The Alley…

On a rainy Sunday morning, I am taking advantage of the pearl white tile floors of my apartment. Tunes of the Decemberists, Dave Matthews, Dar Williams, the Be Good Tanyas, even the Dixie Chicks are pulsing out of my portable stereo. I dance without abandon in my kitchen and hallway. When I close my eyes, I imagine I’m in John’s Alley listening to Sol’Jibe and joining the freely dancing hippies with no inhibitions as we listen to the beats coursing from the band’s instruments. I picture Emily’s willowy frame as her skirt swirls around her, her boney arms gracefully leading her head and body to follow them as she whirls, swoops, and pulses to the music. My disco, while missing $1.00 PBR’s, crowds, funky clothes, and the overwhelming cloud of cigarette smoke found in the Alley, is top notch, and rather exclusive. By that I mean, it’s me, myself, and I as the principle owner, dancer, and DJ. Man, this dancing life is good. I better pull out Madonna and really get this party started. Oh yeah, it’s time for Brian’s hip thrust dance move!