I Won't Fuck With It If I Can't Fuck To It: Disco Biscuit Mix
- 2 days ago
- 2 min read
September 4th, 2026
Second grade, Welcome Back Kotter was a smash hit on ABC Prime-Time. This sitcom in the Bronx about an eccentric teacher bounding back to the hood to try and book-learn some left-behinds had a magnetic sexpot in Italian stud Vinnie Barbarino, with his feathered neck-length coif, toothy grin, and electric blue eyes my mom and likely all other on our block went plumb gaga. Vinnie made mini-me feel some kinda way without understanding it felt a molecule off Marie Osmond, declared Princess of Earth that year by everybody under 18.
Migrating off the living room box downtown to the big one, actor John Travolta hit the jackpot with "Saturday Night Fever", about a hardscrabble youth finding himself on Manhattan's discotheque dancefloors blowing up in RL with queers and Blacks primarily. Catapulted into the cerebrae of America, the Bee-Gees, formerly an English crooner trio rebranded by the movie became it's house band. Tsunami levels of discos opened in gentrified unison.
In our Lone Oak suburb, a Paducah suburban hamlet, my folks partied at Crazy Larry's Disco, now the Park Avenue Kroger. Popeye and Olive Oyl did on Saturday morning at another one, like everybody on the boob tube til '79 when body-shaming broke the ball. Yep, a short, fat, unattractive White DJ declared disco dead. Undoubtedly a wallflower without the wherewithal to choose sexiness - it is an option, pretty is skin-deep, sexy goes to the soul because it's an attitude. Waves of wallflowers smashed and burned Lps, killing out the mainstream of a music I dug from the first note, and do til today, even being a punk fan. I'm inherently bipartisan.
Crazy Larry's ex-wife with three hell-assed brats moved up the street from us, and worked herself to death at the Goodyear plant without the disco deadbeat in sight while 2/3 of his progeny went behind bars and fences.
Travolta sequel-ed the Fever with Stayin' Alive, an '80's joint like Kelis delivers in this mix. Bombing exponentially, the Rolling Stone cover it spawned had Vinnie B greased like a skillet, hairless below the neck, and cut to pieces by personal trainer Sly "Rocky III" Stallone. Being the only dude library aide at Lone Oak High School, I knew exactly what those stirrings meant this round.
1986 I hit my first gay dance club, Main Street East in Carbondale, Illinois. Being only driver's license age, the trick in this college town club was enter early and exit after it opened at 9 getting a hand-stamp. Not a natural, my dancing was criticized by a chaperoning mom at Revolution, a teen center where I learned the fine art of scoring drugs leaving me self-conscious years after before it dawned on me she was a redneck dork so fuck her.
In the 90's I embraced soul and funk with disco and dance parties regularly with my crowd when I split Lexington for Louisville. Over the years I've become a confident dancer, which really is all it amounts to. Moves are meaningless. Listen to a) the sounds and b) your body and you'll stay straight. Every day I dance, mostly. Best aerobics, pumping endorphins like crazy.
Here you go, Saturday Night Believers, my dance party/workout for the week/end!
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