And dance we did last Friday night. It was fun! And to think I went around with a bunch of friends I had met through internet. Well, ask about my closer friends and they are dilly-dallying about their better-halves permitting them or family issues taking the precedence. Moreover, I would not enjoy acting hoity-toity pushing them to the dance floor against their will. Of course, it’s not like inviting them for a decent hour of tea and snacks or dinner. It’s actually asking them to rip their clothes off and get crazy in a crowd attuned by a disastrous set of noise that hey call ‘music’ and breathe the same air puffed out of the lungs of the smoking-scores of lads. I would call them Chimneys-with-limbs-that-can-dance. And not forgetting to mention the booze they dip themselves into. A new name yet… Wet-Chimneys-with-limbs-that-can-dance.
They tell me good dancers are good lovers. I look around the room. Mmmm… plenty of lovers, all good ones. I mean the girls. Leave the men to my friend standing next to me, he seems to enjoy looking at the boys dance. Anyway, he’s too drunk to make out guys from girls! The three ladies join us again, back from freshening up. Well, they said they were, but to me they looked like puffed up zombies. But such darlings they are I look through their scary faces and return their smile. The music in this particular place is simply great. No prize for guessing, nor am I telling you which lest I risk being called me and my friends men of poor taste. This is my second time in two months and it is enjoyable as before. And this is my second time too with the same team, five of us; one smart man in me, the other drunkard who can’t make boys from girls, and three puffed up zombies who have to rush to the loo (well they prefer calling it Ladies Common Room) to keep the powder on their face in place.
Well, there’s no Ricky Martin going ‘Shake Your Bon Bon!’ I think he’s run obsolete with time. But shaking our Bon Bon is what we are actually doing. The five of us make a circle, put our drink in the middle and dance around it which takes me to a sub-saharan tribal dance thanking their gods for the cannibalistic diet ushered to them. Each one of us have a cigarette tugged between our lips. I do so since it makes me feel like Clint Eastwood. And I dance ‘cos it makes me feel like Michael Jackson. Yet I look at others, know they must share the same feelings as me, and yet I just see a bunch of rowdy souls. Now that’s not so charming. Still life is not always about being what you have to, achieving always what you what or enacting syllables that have been printed. There’s no charm in it. The real charm lies in breaking a few small rules now and oft.
Talk about breaking rules and smoking comes straight to mind. There’s three of us buying two packets of cigarettes each and huffing and puffing them to glory. Now that’s a disaster when we have to judge health, morale and law wise. But yes, while the clock struck 2 AM, we were still having fun. And as we returned to the cold sheets of our own bed, I am sure I was all smiles throughout the sleep ‘cos I get this feeling I still dreamt this sweet dream of me and my friends shaking our bon bon!
We cannot escape the wordly associates of pain and suffering but we sure can laugh at them at times and dance our way through. Good Luck to you all!