The Flail: Medieval torture device or rockin dance move? Discuss.
As you may have noticed, it has been quite a bit of time since I last posted in here. Anyone who keeps in touch with me knows I am no longer being eaten alive by mosquitoes in Italy or freezing my fingers off at the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, but that I am back in Chicago, wittering stressfully (but kind of wonderfully) through my last days of college and the Dreaded B.A. Traveling adventures, for the moment, must be imagined vicariously through my Finnish Fiend iltarusko_65_25 and the lovely books sent by tattered_laces.
Last night, my delightfully insane roommates and I fulfilled a year-long dream: to go dancing. "What?" you may say, "Dancing? That is a relatively mundane ambition! Definitely not what we expect from those you identify as delightful AND insane." Well, that is what we did. And it was beautiful. After a day of flaring bad moods, several melodramatic "I'm not going!"s and one actual sit-down heart-to-heart, we finally herded into my car. Actually, we attacked my car with mittens and brushes until it resembled a rebellious pre-teen complete with snow-white mohawk and unenthusiastic snarl and we snowmen, until we were finally permitted entrance.
So we drove our way up to Belmont, four in the back, and the two up front getting friendly with the seat warmers, until we finally found a parking spot and hobbled up to our dancing destination: a club called Berlin. Arriving at 11:30pm, we were some of the first people there. However, there was this one man, about 65 years old, tall and with a bit of a pot belly, grooving it out by himself on the dance floor. And I mean some serious grooving out. It was amazing. He was a cross between Bring it On and Saturday Night Fever--all disco diva and boogie cheer in a pair of stone-washed jeans. The next to join him on the dance floor was "narcissistic boy," who literally spent the whole evening writhing in front of the very large mirror. Seriously, his eyes did not once leave his own gyrating form. So, add six flailing girls to one old man and one wriggly young thang, you get some crazy fun.
Eventually others filled in the gaps, including some very festively-dressed rag-doll types and a few jumpy swagsters, and narcissistic boy migrated to the top of the bar, where he could still see himself in the mirror. The music was a bit funny, with songs like "I don't like no small dick man," which kept repeated it's title line over and over and over and over and...yeah, paired with some classics. At the end of the night, we stumbled out with eardrums pounding, and into the all-night diner, Clarks for sweet potato fries and milkshakes, headeding home to rest our weary bones only after the ketchup ran out.
Needless to say, I woke up this morning quite sore from my exuberant flailing ways. Never underestimate the flail.
Last night, my delightfully insane roommates and I fulfilled a year-long dream: to go dancing. "What?" you may say, "Dancing? That is a relatively mundane ambition! Definitely not what we expect from those you identify as delightful AND insane." Well, that is what we did. And it was beautiful. After a day of flaring bad moods, several melodramatic "I'm not going!"s and one actual sit-down heart-to-heart, we finally herded into my car. Actually, we attacked my car with mittens and brushes until it resembled a rebellious pre-teen complete with snow-white mohawk and unenthusiastic snarl and we snowmen, until we were finally permitted entrance.
So we drove our way up to Belmont, four in the back, and the two up front getting friendly with the seat warmers, until we finally found a parking spot and hobbled up to our dancing destination: a club called Berlin. Arriving at 11:30pm, we were some of the first people there. However, there was this one man, about 65 years old, tall and with a bit of a pot belly, grooving it out by himself on the dance floor. And I mean some serious grooving out. It was amazing. He was a cross between Bring it On and Saturday Night Fever--all disco diva and boogie cheer in a pair of stone-washed jeans. The next to join him on the dance floor was "narcissistic boy," who literally spent the whole evening writhing in front of the very large mirror. Seriously, his eyes did not once leave his own gyrating form. So, add six flailing girls to one old man and one wriggly young thang, you get some crazy fun.
Eventually others filled in the gaps, including some very festively-dressed rag-doll types and a few jumpy swagsters, and narcissistic boy migrated to the top of the bar, where he could still see himself in the mirror. The music was a bit funny, with songs like "I don't like no small dick man," which kept repeated it's title line over and over and over and over and...yeah, paired with some classics. At the end of the night, we stumbled out with eardrums pounding, and into the all-night diner, Clarks for sweet potato fries and milkshakes, headeding home to rest our weary bones only after the ketchup ran out.
Needless to say, I woke up this morning quite sore from my exuberant flailing ways. Never underestimate the flail.