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While dancing last night on a ballroom floor a whiffle ball’s throw from I-95 and the New Jersey Turnpike where all the smokestacks stew 24/7 365.
Imagined myself as John Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever” and the Bee Gees blurted “More Than a Woman.”
Was feeling it. Sensed the crowd staring and wondering and asking each other “What’s that guy on?” It was a combo mix of The Robot and The Swim with random jerky jerky Halleluiah-like hand raising and pointing towards the ground as if it needed to be reprimanded or jolted out of its malaise and start grooving.
Also threw in some hip throws to sweeten the eye candy.
Shouted lyrics at the band members from two feet away as they cranked “Brandy” by Looking Glass and “Pump it Up” by Elis Costello.
This was a night in New Jersey to uncork emotions because we need to do that once in a while to steer a balanced life. Dancing evens us out.
When I dance I think I look cool. It’s pure narcissism. I sense gawkers being fascinated. It could be they’re ignoring me or laughing at me. But we’ll never know. Yesterday is gone. Today is what cling to.
This here dude danced till his shirt got drenched with organic perspiration. Finished with that task, he stripped in his room, fired up his rainforest lullaby sleep machine, and flowed into a dream in which he danced, sweated, and yelled “Brandy You’re a Fine Girl.”
The dream dance went on for minutes or hours and nothing mattered but those mesmerizing gyrations and incongruous hand gesticulations. They stared, everyone, watching a 61-year-old man feel the music take him on a safari. Or so he thought.
It’s good it’s over because man cannot live on dancing in the Meadowlands alone. There are blogs to write about which Brad constantly wonders and questions but still opens the door: “You be you, Sportface.” To which I wonder: “How could I be anyone else but Sportface?” How can anyone be anyone but who they are? As far as the Kansas horizon and beyond, the answer will be murky.
Sportface is Sportface, Rudy is Rudy, and Spars is Spars. This is all we know on Earth and all we need to know.
Woke up, turned off the rainforest, hummed a lullaby, and busted out of The Meadowlands before 6 am this morning to escape the toxic waste facilities, chase cleaner air, and break away from the persistent paranoia of feeling I was an unwilling participant in a mediocre episode of The Sopranos which happens every time I go to this event.
Jersey was jolting.
Now in DC thinking about who in this city has the political chops to clear regulatory hurdles blocking Sammy Sportface from becoming America’s thought leader. No takers yet, but it’s bound to crystallize because Sportface is steadfast in his contention that our most productive days are in front of us and is stern in his belief that all 330 million Americans would benefit from his blogs.
The mountain is steep; the will to succeed steeper.
It starts with this: blog what makes you blissful.
It ends with this: the audience comes last.
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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