There is something satisifying in telling people I spent my weekend at a Prom.
"Oh you chaperoned?"
"No, I was invivted."
(look of confusion sets in, bleeding to fear)
That is right Catamounts, I spent my saturday night being a stand in date for someone at a Prom. But before you get your panties in a tiwt and began insisiting that I have a thing for 16 year-old-girls I might need explain my positon here.
What's the score?
This was not some ordinary lack-luster prom where everyone gets dressed up and pretends this is the last time we will get dressed up and dance to the current pop hits of hte day - my high school prom theme was, Leane Womack's I hope you dance.
This, kiddies, was the local radio station's Second Chance Prom where 20-somethings and young 90s generation dwellers get fucked up and writh away the night.
I was asked at the last second to stand in for a boyfriend who apparently had to bail at the last second. It was doing a favor she said - which I think is why she kept buying my drinks.
At this point in this post you are probably asking, "Mike, what the hell do I care what you did on Saturday night."
And you are right. You probably don't. You want to come here for some introspection. A lesson, something to take away.
Well, fuck you for judging me and let me tell you: I don't dance enough.
Oh, I go to shows and enjoy music and will nod my head in apparoval and clap only when they play good versions of their own songs. But I am never the one who is letting lose and simply dancing - As Womack so incipidly insisted my senior class to do.
It's uncouth to bust a move - espectially ones as busted as my own. But this weekend you could not deny in the infectous nature of dancing to the rock version of 80s music.
You can't not dance when Flock of Sea Gulls or Oasis, hell, even The Buggles come banging from a five string bass and over tuned guitar.
For two sets, three whole hours, and an unknown number of free drinks - its good to know people who work in the radio business - I jumped and swang and moved.
Originally I was not going to take up this invitation - family had taken over my weekend this being the time when we honor the death of the Easter Bunny.
But at the last second I decided It was something I needed to do. An advneture that could not be denied. It would have been a sin. They didn't sell tickets to this advneture. No, you had to win them in some contest or know someone who worked at the station.
It was, of course, well worth it - a revival of sorts to get the juices flowing and the desire to get back in the business of dragging people by the wrist to random places and things.
I'v gotten into a bad habit of not making the kinds of decisions that put me in the middle of advnetures. It was easy when I was based in the original TEmple of GOnzo to find an advneture. There was somehting going on around all the time.
Here, though, people are resigned to their own lives and a lack of advneture seems to be what they enjoy. Gardening, babysitting a dog, knitting. These are not adventures. These are activities that keep people at home and in the safe comforts of their suburban dwellings.
Well, I'm not resigning to that. I think this partially is why I'm getting out of the suburbs all together. I can't leave, not yet. But we need a new view from the windows in my home.
There are missions a head of me and I see a new following forming in hte ministry of Gonzo. People seem willing to gobble down what it means to dance, drink and listen to rock and roll - real rock and roll - now that they have had a taste.
They were a little hesistant the first time. The coughed a bit on that first inhale. Their heads and ears rang a little after the first riff. But they seem o be coming around.
They seem to understand what is in store for them this summer. They seem to know, one of us might not come back alive, but they are willing to sign on and sign away what privacy and dignaty they have left.
There are no secrets in these hallowed halls as th summer aproaches.
And for fuck's sake - dance.