I'm gonna use my sidestep

Back in the 80s, I remember hearing an off colour joke about Michael Jackson once. "What did Brooke Shields' gynecologist find? Michael's Jackson's other glove."

At least there was no question whether Brooke was Billie Jean or his lover. In case, as Jackson himself confirmed, "the kid is not mine."

He even moon walked to prove his point, and there's no refuting the walk.

I myself once took a test from a doctor names Paterniti. Afterwards, I swore I was not the father. I wondered if I had been inappropriate, but I was reassured the joke was OK, but she probably wouldn't get it because of the language barrier.

Before Billie Jean, there never was a question that bull fighters and politicians were sidesteppers, and even when the latter weren't sidestepping they kept you stepping like some kind of Philadelphia dancer climbing some Stairway to the Stars. But between rodeo cowboys and toreadors, you earn your bread from the subtlety of your sidestep.

It's no different for punk rockers and posers, who also use their sidestep, to slightly different effect.

Especially when you watch the bouncing arm and the cigarette that switches hands, stage left to stage right and back again.

Comments

Animals and aliens

When you think of Orwell's Animal Farm , you get stuck on the idea of some being more equal than others. But world peace, galactic harmony, the celebration of diversity and the active practice of inclusion are all achieved in science fiction by casting minorities in the role of animals and aliens. Star Trek comes to mind in this regard, where even hippies were disposed of, Federation style, as sensitive dissenting aliens, not forgetting Spock with his pointy ears! And then there were Wookiees, still man's best friend. Viewing animals as humans--anthropomorphizing--or treating different races as aliens, all of this is shape shifting. This shape is my shade, there where I used to stand--that's Steely Dan.

Of course she's not a true red

As the parent of a "ginger", and having red heads on both sides of the family, and having married into two Irish families, I know first hand that ginger covers the whole spectrum from strawberry blonde (to my way of thinking a classic ginger!), to orange (carrot tops), to a real rust red (what my father in law would call a true red). When Pat Todkill first set eyes on his granddaughter, he remarked, "Of course, she's not a true red". For one thing, Emily the Elder lacked freckles on her face and upper body. For another, she really was and is a strawberry blonde. A further observation. Even people with the raven blackest hair have rust red lights--caveman red, soot covered ochre if you like. Woolly mammoth red. Sometimes it takes just the right light to pick out the smoldering ember, but beard and eyebrows tend to incorporate the tell tale ginger strain, like chili pepper in a spice jar of mixed pepper corns. And, of course, brunette...

Things always end in the Summer

In the middle of the second major heatwave of the season, the City cut the wildflowers along the footpath. I mean they cut everything 30 inches on either side of the pavement, but since the flowers were my friends, all I saw was that they cut the flowers, even though they actually mowed indiscriminately. And it must have been a chore for the labourer in this heat, so his feet were heavy when he made hay of the prettiest parts of the Summer. But I can't get to that right now; I'm still reeling from the loss of chicory, and the other pinks and yellows and blues whose names I was just beginning to learn. "Program, get your program", I heard the barker call on my way to the bleachers. I turned once and caught his eye, and looked at the program in his hand and back into his eyes--all the while his eyes following mine--but then he looked back to his hand, and again into my eyes and he said "You can't tell the player without a card"! Did it matter that ...

Search This Blog