I miss James Brown. Not the singer. I never knew much about him. The James Brown I long for is 18in tall and runs on four AA batteries.
I first spotted James shimmying on a glass counter while shopping with my father at a Philadelphia mall. I had seen dolls that sing and dance before, but I had never seen anything like this. His shoes are silver-tipped. The brown vest he boasts over his black button-down is stitched with his initials. The plastic hair on his oversized head is perfectly coiffed. When you push the button at his feet, he lets out an excited “Yaoooooo,” shakes his hips, and sings a chorus of “I Feel Good” that is so exuberant, so full of joie de vivre, that it is nearly impossible not to feel good right along with him.
