On Friday night I did something I haven't done since I was in high school: I went dancing.
I know. I can't believe it either.
For those who don't know me, I am not exactly the "clubbing" type. I hate crowds and loud music. I refuse to pay a cover. I also have deeply rooted aversion to leaving the house after dark. Not only was the band at a club downtown (bouncer? Check. Velvet rope? Check and check) but the gig started at midnight. As in midnight. As in approximately 5 hours before a certain toddler-sized rooster starts crowing for the day. But it was my birthday this week (still mentioning it) and I decided that the best way to celebrate was by telling my comfort zone to frak off. So I rang up Scott, the lead singer of a wildly popular 80's band, Rubix Kube, and asked if I could come to the show. So what if I hadn't talked to him in over a decade? If you think that was going to stop me from begging for passes, you don't know me at all.
And friends, it was awesome.
How awesome was it? THEY PLAYED ERASURE. Scott got us entry to the VIP area but we only spent about 3 minutes with the beautiful people before racewalking to the dance floor. Not that that stopped us from flashing our VIP wristbands at every opportunity. ("Oh, you DON'T need to see my VIP wristband to go to the bathroom?") The crowd was heavy on the douchebags (holding up your thumb like a lighter and shoving it into the face of the singers for 5 entire songs? Not nearly as funny as you think it is) but at least everybody seemed keen on having a good time. Nothing sucks more than watching a bunch of hipsters roll their eyes when all you want to do is raise your hands in the air like you don't care. And I did. I totally did. At one point I even got freak danced! Which was totally awkward! Thank god my friend Amanda was there. Being air-humped by a guy in a baseball cap is even more hilarious when there's someone there to share in the weirdness.
Seriously, it was one of the most fun nights I've had in years. Maybe ever. Rumor has it there are pictures...
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