when i lived in london, i went dancing all the time. the mean fiddler had a fantastic 70s, 80s and 90s dance party with a different decade on each floor, and jazz cafe could always be counted on to provide the sweet soul music.
but i haven't been "dancing" in new york. well, once. i went with my super hot friend and her super hot friends and we got all dressed up in terribly uncomfortable clothes and shoes and went somewhere that cost $20 to get in. we proceeded to dance for two songs until some guys offered to get us a table and some bottles. then we got smashed.
recent weddings have offered a bit of solace. i can usually count on at least an hour of good tunes to which i can shake my derriere. but it wasn't until friday that i had two, maybe three hours straight of unbelievable dance music to glue me to the dance floor. i danced till i was sweaty and exhausted and out of breath and then i danced some motherfucking more.
it was one of my bocce teammates' (woo hoo undefeated!) birthday, and he threw a pretty substantial bash, and had some of his friends dj, they were all great, built up the energy of the night quite well, i thought. there were a shitload of people, and we had the whole downstairs of loreley to ourselves, and despite it being super dark and roasting and full of those stupid dioramas (one of which i believe i was dared to disassemble at one point, but i couldn't reach far enough into it to do any real damage), it was a rad time. we kept talking about being ready to go, but the music kept going, and we kept getting more ($7!!!) beers and dancing and staying. until about 4, i think.
honestly, don't remember much else than the dancing. at one point someone (i think the birthday boy) chucked a glass across the room and it smashed against the brick wall, that was fairly exciting.
my friend and i also decided that if you're in line to use the bathroom and you actually have to pee, you should be able to jump ahead of people who are using it for other reasons.
more at manlio rules