all my shoes are dancing shoes

Let's fucking talk about it.

Me and D. left the place we were playing poker, and decided to drop by the Tube. On Saturdays they have a DJ that plays lots of 1950s-60s soul and R&B records. If you can't dance to soul and R&B, you probably root for the Lakers (as we all know, a cardinal sin). But here's the thing -- I don't know if you know the Tube (it's downtown, right off Burnside), but it's a hipster bar -- small, cozy, but still unforgivingly hip, so when we got there the crowd was largely seated, off in the booths, along the sides with their hair done, their make-up carefully arranged, and desperately waiting to see if other scenester people like them were going to show up to validate their fashion sense.

So me and D.? We walked in, we set down our bags, and we started dancing. At first, it was the two of us, but obviously we didn't care. Some well-meaning (and obviously decent) fellows quickly joined in; our two person dance party had become five. We danced with even more fervor. As new patrons came in and approached the bar, I made sure to turn and shake directly at them, to let them know -- you are at a place where people are dancing, and if you're not dancing, you're fucking uncool.

And shake, shake, shake a leg we did. We fucking held it down. We did not stop. We absolutely perservered.

By the time we left? There was a full dance floor. More or less the entire bar was flooded with people getting down. We had a few different people come and compliment us, tell us we started the whole thing, mention how we were the police of the dance floor and such. It was ours. It is ours. We own that space.

In a nuthsell that's me and D. We went to a bar. No one was dancing. We started dancing. When we left the whole fucking place was shaking a leg. That's what the two of us did, that's the power the two of us have. Your welcome, Portland, because tonight you enjoyed yourself a little bit more because of us.