“After their exhausting first day at the Music Hall five roommates find energy for a yelping pillow fight to help them unwind.” From “Hard Knocks, High Kicks: LIFE With the Rockettes, 1964.” I suddenly found myself reminded that the Rockettes exist a couple weeks ago, one way or another, however that happens and… I don’t know: do you know any guys who are creepy about the Rockettes? They must exist. But are you aware of them, guys who are like, “Oh man, the Rockettes— I’d like one of those girls to kick some places. Talkin’ specifically ‘bout my crotch here, folks.” I can’t say I’ve ever run into, like, guys being all worked up about the Rockettes. Is it because I don’t live in New York…?
When I try to picture a Rockettes fan-guy in my head, he’s wearing a tophat, and checking his time on his pocket watch, and he’s really excited about a piece of rock candy and the new Damon Runyon story in the Saturday Evening Post. ”Tippecanoe and Tyler too, those Rockettes sure have a pair of gams on em, see?” That’s what I see in my head. Why? Pretty ladies kicking their legs into the air for the pleasure and delight of boys and girls, young and old— why don’t we as a culture get all dirty about that more often, like we do with literally everything else everywhere? If you go into any club for gentlemen of means and/or lap-dance dungeon this weekend, there’ll be ladies wearing Santa caps because lonely men around my age apparently all have weird Santa issues that we want to pay professionally-minded people to help us work out, through the medium of our laps, but … but I’ve never seen a dancer at Spearmint Rhino be like “time for a kick line, you lucky fellas— aren’t you glad you didn’t spend those shiny nickles on the talkies instead?” Not even once. No matter how many times I begged and pleaded. Not even at Christmas…. (aww)
This year, like every year, I just wish I lived in Pottersville,..