Too Sad to Dance

I stumble on some mental and physical obstacles on the dance floor. When I was 15 years old, I was the only one in a class of 20-plus to receive a grade lower than a “B” in the dancing unit of gym. Our teacher, a mustachioed tough-guy-type who cherished Jim Croce and sips of whiskey from his flask between classes, felt strongly that the uncertain rhythm of my steps in clumsy tandem with my partner brought disgrace to “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” My sparkling blue peepers and earnestly formed dimples couldn’t save me as I stomped on the dainty feet of beauties in bloom. Where would I be without shameful memories such as these? More prosperous and happier, probably, but stuck in a different line of work.

My old gym teacher’s disapproval hasn’t stopped me from ever dancing again. In fact, sometimes I dance out of sheer spite for that nimrod. It is unwise to cut a rug with gnashed teeth and a glint of disdain in your eyes. When I’m in that sort of a vindictive mood, I feel like the only brooding street tough from West Side Story dancing among dozens of the cheerful youngsters at the prom from Footloose. Then I laugh at myself, lose the scowl, and pretend that I’m happy. I fake it on the dance floor—but unlike Kevin Bacon, I’m not much of an actor, and the Hollow Man is a better dancer than me, too.

****

I like to peel off ladies’ panties and then make wild thrusts of passion. It has got to be my favorite physical activity, and I really should do it more often. A billion men feel the same way. That’s the only valid reason why dancing matters; women dictate that it is the sincerest form of foreplay. What puzzles me about dancing is that, on the surface, a lot of movement is required to go nowhere. Every expressive journey on the dance floor leads you to where you started. But that line of thought is literal and reductive. Effective dancing can lead to the ultimate destination: The bedroom. Like a blood-lusting shark, a gyrating man encircles an alluring woman, on a mission to lure her back home to his bedroom, a special place to him (and sometimes to her), where all fantasies of anywhere else in the world become obsolete.

A lot of times, the best dancers prove themselves worthy of a nude romp between the sheets.

This truth poses a problem for me because, all things considered, I’m a pretty shitty dancer. Granted, I can offer sincerity and a willingness to please, but I really struggle with wiring my body and mind to a specific rhythm. The logical part of my brain convinces me that the act of dancing is little more than a glorified tantrum, a spastic flailing of limbs set to music. Despite the benefits of smooth dancing (like getting laid), I can’t get over the fact that I’m playing by rules that seem too ludicrous and funny to take seriously.

“Hey, pretty lady, my cock-thrusts really meshed well with the beat of ‘Brown Sugar,’ don’t you think? Therefore, we should totally fuck.”

That unspoken pick-up line has worked thousands of times. How do I feel about this? I am partly jealous but mostly dumbfounded...or maybe those adjectives should be transposed.

Walking ranks second on my list of top physical activities. Walking gives you plenty of time to daydream and observe the scenery and ponder your next destination. I wish that a man’s prowess was more readily determined by his aptitude as a walker, not a dancer, but this is rarely the case. That seems like a shame. We walk with much greater frequency than we dance. Dancing is a novelty. Walking is more of a necessity. Dancing is how we escape from reality. Walking is how we cope with reality. I'd much rather talk to a chick on a walk around the neighborhood than try to impress her with some "Brown Sugar"-inspired cock-thrusts. It's no contest! On the dance floor, people drool over each other’s bodies without having to rely on words for anything, but it’s all a charade, a reprieve from the burden of having nothing meaningful to say.

That last sentence wasn't funny, but I've got range. Read all about the part of my range that includes not being funny even though that's probably what you'd expect and would also be the most satisfying but oh well I guess standards have fallen in my better-than-average eBook More Stories, and Additional Stories. 

An Interview with Gay Mascots

Written in 2006, I do believe.

***

This gay marriage debate gives me an endless migraine. Remember when the country’s most heated debate revolved around whether the hillbilly in office should be impeached for getting a wink-wink from a plump intern and then lying about it? The state of the union was by no means perfect back then, but all things considered, we were in much better shape.

Since we’ve had a new hillbilly in office, I’ve become more aware of the crusade against gay marriage. In regard to this terribly divisive issue, I would like to state that I have no problem with two same-sex people marrying each other. I think homosexuals are simply born gay; it’s ingrained in their genetics. With that in mind, discriminating against them is senseless. To prove my point comically, read this: “Horniness, and the cause of horniness, is rarely a well-thought-out decision.” Like many of you, I have indeed experienced horniness, and it’s really more of a visceral reaction than a damn career choice. Some people get that undeniable, flush-faced hormone buzz from a person with genitalia similar to their own. What’s the big deal? If a gay couple wishes to express its mutual devotion by getting married, I say, “Good luck with that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to un-pause my game of NBA Jam and play it until I throw up.”

Recently I had the opportunity to interview a gay couple—and a famous one, at that. Both men rose to prominence as flamboyant NFL mascots, only to be replaced by “more masculine” logos in the mid-1990s. The motives behind their firings were dubious; one could argue they were victims of discrimination.

I spoke with Bruce Buccaneer and Pat Patriot in Boston shortly after the 10th Annual Revolutionary War Reenactment for A.I.D.S. Research. Bruce and Pat offered their time in between the reenactment and the after-party at a nearby nightclub.

Nick Olig: Thanks for the interview, guys. It’s a real privilege.

Bruce Buccaneer: Oh, stop it. Pat and I can spare some downtime between appointments on an otherwise busy day. We’re happy to talk with you.

NO: Great. Pat, this is the first time I’ve been to a Revolutionary War Reenactment. It’s been a lot of fun.

Pat Patriot: I’m glad you enjoyed it. Reenactments are a big passion of mine. Ever since the New England team...since they decided to go in a different direction, I’ve worked as a manager at a Colonial Museum in Wooster. It’s such a captivating and time and place in history, when men fought and died for the freedoms we still hold dear. It’s a thrill to do my part to preserve it all in some way, you know?

BB: God, don’t even get him started. He’ll gab all night long and be too preoccupied with “musket chatter” to have a dance with me.

NO: (laughs)

BB: I mean it! He takes his work so seriously. Two years ago, I participated in the reenactment hoopla. I fought with the Redcoats, just to mess with Pat—plus the uniform radiates this intense pizzazz, you know. It’s very gaudy. I didn’t want to carry a gun—a fake gun, mind you—so I was one those easy targets that banged on a snare drum as I marched. That was such a riot.

PP: Bruce, this really is an unfortunate tangent...

BB: Well, it’ll be over soon enough, sweetheart. Wait ‘til I get to the best part.

PP: Worst part is more like it.

BB: So, Pat spotted me on the battlefield—I was just playing my drum, not pretend-hurting anyone—and the jerk pretend-shot me, then expected me to play dead. My own partner pretend shot me. What an insult, you know?

PP: Tell the nice columnist what happened next.

BB: I will. I waited until I could see the whites of his eyes and then I chucked my drumstick at his face. Direct hit! I nailed him in the eye.

PP: (chuckles) It really hurt! I had to wear an eye-patch for a week.

BB: Oh, quit your bellyaching. Eye-patches build character. Anyway, I’m into that swashbuckler look, if you haven’t already noticed.

NO: Yeah, and speaking of swashbucklers, Bruce, you’re known for your pirate ensemble and trademark wink. How were you discovered in Tampa Bay all those years ago?

BB: Well, it was back in the late ‘70s. I came in contact with this sort of entrepreneur, head-honcho guy with clout in the south Florida music scene. I was...God, in my early 20s and very naïve—starry-eyed and longing for fame. The Village People were big, and he wanted to cash in on the craze. So he assembled this Village People replica group, and after a few auditions, I was named the group’s pirate. I sang alongside a lumberjack, a hairdresser, and a figure skater. It so ridiculous and fun and...hazy. Our debut bombed, not unlike O-Town, but singing in the group got me some recognition from this football franchise that was just starting up, and a fierce wardrobe, too.

NO: Did the organization in Tampa know of your sexual orientation?

BB: It was all a hushed, “don’t ask, don’t tell” sort of deal. Same thing with Pat.

NO: Where did you two meet?

BB: We met at a party thrown at Steve DeBerg’s mansion—he was the quarterback for the Buccaneers at the time. We were introduced by Thunderous Cleats, the mascot for the Redskins. I won’t bore you with the schmaltzy details, but it was a very special night.

NO: Cool. Well, on to more unpleasant topics. Pat, you were fired before the start of the ’93 season.

PP: Yeah. The owner told me I was getting up there in age, which was true.

BB: Honestly, Pat, don’t do this to yourself. It’s like that Outkast song says, “Age ain’t nothing but a number.”

PP: I have no idea who the Outkasts are. Anyway, it just so happened that I was terminated a week after Bruce and I finally went public with our relationship. I think...maybe the franchise had some ulterior motives, but either way, I had a good run as the official logo. And now, I’m doing work I really enjoy. No hard feelings, I guess, but I was disappointed.

BB: I got the ax a few years later. And those three or four years weren’t much fun, either. The team kept having losing seasons and I felt like I was walking on thin ice, even though the organization was a bit more tolerant of (self-mocking finger quotes) “alternative lifestyles.” After the ’96 season, I was told the franchise was going in a “more aggressive direction with their logo.”

NO: Lame.

BB: I was okay with it. “Good run. Bigger and better things and blah-blah-blah.” Two things for the record, though: Pewter is a God-awful, hideous color, much less pleasing to the eye than Popsicle orange. Ahem! And secondly, gays can be every bit as aggressive and feisty as straight people. I’ve seen Nathan Lane and Clay Aiken tussle over the last pair of Lumiani shoes at a clearance sale and it was not a pretty sight.

NO: (laughs) I understand you two have an adopted son?

PP: Indeed we do. Lucas turned twelve in March.

BB: He’s a Pisces, just like Pat.

PP: Whatever that means. As I was saying, Lucas has grown up surprisingly fast, as kids tend to do, and...it hasn’t always been easy for him, but the crap he has had to deal with has never tarnished his love for us. The adversity and the scorn you get from certain people just make the bond you share that much more essential. Lucas is such a blessing for us.

BB: Pat is grooming him to become a center on the football team. From time to time, I like to spoil Pat’s efforts by suggesting Lucas try out for the cheerleading squad.

PP: Offensive linemen are usually smarter than cheerleaders, Bruce. My persuasion is merely in the interest of the boy’s intellectual growth.

BB: (sarcastically) Oh, I’m sure.

NO: Well, I’m just about out of questions. Thanks for your time. Any parting comments?

PP: Sure. In regard to homophobia, or racism, or any other form of discrimination, when you question the reasons behind those beliefs, you’re likely to find feelings of hatred and superiority. To my mind, sentiments such as those can only serve to damage your good will toward others.

BB: Isn’t Pat a great orator? Oh, I could gab all day about his oral skills. At Steve DeBerg’s party, the night we first met...

PP: Bruce, I’m sensing a blow-job joke in the works. Hush up, please. We were so close to concluding this interview in a dignified fashion.

BB: (laughs) Oh, I’m sorry. We’re two middle-aged men, dressed-up like a pirate and a soldier from the American Revolution; dignity really matters to us, obviously. We demand to be taken seriously!

PP: Point taken. Anyway, let’s get going to that after-party, shall we?

NO: I’m down with that. Elton John is playing, right?

PP: He sure is.

NO: Excellent. If he plays “Your Song,” I’ll have no choice but to cry my eyeballs out.