Exclusive interview with SN&R’s own Elkton John

Exhausted from his travels, with one rainbow antler lying next to the tattered roller skates worn down to their nubbins, our own Elkton John was welcomed home to the offices of the SN&R on the morning of Friday, September 6. He was gently propped against a wall inside the lobby and then taped to it for his own good. Such measures, though drastic, may discourage future attackers.

Though there’s been speculation, secret meetings, veiled accusations, and rumors that Elkton was spied dancing at Faces or hustling for change in front of Safeway, this is the first interview in which Elkton responds to the questions that need antlering … I mean, answering.

Elkton, why were you abducted? There was no ransom note, no demands. What was it about?

Lady, I was a sitting duck out there on J Street—a loud, proud, tie-dyed tribute to the super-fine ‘70s. I was reminding the ex-hep cats of the days when disco shorts were in. It was inevitable that my admirers would want a piece of me. That first week outdoors, when one of my fans ripped off my right rocket and hugged it to his chest as he squeezed back into his red Camaro, man … I knew I’d eventually end up like one of the Beatles, stripped by squealing pre-teens, locks of hair cut from my goatee, my whistle ripped from my neck and shoved under the pillow of some little groupie.

So, you saw yourself as some kind of pop star?

Everyone did! The ladies were checking me out on their way to Original Pete’s, giving me those hungry stares, but then everything got kind of heavy late Saturday night when this band of cats surrounded me and started blowing their beer and nachos breath all over my skates. Before I could give them a swift kick, I was rocked back and forth until I started to split from my platform. One jive turkey thought my antler was his steering column, and finally broke the thing off my head. Luckily, I kept my skates, so I got to glide down 20th Street rather than be dragged by my remaining antler.

They rolled you down 20th Street?

Yeah, baby. At first it was kind of groovy—my neckerchief blowing in the breeze, my skates hitting asphalt for the first time after being shellacked to my hooves.

You didn’t try to make a break for it, à la Bruce Lee?

Not until I perceived we were heading for a deserted warehouse on 20th Street. Then I started thinking these turkeys might want to see my head mounted to their wall, so I gave them a couple of head butts and took off booking down F Street. They caught up with me, though—left me hanging around in the back of a pickup truck after that. But it got later, and they were trippin’ on something, and that’s when things got funky. I’m not saying that was me boogying with Roger Dickinson in his feather boa at Polly Esther’s on ‘70s night, and nobody can prove I was the one streaking across the campus at Sac State, or begging for enough change to buy us all breakfast in the morning, but the cops do have the police record on my arrest. I was just hanging out, sleeping off the last of the Mary Jane when this copper told me to put my hands up. I didn’t shake a leg quick enough I guess. Maybe he assumed I was concealing a weapon. He took a shot and got me right here, which is how I got this hole [gestures]. They hauled me down to the jail, and then they took my wheels! Said they didn’t want another suicide attempt. Man, what a bummer.

How’d you get back home?

They sobered me up with a cup of Joe, and I split. I hauled my ass back to 20th Street and J and vegged out for a while waiting for someone to unlock the door. But everybody was home catching z’s on Sunday morning, maybe. I mellowed out for a while, thinking about my main men and the babes at the News & Review. When nobody came to let me in, I glided back down a few Sacto streets, looking for some of the cool cats I’d met the night before. Some had been pretty righteous, and I was hurting. I needed some bread, man, and a place to crash. My side hurt, my antler hurt, even my hooves hurt. I finally crawled under a blanket and caught some z’s myself. The babe across the street called the cats at News & Review after a while, and, when they found me, man, it was right on, I mean psychedelic, you know?

And what’s your plan now that you’re home?

I need a little R & R, lady. Those guys stole half the little mirrors off my shorts to snort coke, my skates are damaged from all the grooving on the dance floor, and Dickinson wanted a little something to remember me by, so I have to replace a lock of my ‘fro. Being Sacramento’s disco-cruising super elk is hard work!