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We here at Bitch are in thorough approval of the post-Pulp Fiction Travolta renaissance that has awarded our favorite 1980s cinematic cheese-king some new credibility. Back in our prepubescent days, we wished we could be Olivia Newton-John in Grease, J.T.’s disco-dancing partner in Saturday Night Fever, and Debra Winger in the god-awful Urban Cowboy. Do you have to ask why? It might be the naughty eyes, the oily smirk, the way he walks like his hip joints are primed with Astroglide. The man’s got style. Yeah, he’s a devout Scientologist, but are we going to let that overshadow the fact that this tasty slab could work a poly-rayon-blend suit, Cuban heels, and a pompadour like nobody’s business? After a recent viewing of the 1981 Brian de Palma conspiracy extravaganza Blow-Out, in which Johnnie-pie plays a sound technician caught in the midst of a political cover-up, we offered up tentative observations on the level of, “Well, he’s a much better actor than you would think from watching Look Who’s Talking.” Soon enough, though, we got down to the real deal, cooing about how hunky he looked in those tight cordouroy flares and vinyl car coats. Yes, we’ve got it bad, but not so bad that we’ll be running out to rent the Look Who’s Talking trilogy. We want our Travolta, the disco-dancing, pavement-strutting, cigarette-smoking, greasy charmer who can belt out a verse of “Summer Lovin’” in between discourses on the beauty of the French McDonald’s. Lisa said it best: “I have the same exact giggly movie-star crush that I had fifteen years ago. I feel like it gives symmetry to my crushed-out life.” —az.