I go to the Black Cat’s bad music night and have a great time. There are maybe two, three songs out of 25 that I don’t freak to, jerking and dancing like a epileptic in a gas chamber. Towards 1 a.m. I notice that I’ve danced so feverishly that I’ve sweated off my hand stamp. Both the red “over 21” stamp and the black backstage stamp have vanished.
I head right outside the backstage and ask the ticket-taker/stamper, who’s a bit occupied explaining the theme of the night to a glammy guy and his girlfriend, to re-stamp my hand.
“Why don’t you have a stamp?”
“It was hot in there and I got sweaty.”
“He doesn’t have a stamp,” she says to a fellow ticket-taker/bouncer.
“You need a stamp!” she says. “Where’s your stamp?”
“Go outside and get stamped!”
“Wait, can’t you just…”
And the bouncer shines a white light on me, exposing the layers of sweat generated by “Get Into My Dreams (And Into My Car”) and “I’m Too Sexy” and “The Final Countdown.” I am frogmarched to the bathroom.
“Why are you soaking wet?”
“I was… dancing.” As I say this I sigh, internally – no explanation will work tonight.
“Dry off your hand and come back out here. I’ll be waiting.”
This is done, but Jesus, I’m really sweaty. The thing is, I get really nervous when I’m packed in a room and when I’ve, you know, got a light shined on me as I am marched through that crowded room. The sweat issue has hardly resolved itself. I peel my black shirt off my white undershirt and walk outside.
“Look, I just…”
“Here, get stamped.”
For some reason I acquiesce and get the stamp for the bar I’m absolutely not re-entering tonight. And that’s how I danced so hard I got kicked out of a dance party.