Dance Parties

Start with a few friends.

Add a few drinks, preferably of the “?and tonic” or “?on the rocks” variety.

Throw in a bit o’ spice, an impeding bar closing, and what do you get?

The perfect recipe for a late night dance party.

You inevitably end up at someone’s humble abode, crank up the music, (or “Jizz-ams” as my friend Brandy calls them,) and contort your already-drink-impeded body into frighteningly unimaginable positions. A game of Twister-gone-bad to a soulful soundtrack, and you are, my friend, dancing like a white person.

The 3-5am hours are often the time that brings out many people’s creativity. When else would you think that vodka and coke would make a tasty delight, or that Tanguerey would be tasty with iced tea? Aaah, those late-night concoctions?you’re a genius when you’re a-pourin’, but the next day? Somehow your Mensa application doesn’t seem so valid anymore.

Wearing sunglasses, a pink scarf with your camouflage-inspired wrap dress and knee-high athletic socks is haute couture in the wee hours of the morn; it is only when waking up in this glamorous garb that you begin to have second thoughts about your fashion expertise.

Wreaths on heads? Brilliant. Showcasing your breakdancing skills, unutilized since the 3rd grade classes you begged your parents to let you take, is but a stroke o’ genius. The rug burn the next day is what kills ya.

And yet, hangover ensuing the morning after, pictures providing the un-glorious evidence or the eve prior, you swear you won’t be doing THAT again. Checking your “outgoing call log” on your cell phone as a reminder of who you falsely believed would LOVE to hear from you at 4:00am, especially in a pseudo-Mexican accent, is enough to scare you straight (or end all chances of EVER having a romance with any of those, say, 72 people you called.) Waking up in your friend’s bed with 4 other people fighting for a bit of covers and trying to de-stick their contacts from your eyes is, I suppose, the circa-2002 throwback to the days of 70’s love-ins (except you’re rarely getting the love, considering you’re usually shacking up with your roommate/sister/best friend of the same sex.) Aaah, the injustice of it all.

So as you head towards another weekend o’ fun and frolic, decked out in your greatest garb to head to the hottest new club/bar/pub, I offer you a bit of advice:

Stock the fridge with some coke, load the CD-player with some Al Green, and make sure you’ve got Advil and Fabreze to make it all go away the next day.

Happy 2002 everyone…wishing you 365 wonderful days and nights full o’ dancin,


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