New Town Crier

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Dancing Queen

I’m not old, but when I went out the other night to recapture my youth, I found it all to be a bit sad. What happened to the days of cool? Were those days so last year?

I remember going to the club every night—yes, you read that right—I was a seven night a week girl. I would walk down the stairs, announce my entrance and promptly be greeted with a double rye and coke. Don’t mind if I do. The doorman, the dj, the bartender and the waiter all knew who I was. I was ‘that girl.’ The well dressed double rye and coke girl who could gyrate her hips in a tantalizing manner and make the boys (and girls) swoon.

I grew up in a gay bar, so the swooning boys weren’t of the take-home variety, but they did provide a great backdrop on which to pose myself against. And oh how they could dance. I thought my hips gyrated nicely, well please; those boys and their shaking asses put me and my hips to shame. As for the swooning girls, well, my charms are gender neutral, so there were occasions when I danced with the ladies too. Delicious.

Whether it was a boy or a girl offering themselves up as a dance partner, I was always free to oblige for at least one twirl around the dance floor… and if they bought me a cocktail the possibilities of reward opened that much wider.

There’s something infectious about a thumping bass beat to a girl high on rye and the fumes of gay-boy cologne. Maybe the possibilities weren’t the only thing that opened up wider? Ah yes, digressing here, but I did warn you last month about my affinity for cologne. Scent memory can make my body react in all sorts of interesting ways. Uh oh, I feel the urge to gyrate my hips… hey Mr. DJ, can you spin me a funky bass beat? If only it was that simple I’d be gyrating all the time.

But I’m living in the past here, of the fantasies of cool that accompany youth. The popularity that comes with attending the same venue every night of the week, and the nostalgia that comes with these day dreams and the soundtrack (oh boy, the tunes back in the day were delightful). Flash forward to present and my newfound dismay.

So, there I stood on a typical parquet dance floor, but rather than dripping with attractiveness it was only scantly clad with cool kids. I was nearly blown off my stilettos at the lack of funk, of gyrating hips, of sexy boys and hot girls. What happened from then to now? The bass beats seemed slightly watered down, the techno not nearly as sultry (I hear the sigh of disbelief there—did Nina really just imply that techno was sultry?) and the serving staff had absolutely no idea who I was. How can that be? Is there not some sort of Nina legacy passed down from generation to generation?

Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to run off to the record store (what is that?) and buy the new Madonna. If she’s nearly 50 and still busting out the moves, then I can be my delicate age and still sway and gyrate—and pour my own double rye and coke (and keep ‘em coming)!