The Birth of Dick Von Disco...
The low-lying atmosphere of that city is densely trafficked with sounds and music. The streets, alleyways, and commercial buildings are congested with various tunes piping in from every direction. I love it. Kevin loved it more.
Ever since I’ve known the kid, I’ve been aware, and wary of his propensity for letting himself become too absorbed in a moment or activity that he finds fun. Sometimes to the point where the consequences seem far from worth the fun in the first place. They usually are worth it though, especially in hindsight as they provide for a decent story. At least to everyone else. Like all the times that he drank too much back home, and pissed himself, and whatever bed, couch, or lucky lady that he passed out on. Not too big of a deal if you got to throw some newspapers beneath him before he nodded off on one of those things. And it worked doubly well if the lady was homeless, and the newspapers were already there.
And I’ve been one to empathize to a degree from time to time, because for the most part, I’m the same way. I get a taste of euphoria, and I’ll spend the rest of the night or day chasing it, until I crash and burn. I’ve done it plenty of times. Even to the point where I’ve lost control of my bodily functions. Even to the point where my moral hangover was worse than my physical one. But we’ll get too that later.
This time with Kevin however, his submersion in the moment wasn’t as consequential--at least, at this point--as it was downright fucking hilarious. He had begun to sincerely feel music that surrounded him, and had also felt the need to express himself through the art of emphatic dance. And ‘feel the music,’ might not do it justice, it might be better exclaim, he felt the shit out of that music! Now the beauty was, that the music was everywhere, all of the time. And it was usually electro-pop, techno, or other genre possessing some pulsing pattern of the like. Or, La Roux’s, Bulletproof. Sydney seemed to have that song on repeat, and I’ll admit that Kevin and I both were admirers. Anyway, suffice it to say, Kevin had begun a dance marathon, and the lengths for which he dedicated himself to that dance made you believe that nothing was going to stop him. He made fatigue his bitch, and consistently turned it away with the turn of his torso.
During the day, the solo rhythmic rodeo was rather restrained. There were still a few twists and shimmies, but they were carried out in a careful manner as to keep from alerting all eyes. They still did though. From afar, he looked like a two hundred pound infant doing the pee pee dance in public. Anywhere from the grocery store, to the city streets, he was moving. I remember the first time I saw his subtle movements progress into the early onset of his footloose fever. We were standing in line at the cell phone store awaiting further service as our attendant had run to get something from the stock room. It began with a tapping foot, until he stepped back to start stealthily cutting up the air with dance karate.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I don’t know, bro. I can’t stop dancing.”
“You look like you’re having a seizure.”
“I know, it’s awesome.”
At night in the bars, the ‘awesome’ went twelve-fold. It usually took anywhere from three to four drinks to elicit a character to the likes of which those venues might have never seen, and will never see again. A character with presence enough to set the ambiance of the entire place. Kevin’s, pretty much harmless, Mr. Hyde. Dick Von Disco...
Dick Von Disco was a middle-aged immigrant from Eastern Europe. He had grown up rough in the streets of his war-torn homeland, and had little to occupy himself as a poor child, with the exception of his factory-working father’s fairly limited 1980s, VHS collection. For hours every afternoon, Dick Havel--he was ‘Havel’ before he was ‘Von Disco’--would sit and watch movies like, Flashdance, Footloose, Dirty Dancing, and Scarface, and dream about making a name for himself, passionately love pumping chicks like Jennifer Grey--even before the nose job--and doing tons of really good cocaine. But he knew that before he was going to walk that red carpet, he’d first need to learn how to cut up the rug. So as Beals, Swayze, and Bacon tempered his skills atop the fires of his passion, Dick Von Disco was born unto your world, and his dance floor. But as far as you knew, he was a fucking dance juggernaut from the Dance Galaxy in outer space, and unless you wanted to tussle with his tango, you best step back.
He dons an orange polo shirt brighter than any light in that bar--apparently Kevin’s only going-out shirt--and his dark shoulder length hair is greased back in a way that says, not only is he setting the standard for style, he’s also setting it for aerodynamics. He’s got an air about him that tells you he might wear a banana hammock to your little sister’s pool party, and bang your mom behind the toolshed with his aviators on when you’re not looking. And aside from an occasional head nod, or stare that says, “you vant to play vis dis fire, don’t you?” he doesn’t say much to the ladies. He doesn’t need to. They can barely understand him through his accent anyway. He knows that they’ll soon enough be mesmerized and drawn in by his art. He knows what ladies love. They love dance movies, and he’s a one man theater performance of Step Up. If Step Up actually took place in 1987. And even if he is the only one on the dance floor, and there are only nine people including the bartender in that joint, he is Dick Von Disco, the coolest mother fucker in that venue, and he will trip and flog the shit out of the light fantastic, straight into your goddamned heart.
Until of course, he passed out after drinking too much, and we’d wait another eighteen hours or so, before he’d return.
In all honesty though, D Von D was one of my favorite parts about Sydney. And an inspiring one at that. Aside from super sweet moves like ‘the shower,’ and ‘the landscaper,’ that Von Disco stole our attention with, Kevin was unknowingly, yet earnestly able to remind me that sometimes you really do have to dance like no one is watching. Because in all reality, who gives a shit if they are. It’s your short life, and as long as you’re not hurting anyone, don’t be afraid to have fun. Sometimes we end up spending so much time worrying about what we look like, or stressing about coming off as cool, that we forget to just let go and enjoy the time that we have.
I was further inspired by the fact that Dick Von Disco’s commitment to his art was unhindered, after being subjected to a substantial ass-beating. Although comparatively, my face would speak to the fact that I took the brunt of that beating.
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