I Dance At A Club For The Middle Aged

Last night, I was reading in bed when I got a call from my roommates, out on the town. They said that they were going dancing, and were wondering if I would like to come. I said that not only is dancing the only thing that would get me out of bed at that unholy hour, but is in fact the only thing that keeps me awake at night. Well, one out of two; I did not tell them of the constant burning question concering the chicken and the egg.

I dressed to the fives, which is my personal phrase to describe a stylish half effort: nice skinny black tie and a stiff shirt, but still the same jeans I've been wearing ever since I got here. We walked across Trastevere, the section of Rome we live in, to a club called New Scarabocchio. The club was at the end of a neon blue tunnel. It charged ten euros to enter. It charged two fifty to hold your coat. And it was full of the elderly.

Not entirely elderly; I exaggerate. The middle aged, to be more precise. We formed a small dance circle, threw out a couple of off hand moves, then sized the place up. And, sure enough, the mean, median, and mode age of the place was 42. There were those who tried to hide it: overly bronzed tone and skin pulled tight. But there were also those who cared not: bald spots and large tummies.

The club itself was equally ridiculous. The walls were covered in velvet and lined with couches. Epileptic lights alternately shone and shut off; because of this, I didn't talk to any pretty girls because there was a very good chance they had already birthed three children, mathematically speaking. There was a projection screen playing a subtitled Pearl Harbor the entire time we were there. Why? Exactly.

So offset was I that the entire time I was there I was only able to summon one, constant move, the simple (but still classy) snap. Whenever I found myself under the stares of older women, I would stand as still as a stone wall and would put on the strangest face I could remember, you know the one, the one from that Christmas I unwrapped WOW Worship. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it made the cougars want me more (that last part may be a lie; use your own judgement).

But here's the kicker: I stayed for a solid hour and a half, snapping all the way, afraid to look around because when I did I always met the gaze of the ghost of my mother. I had to know what happened to Dolittle's raid (Josh Hartnett dies).