Luna

I went to Luna last night.

Intrigued by "free green beer" and the fact that I have never been there . . . plus there was the idea supplied by someone that old punk rockers hang out there, which of course is exactly what one looks for in a future husband . . . I dragged my poor friend H out on St. Patrick's Day.

We met there, so I had to walk in alone. And as I walked through the door, I was magically transported to the year 1988 or 1989 . . . and magically transported to what looked like someone's basement. And as much as I like Joy Division, it's amazing harder to dance to when you are not a depressed, mopey teenager.

Hell yes, I danced. Some sixty year old in Nikes, sweatpants and a baseball cap danced with me. It was very goth . . . or about as goth as it was in 1989 when he was dancing in City Club in less comfortable clothing. And dancing when you are in your thirties to music that you listened to as a teenager? Well, in some ways you are less self-conscious . . . it's your music, you know it inside and out. Your anthems. Rock on. And in some ways, as least I, was more self-conscious because I was well aware how dumb we all looked. My teenage students would have been mortified (and I guess since I am now old enough to be their mother, rightfully so).

We couldn't talk. It was smoky. And really loud. And very dark . . . except for the black lights. And I did not plan for black lights, did not lint brush appropriately. All of this made me long for the Front or the Emory, where I could sit down and have a conversation. Because I am old.

And there was no one that I remotely wanted to talk to, other than the people I was with . . . well, except for the guy in the homemade Ghostbusters costume, but only for these two questions: 1. What does the movie Ghostbusters have to do with St. Patrick's Day? (because the guy in the kilt, I get) And depending on the answer to one . . . 2. Why?

I know, I know, I want to dye my hair blue over the summer and therefore should not judge the man who carefully painted plastic plates and combined them with L.E.D.s to go out, complete with patches on his flight suit. But it's so hard not to.

So Luna . . . some goth kid's basement on steroids . . . with weird "I'm trying to be a suicide girl" bartenders, who don't quite make it (although everyone was incredibly nice) (despite the fact that they were almost naked, and therefore probably cold) some people wearing the same clothes (I did wear my leather jacket, circa 1991, so . . . guilty)

And if I wanna dance . . . well, I like my kitchen much better for the dancing.

And no, the free green beer did not pass by my lips . . . there was Guinness, though it was in a bottle.