Last Saturday eve, after taking in a Twins game with a friend, we here at Blogagaard, Inc. found ourselves improbably enjoying the downtown Minneapolis nightlife with a third friend who met us at a bar. Indeed, last Saturday Blogagaard could be spotted sitting elbow to elbow with the sort of meat market crowd that talks too loudly about really inane shit like hockey and tanning booths and, ah, whatever else I have now blocked out (hopefully forever).
To say our radar is not really in-tune with the hyper-flirtatious loud shouting youth of today is perhaps a great understatement, given that even at 21 Blogagaard was frightened of all manner of bar-related interaction. But now, as 33 fast approaches like a mighty puma, we felt like a big moose lumbering through a sexy penguin convention, especially as we ventured into, gasp, an actual discotheque of some kind and found ourselves drinking one penny whiskey cokes and bobbing to utterly incomprehensible music.
But the booze helped, and we danced, and even had us some fun. Then one of our associates suddenly decided, out of nowhere, that he was really tired and just sat down like a thirty-something lump on a plush sofa. And then, most surprisingly of all, we found ourselves disappointed that the dancing was over already, before we could really do some groovy lumbering. We'd managed to shut it down, to shut it all down! The thinking! The thinking was shut down and replaced by dancing!
Then, after a respite, we three old men departed the club, just as the true owners of the night came streaming in through the door, dressed in surreal, skin-tight clothing that tugged upon the heart if dwelt upon too long, for a myriad of reasons.