An Ode to Bootsy Collins

Anyone old enough to remember “Ally McBeal”, anyone who’s gone through sufficient therapy to block that disturbing dancing baby, probably remembers her “pips”. On the advice of her own therapist, Ally envisions an entourage of soulful supporters, complete with Motown-smooth rhythm, and messages of comfort and support. As she makes her way through her oh-so-dramatic daily life, she is trailed by her very own built-in support posse, a crew of yeah-sayers ready with reassurance and some old-school soul. Her skirt may have been obscenely short, and her ribcage all-too-apparent, but Ally did know the value of the Greek chorus.

Well, things have changed since the age of the single, female lawyer, and I daresay, life in the big city has become even more trying. Pips, as fabulous as they are, don’t seem adequate back-up for these trying times. Multi-part harmony, powder blue tuxedos and synchronized side-stepping just don’t seem to cut it anymore. We need to call in the big guns, the heavy hitter, the imaginary sidekick who can alleviate the doldrums integrally linked to the twenty-first century.

I nominate Bootsy Collins. I vote for an invisible support system worthy of the likes of George Clinton. I opt for a Jiminy Cricket bold enough to sport giant glitter sunglasses and a sequin-spotted mad hatter top hat. My anxieties will be quelled only by phrases like “Shizle my izle, kazizle!” As I walk through this cruel world, I will hold my head high and avoid despair, just as long as I can hear the faint clunk of obscene platform shoes and the funky wa-wa of a star-shaped guitar. Long live the funk!