I Have Been Certified
A Dancing Machine
the commune's Rok Finger wishes to inform you the roof is on fire 

Monday, Jan. 21, 2002
No one is more surprised than Rok Finger at the results of his latest physical. I will spare you the details I usually render in graphic description, inviting several letters of complaint to my mailbox, and instead inform you of the doctor’s shocking surprise.

“Rok, you’re a dancing machine.” Those are the words he said, I kid you not.

By this he meant my physique is perfectly constructed for dancing the night away. The twist in particular would be no problem for someone with my spinal make-up. It appears my vertebrae are especially springy and soft, which explains why after starting my early twenties at a good five foot two I’ve shrunk so badly over the years to now stand at three foot nine. Though I’m not complaining, it’s a small price to pay for perfectly filling out a pair of boogie shoes.

True, my skill in dancing is hardly noteworthy. In fact, my previous efforts to dance have resulted in being strapped down by paramedics with a wallet placed under my tongue. But such a small obstacle shouldn’t stand in the way of my destined greatness on the dance floor. You heard what the doctor said—a machine, he said. Dancing. Machine. You’re. A. Rok.

Your friend Rok Finger is no stranger to scaling large obstacles, people. And this Everest of an obstacle will be conquered. I’ve already begun.

The first step, I’ve calculated, is to increase my rhythm, or as a the hip will define it, acceptance of the beat. After several further explanations and fruitless examination of Webster’s Dictionary and P-Funk’s Dancetionary, I decided the best course of action was to start nodding my head to a whack beat. It was difficult, I had to practice at home before I could take it out into a club or anything, but I think I’ve become an expert at beat technology.

It is a small step (dance step, that is) but it will suffice to start me in my career of dancing excellence. I have begun to assemble a dancing wardrobe. Wardrobe? More appropriately called my “gear,” the dancing soldier’s camouflage. I built it like a house from the bottom up, starting with a stylish pair of blue suede shoes. Yes, just like the Elvis anthem of a few years back. The dresser at the store, Fancy, said my color was emerald, like money, another word she used to describe me, and therefore outfitted me in a suave glittery emerald jumpsuit with a purple streak of vinyl up the side. She said when I “move” (street code for dancing) I look like a green and purple tornado. That was all the salesmanship I needed!

Then I hit the clubs. And I rock hard, let me tell you. Just the little bit of expertise I picked up from bobbing my head, no doubt buoyed by the new confidence found in my dancing wardrobe, I’ve become a very intimidating figure on the dance floor. Most of the time other dancers are too self-conscious to join the floor while I’m on it. But when a brave few manage to two-step up to me, we have a gay old time. Sometimes extremely gay. The ladies love me, we dance like tornadoes and carry on loudly laughing away. Well, they’re laughing, I’m usually too busy concentrating on my steps.

What more can I say? This machine is in high gear. Not the gear you wear, but the gear like a car. Hence the machine metaphor. I’ll bring you more news as I make dancing news on the club scene here and there. In the meantime, I must go get the rubber soles of my blue suede shoes patched.