Being as genetically blessed as I am, I have previously stated that I sweat like a whore on dollar day. In my twenties and thirties, I also loved to dance. In the late eighties / early nineties there was a roving nightclub called Vagabond. It was a blast a different bar every week, usually it was a last minute announcement, and a horde of Philly's finest would show up. By the middle 90's it was gone, but it was replaced by SHAFT Fridays at Shampoo. Shampoo still exists, and when it opened it was the BOMB. Situated in a huge old warehouse, it had everything you could want.
In the White Room, my friend Eddie Sittler would DJ. The room itself was a long rectangle, with the DJ booth at the end like a stage., and he pretty much spun remixes of older dance / disco tracks. In the basement was a deep house room, and the main dance floor was standard dance music.
I had agreed to meet my friend Beth there one Friday night after she had an art opening. There was the usual cast of characters in place, drag queens, gogo boys and girls, and all of the Philly Gay-list. Beth is carrying on in a floor length chiffon Muu-Muu, holding court as she should, since tonight is all about her. Gradually the place packs up. Since I had worked earlier in the day, and had already lubed up on the never ending shift drink, I was raring to go.
Beth drags a bunch of us up onto a speaker box to dance. I climb that box like monkey on a leash and start swinging my shit. Thumping bass, hot mama's, swirling chiffon, and me, the shirtless lawn sprinkler, have managed to capture the attention of the dancing HoMo's below us. Beth has discovered the steel girder holding up the ceiling which is in the center to the boxes we have climbed on, and is using it as a stripper pole. We are just having a blast, dancing like the world is going to end.
As I have previously stated in other posts, that there comes a point in time when my inebriation inevitably supersedes my coordination. Stumbling over my size twelve feet, and looking like I am attempting to direct a fighter pilot onto the moving deck of an aircraft carrier, I lose all control of my body, slam into the girder and go flying off the speaker box. Shirtless, and covered in sweat I sail through the air, slam into the dancefloor and skid a good four feet before my perspiration lubricated torso comes to a stop on the gritty filthy floor.
Jumping to my feet I scream "I am OK!!" and go off to grab another cocktail (priorities people, PRIORITIES, I did just fall off a speaker.) My chest is now as black as a chimney sweep's face, so I go to the restroom to clean up and put my shirt back on. On my way back to the dance floor, I decide that it may be time for me to stop dancing, and Beth and the girls are lounging at the end of the bar. "Hey Jim, stand HERE" Beth orders. As I assume my position at the bar it becomes apparent why she wants me to stand in this spot.
When I fell, I slid directly across one of the main paths from the first floor to the main dance floor, and we watch in hysterics as the perfect pretty boys hit my grease spot on the floor and skid like they are on ice skates. Watching as one Princess after another makes his grand entrance, hits the mark, skids and spills a cocktail becomes an ongoing source of amusement for us, as we LOVE watching Philly's Phinest Phaggots lose their shit.
As we go to leave and climb into our various cabs, Beth says in a boozy slur, "We should do this again!" Waving goodbye from my taxi, I think.... Tomorrow?
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