Once every month, a Somers eatery transforms itself into a drinkery AND dancery—it’s Disco Night!
I try to attend if at all possible. The turnout is good, and I can at least expect to see a few other poor souls there born under the Eisenhower administration, and even some from the Roosevelt administration. If anyone in my rock band knew I secretly like disco music, I’d be kicked out in two seconds, so keep it under your hat.
Dancing itself has a point of diminishing returns. You want to be competent enough not to hurt other people, but sometimes it looks like people are trying too hard to impress, instead of just flowing with the music. I was watching this one gal, and she was so fluid and effortless. I was thinking that she had great punctuation; she knew where to put a comma and she knew where to put an exclamation point, and sometimes she just shook her asterisk.
Usually it’s four or five girls dancing together, and some poor sap will try to infiltrate the perimeter. I think to myself (since it’s inconvenient to think to others), good luck dude—I’ve been married 30 years and it’s hard enough to please one person, let alone five. Even if one of the girls kind of likes you, the other four are going to shame her out of it, unless you look like Tom Cruise dancing in his underwear.
The night wears on and everyone’s latent alcoholism kicks in. Women have been drinking bright green drinks that look a lot like anti-freeze, and they’re ready to go for a higher degree of difficulty. That’s when I have to make sure nobody makes a dangerous dance class maneuver anywhere near my one good knee. It’s never a plus-sized gal dancing out of control, or even a multiplication-sized gal, they usually have everything moving in the same direction. It’s the athletic girl who wouldn’t be able to put one foot in front of the other 10 times if she was asked to by a cop with a flashlight, who tries for a triple axel so close to my face.
The DJ was pretty good, at least sometimes he played a whole song. People’s attention spans are so short now that they seemingly cannot sustain an entire song anymore. You don’t even need a lead guitarist these days, because the DJ is going to be moving on right after the first chorus. And if you’re a lead guitarist, don’t give me that long face, because we don’t really have time for it. You’re going to have to shorten your face.
Anyway, the DJ played that Rihanna song that I like where she finds “love in a homeless place.”
“Hey, dopey, it’s ‘hopeless place!’” my wife said. I can never remember lyrics too well. If it’s “hopeless place” I assume Rihanna is referring to our garage.
Let’s see... he played that “Get your sexy on” tune. I was going to do exactly that, but once I get my sexy on it’s hard to get it back off again. Then the DJ took the mike and started chanting along with the song, but his diction wasn’t that great and it sounded like he was singing, “I got chicken hands!”
He played that Robin Thicke song, which consists of two chords. There are only TWO chords in the entire song, and he had to collaborate with the guy who wears the Smokey the Bear hat to write it. TWO CHORDS, and he was successfully sued for STEALING THE SONG! Did he write one chord and the guy with the Smokey the Bear hat wrote the other one?
All through the night the waitresses are shuttling in and out, they are super efficient, really cute and all under five feet tall. There’s a whole society going on down there that I know nothing about. If these girls were in charge of the government, when all was said and done, a lot more would get done.
Then they played Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” and I knew that either the enchanted evening was over, or the Yankees game had ended. When you hear that song you have to slip out quickly before somebody turns on the lights and exposes those mysteries that are better left untold.
Say hello to Rick Melén at firstname.lastname@example.org.