Dancing

Peacocks in Synthetic Polyester

/ cigarman501 / 4 Comments

“Breakfast cereals that come in the same colors as polyester leisure suits make oversleeping a virtue.” -Fran Lebowitz

Memories of men dressed in colorful synthetics, strutting like peacocks. Instead of spreading their tail feathers they wore paisley or geometric patterns, platform shoes, and flare-legged trousers with large plaids in mismatched colors. You shouldn’t wear plaids with stripes? Welcome to the Seventies where everything went together if it was accessorized with a white belt.

My guess is there is a white belt and two-toned platform shoes not shown.

I entered the 1970s at age nineteen and exited it a lifetime later it seems. It is as if I slept walked through most of the decade or just locked certain memories away to maintain my sanity. There was much to like about the Seventies I suppose. I just don’t remember what. There were good movies and good television, but the music was dubious, and fashion? Read on my children.

It is easier for me to hate the Seventies than love those years. Politically Viet Nam, Nixon, Watergate, and Disco. Economically, the Gas Embargo and Disco. Personally, a marriage, a divorce, clinical depression, and Disco…by now you probably get the idea I’m not a fan of Disco. I had a challenging time mastering the basic moves of the “Twist” in the Sixties, no way I was going to try Disco. Thank goodness for the “Bump” and KC and the Sunshine Band singing, ”Get Down Tonight….”

I don’t know if I should be proud or embarrassed to say this. I’ve never seen “Saturday Night Fever,” ever. Oh, I’ve seen clips on YouTube or dare I admit it, MTV. “Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive”, but I’ve never seen the movie in its entirety. I listened to the music; “Disco Inferno” is still on my exercise play list.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I just went to YouTube and watched clips of John Travolta dancing. Simply research mind you.

I had beltless flared pants or white belted flared pants and a long-collared shirt or two, but never did I ever wear a leisure suit or a solid white three piece. The white belt for pants with belt loops? Forgive me Fashion Father, I did. Thirty Hail Travoltas in front of a Disco ball as penance.

Travolta could dance…I couldn’t, and he looked better in his flared polyester. Tall, slender, and athletic as opposed to short, chunky, and challenged. Liked him better with Debra Winger in “Urban Cowboy” wearing denim but I’ve never owned two toned cowboy boots or a big cowboy hat with a feathered hat band. I have tried the Texas Two-Step and even rode a mechanical bull. Tequila brings out the worst in me.

John Travolta and a Disco Ball

In addition to the Disco dance craze, there was the fashion revolution. Some fashion statements were quite appealing…especially if it was on the female form. Minis and Middies, grannie dresses, patterned hose or without, bell bottom jeans, halter tops and halter jumpsuits, peasant blouses and I must admit the female fashions from the Disco age were quite appealing. Ethereal fabrics swirling around spinning hips…yes quite appealing. Just thought about Charlie’s Angels and a promotional picture of Wonder Woman, Lynda Carter, in a halter dress. Sorry ladies, I didn’t know what objectifying was in the 1970s.

Original Angels ready for the Disco objectification.

Men…what were we thinking. Lime green leisure suits featuring long collared “catch me, f*** me” shirts unbuttoned to show off our chest hair accessorized with gold chains. All above two-toned platform shoes. Fish belly white kids running around with blown out Afros added to the insanity.

We were brightly clothed for a change…peacocks in synthetic polyester.

Please understand, this is not the breathable, water wicking athletic wear of today. No, no. This was like wearing plastic food wrap. It trapped every bit of perspiration between your body and your colorful, polyester nylon, paisley print shirt and your synthetic bold plaid trousers. Your platform shoes? They became a vessel for the perspiration that poured south of your underwear. I sloshed walking off the dance floor.

A bit of bold plaid, beltless and flared

I remember taking a young lady to The Cellar in Charlotte, a dance venue transitioning from Beach Music to “Do the Hustle.” After dancing the night away, I led her back to my car, opening the door for her like the Southern gentleman I am. Returning to the driver’s side I slid across the Naugahyde seat with my still damp synthetic polyester trousers. Do you know the sound wet polyester makes sliding across fake leather seats? Remember the campfire scene from “Blazing Saddles” or the sounds made a few hours after eating tacos with a side of refried beans. Embarrassing.

Saying I hate Seventies polyester is not strong enough. Hot and stinky in the summertime and offering zero protection from the elements in the winter. Nope, nope, nope.

Seventies polyester was also a fire hazard. It had to do with the fact they were wrinkle free, a major selling point…until you accidentally dried them on high. Your colorful nylon long-collared shirt turned into a colorful wad of plastic. If you happened to be close to an open flame, it didn’t flare up, it melted…into you.

My tastes may have changed. That doesn’t look terrible…nah.

A female friend of mine pointed out that this was the beginning of the polyester pant suits as professional wear for women too. Still, I’m sure it looked better on you even if it was brown “earth toned” plaid and wrinkle free.

I’m a natural fiber guy or at the very least a blend kind of guy. I know cotton doesn’t wick moisture away like the “new” unnatural fibers but then I’m not running marathons anymore. Cotton gets heavy with perspiration, but I don’t care. Cotton, linen, or bamboo…yes bamboo, I have several bamboo fiber shirts. Can’t tell them from linen or cotton…or hemp. Don’t try to smoke your clothes Cheech and Chong.

To be honest, since my retirement, I’ve become a blue jean, cotton tee shirt wearing hippie in my seventies…not from the Seventies. I still listen to The Eagles and Linda Ronstadt more than Cool and the Gang and KC and the Sunshine Band…but I don’t turn them off when they come up.

I have a dress suit for funerals…someone else’s…not mine. The suit is a polyester blend…of course it is. I will not wear my suit as I make my heavenly transition. I will leave this world the way I came into it. I hope that visual doesn’t stay in your mind for too long…but it still beats synthetic polyester.

Enjoy a little blast from the Seventies, a dance mashup. Can you name all the programs or movies?

***

Note: I do realize that polyester fabric is synthetic. Saying synthetic polyester is redundant. I just like the way synthetic polyester rolled off my tongue.

***

Blog image from Peacock Blues – © Xanda O’Peagrim

***

“Pig Trails and Rabbit Holes” The best things in life are friends, family, Jack Daniels, and a good cigar. Maybe a good yarn or two with pulled pork BBQ or ribs. Humorous nonfiction from Don Miller https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GQSNYL2  

Dancin’ Machine with Two Left Feet

/ cigarman501 / 7 Comments

“The job of feets is walking, but their hobby is dancing.” ― Amit Kalantri

She glided into my arms with invisible angel wings. It was a fraternity formal and The O’Jays were singing a slow song. We were “slow dancing, swaying to the music”, my arms around her waist, hers around my neck. She was a vision of loveliness in an emerald, green empire-waisted gown that complimented the deep red hair piled high on her head and the emerald, green choker around her neck. I inhaled her pheromones…perfume and stood no chance. I was smitten.

As I gazed into her blue-green eyes I noticed the freckles splashed across her nose and felt my heart squeeze. I was smitten again. I leaned in to steal a kiss, but my “second” left foot failed me, making solid contact with the instep of her high heel encased foot. I was left with duck lips kissing air as she bent over in pain.

My “feets” had failed at their hobby as badly as the relationship failed five years later. At least she left me still on my feet, staggered but standing.

Someone shared a video on social media, and I made the mistake of clicking on the “twist contest” from the movie Pulp Fiction. It wasn’t so much the dancing of John Travolta and Uma Thurmond but Chuck Berry’s “C’est La Vie” that got me “chair dancing” in my recliner. I am now one of the old folks who say, “it goes to show you never can tell.” I also dance better sitting than I do standing but that has always been the case.

I must have been in a good mood. An old song making me want to dance, even if it was in a chair. It triggered memories from a half century ago. I quickly put the redhead out of my mind and fell down a rabbit hole. Further YouTube “research” led me from thoughts of bobby socks and poodle skirts to mini-skirts and Go-Go boots and from Weejuns, starched button downs, and khaki duck trousers to lime green leisure suits and “catch me, f*ck me” shirts accessorized with gold chains.

Having two left feet didn’t bother me in my teen years that began in the early Sixties. The novel dance crazes of the day were less scripted than those practiced by the previous “Swing” generation. The “Disco” craze was still most of a decade away. We had dances with descriptive names like “The Jerk”, “The Watuzi”, “The Mashed Potato”, and the dance everyone could do, “The Twist.” I could stand in the middle of the dance floor and mimic Joe Cocker stepping on a live wire, and no one would notice.

Teen’s dancing novel dances badly

My two left “feets” would not become an issue until the late Sixties when I thought I needed to learn how to “Shag.” The cute little blond took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor at The Cellar as “Carolina Girls” began to play. “Come on, I’ll teach you,” she said. She got over her injuries quickly and we remained friends. There were too many nights spent at The Celler chasing the elusive female beast to the tunes of The Catalinas not to learn to shag. Ample nickel drafts didn’t help the dancing but reduced the inhibitions that tended to cripple me.

Known as “The Carolina Shag”, it is a partner dance that requires dancing in concert with another human being to what is known as “Beach Music.” No, this beach music would not include The Beach Boys or Jan and Dean. Holding her right hand with my left, we stepped in and back, did a bit of a slide with one foot and then I got lost. Twirls are involved at some point giving me the opportunity to embarrass myself further.

I got lost a lot at The Cellar in Charlotte, The Barn in Rock Hill, and during coastal retreats to The Beach Club in Myrtle Beach, just to name a few. There were frat parties and, in the Seventies, discos to also display my two left feet. In the late Seventies, the movie “Urban Cowboy” and John Travolta turned us all into cowboy hat wearing line dancers and mechanical bull riders. Riding a mechanical bull was safer.

“Dancin’, Shaggin’ on the Boulevard” refers to Ocean Boulevard at Myrtle Beach. Alabama got their start playing at The Bowery on the Boulevard. I don’t remember the girls in 1968 or 69 dressing the way they dressed in the video.

I practiced long and hard to master the most rudimentary dance steps, sometimes with live partners, other times in the solitude of my room holding on to the doorknob to a closet door as a partner. At least a closet door has no feet to step on, but I did step in too close and received a black eye from the edge of the door for my efforts.

Disco? You are kidding, that was a death wish. I was hustled a few times but never did The Hustle. Thankfully, there was The Bump, the most fun I had had with my hips since The Twist.

It took my graduation into a new century to realize it didn’t matter. It would be 2001 before William Purkey would say, “You’ve gotta dance like there’s nobody watching, love like you’ll never be hurt, sing like there’s nobody listening, and live like it’s heaven on earth.” It would take me a while longer to realize he was right.

Unless you are an exotic dancer it really doesn’t matter if you dance like someone electrocuted. No one really cares unless you step on their foot. Dancing doesn’t come from your feet; it comes from the heart and the music contained there. Just don’t ask me to waltz.

Side note: I once found myself on the dance floor with an exotic dancer. A very…flexible and demonstrative dancer, she danced as if she was in search of a stripper pole. She did manage to keep her clothes on and still get the attention of everyone in the venue.

***

The Mad Southerner’s (Don Miller’s) author’s page can be found at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

His latest release is a historical romance novel, “Thunder Along the Copperhead.”