We exit the mall, like Batman and Robin sans budget, jumping into a nearby taxi. The driver gives us the whatever once-over and we head to the club (which I hereby crown, Loserville) (just so I can stop calling it the fucking club). The chick on the door eyes our disguise.
“Where’d you two come from, Supernova?” (aka Aussie Comicon)
NASA and I have been to Loserville so often, we’re honorary citizens. The bouncers and DJ give us the nod like rodeo favourites, our sometime metaphorical (one time literal) spurs clinking as we mosey across the dance floor, tipping our metaphorical (one time literal) hat.
If you could splice together every dance movie ever made, throw in epilepsy and partial blindness, you’d see how we rip that dance floor a new one come Friday nights. Our dancing edict? Never surrender to one style, good taste or gravity. We cut a swathe through those two-stepping chumps with an array of backflips, twists and shouts.
We built our notoriety one leg-split at a time, my friends.
Probably our finest moment was what I fondly refer to as UN (United Nations) night. We were golden on that fateful day. NASA is a gymnast so, while she wowed the crowd with vaulting somersaults, I threw down a cocktail of Travolta, Astaire and Footloose. Most nights begin with the requisite ‘who the hell are these idiots?’ stares. But. Slowly. Surely, whispered asides of ‘what the fuck?’ are replaced with the wish to be One of Us.
Such was the power of UN night. Idiots from every nationality and walk of life came together in a glorious melting pot of drunken derangement. People who didn’t know each other, didn’t know us, were suddenly dancing as one – doing the conga, hopscotching across the floor, dancing on the graves of our smashed forefathers. I burned a hole clean through the sole of my right shoe that night. Through the very sole of Australia, compadres.
Pause for silence and awe at THE POWER OF DANCE (hangs head).
The night of my bir, NASA and I seized the dance floor – a pink duo of hero. We worked that dance floor like a couple of hookers on Sunset Boulevard. I got my Jack Rabbit Slim on and NASA was soon dancing with her cape over her head (I like to think, in a fitting tribute to Casper the drunken ghost). We danced as we always do: til they kicked our heroic asses out.