and looked at me that way that always made me embarrassed.

“I...uh, no. I don’t think so.” I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea, and I’m a terrible dancer. Carrie used to call me Butch cause I walked so mannish, but nobody really walked the way Carrie faked as a teenager, with all the wiggle and jiggle and everything. Carrie wanted fries with her shake. But still, I felt self-conscious.”No.” I said, but my heart beat faster. Maybe I was embarrassed because John might have the right idea and I couldn’t handle that. Still, what’s to handle? A Munch crush had the shelf-life of my Strawberry Yoplait. Still, I couldn’t help but ask Jesus, Mary, and Joseph for a big crowd to walk right in.

It stayed pretty deserted. I should’ve asked Saint Christopher instead. Munchkin caught me scanning the room and, detective or not, misread my thoughts completely.

“Come on, Howard...there’s nobody conscious in here. I’ll let you lead.” The biggest surprise was how soft his hands were.