Doubling your funk for only a buck

It was a pivotal time in my life. Nearing 40 I was at a point where I needed answers. Not unlike many others I wondered what the rest of my life would hold as I began the decline into being "kind of old." What was certain, obvious, to me was that I needed to get away for a period of reflection to a place where solace and solitude would foster deep introspection leading to an epiphany from which enlightenment would ensue. And in that moment of supreme discovery, enveloped in the golden light from on high spotlighting me in its warm, golden revelation I came upon something many others have found only after investing the sacrifice of a bared soul: I needed a vacation.

But not just any old vacation. I desperately needed and absolutely required a vacation to an exotic place free of the trappings of modern life and its associated congestion of mind, soul and freeway. So, in relatively short order I packed up my wife and two young sons and headed to Southern California. And it was in this environment I found myself leaving the magic of Universal Studios tired, yet hopeful of capturing the answers to life's mysteries that even after quests to Baja, Hollywood and the beach still eluded me.

We headed out the gate, posing for one last picture with some zombie mummies from an epic blockbuster (later we found that they were not zombies in costume but members of the grounds keeping staff trying to trim some hedges) and joining the herd of other tourists heading to the allure that is the Universal City Walk. Most of the throng moved together into the carnival-like, shop-lined City Walk. But just before we reached the vortex that would suck us in only to spit us out the other end of the walk penniless, destitute and wondering what in the world just happened, I noticed a small commotion. I will be forever grateful I did.

A small crowd was gathered around a man who had just turned on a large, 1980s vintage boom box. A thumping, bass-heavy tune pumped from the device causing the people who encircled this curious fellow to tap their feet and/or bob their heads. This gentleman was no typical street hawker break dancing and moon walking for a few coins. Nay, as he began to perform - to merely call it dancing would be like calling a Bugatti Veyron a nice car - he sent out a vibe that connected with the audience. While the music played he worked his magic. I hate to use such a worn out cliche, but that is what happened my friend. Finally the song began to lower in volume beginning a segue into a new tune and that is when it happened.

As the music dropped his voice rose. The man smiled a broad smile that beat back the encroaching darkness with its brightness. He scanned the crowd with his confident, knowing gaze and then he said those words that have remained etched as clearly in my mind these many years later as they were on that fateful evening. "Put a dollar in the hat and I will double your funk. That's right, I promise that for one dollar your funk will be doubled."

I could not believe what I heard. The impact of those words hit me hard, like the time when I was 15 and found out that professional wrestling was staged or when the news came that Milli Vanilli lip-synched. I questioned myself. Did I hear it right? Did he just say that I could have my funk doubled for only one lousy buck? Before I knew what I was doing I was pulling a wad of bills from my pocket. I quickly called to my sons, giving them each a dollar and instructing them to put them in the hat when the Funkmaestro grooved on by with the hat.

You have to understand why I did what I did at just that moment. This precious person was not offering the kind of funk that is considered a haze - a negative thing that you find yourself in before you drink 8-10 cups of coffee in the morning. Nor did he offer the funk of the type that rolls like a thick toxic fog from piles of clothes stuffed in the depths of the closet in a teenager's bedroom. This funk is not to be confused with the double paradiddle funk drum beat, the Double Funk Crunch dance band (which sounds better as a breakfast cereal) nor the famous Funk brothers of professional wrestling fame.

The funk he offered was the glorious type. More akin to a Double Double burger at In-N-Out type of funk doubling. This was powerful stuff, life changing stuff. It was an opportunity for me to change my stars and those of my two boys for the price of a small box of Skittles at the movie theater.

He moved toward us holding out the hat, which when a dollar was tossed in would convey a double portion of funk upon the tosser-inner. Not just increasing funk, but DOUBLING it. I admit I was nervous. I herded the boys to a place where we would have a clear line of access for our dollars to reach the hat lest he move by and we get no funk at all. "Wave your dollars," I told the boys, "We want him to see us." I was sweating, shaking slightly and determined to make this man take my money. It was what the entire trip was about.

And then he was there, smiling as we slam dunked our dollars and he moved by us, tossing back over his shoulder a happy, "Now you're funk is doubled." How great it was. I was elated as I gazed down upon my boys and Patrick said, "I think my funk is doubled," and Nick chimed in, "Mine too!" I felt a satisfaction that only a father can fell when he knows that no matter what may now come, he has done right by his sons, ensuring their successful futures. My wife rolled her eyes in what I interpreted as gladness that she had chosen those years before to join in holy matrimony a man who was now receiving a double portion of funk.

As we turned and left the crowd, the glow of his million candle power smile lingering on the horizon, and walked toward the parking ramp I had Rick James, James Brown, Parliament, Cameo and even the Ohio Players holding a jam session in my mind. I knew all was right and would remain that way. I knew my funk had been doubled. It was the best dollar I ever spent.

(If you would like your funk doubled send $1 to Dave Smith, 311 N. Prairie Ave., Fairmont, MN 56031)