FANTASIES

I have often had fantasies about what it would be like to be someone else for one day.  By that I mean that I would still be myself but for that one day I could do what that person could do.  In the past I have stood on a stage with massive crowds swaying to every song like Bono, stared down an evil empire like Winston Churchill, written novels like Hemingway and stood over a putt to win the Masters like Jack.  Then of course there is the World Series game winning home run like Kirk Gibson and the you-pick-it Championship basket by Michael.  I have done them all.

Right up there at the top of my favorites would be to become Michael Jackson for a day.  Actually, for one night would be perfect.  My fascination with Michael stems from my admiration of those with soul, probably because I have none.  I know being a white guy doesn’t help but you would think God would have doled out a smidgen to me. 

There is the soul that comes from a person’s voice, such as Adele, Aretha Franklin, Smokey Robinson and many others.  Then there is the soul that comes from inside like James Brown and Michael Jackson.  I believe they are born with it.  You see little kids bobbing their heads and shrugging their shoulders to the music and it’s just there.  You watch the band and cheerleaders at a high school football game in the hood it’s still there.  You know it when you see it.

To me Michael Jackson was the King of Soul.  There may have been others who could sing with him but as far as moving with him, forgetaboutit.  Every pore of his body oozed God given soul, not the kind you get from dance lessons.  I never tired of watching him move around a stage. 

With that back ground, this is my fantasy.  When I was going to college in LA my good friend Richard and I would go for late night sessions at the California Club near campus.  We were almost always the only white guys in the place.  Sitting in a corner we would watch as a packed dance floor moved to the rhythm of the saxophone heavy sounds of soul music. 

The California Club is no longer there but if it were I would return with Terry and my inner Michael Jackson.  We would take a table off to the side of the dance floor, nurse a diet Coke and glass of Chardonnay and observe.  Things would heat up on the floor as the late crowd arrived.  The best movers in the hood would be strutting their stuff. 

Back in the day Terry won the Watusi dance championship at the Black Derby in Santa Ana where the Righteous Brothers were the club band so I knew she would be up to the challenge.   At the right moment we would move on to the floor.  Terry doing her thing and me trying to stay on the down-low.  Then I would break into my moon walk across the floor.  The crowd would part and begin to surround us as we took center stage. 

For the next 10 minutes I would move around the floor as only Michael could.  The other couples, waitresses and bartenders would all drop everything to watch.  The crowd would go bananas.  When the music stopped we would calmly return to our table.  Despite urging from everyone for one more dance we would pay our tab, thank everyone and leave.  As we passed the doorman I would say “See ya bro”.