“I’ll throw tea ANYWHERE! ROCK N’ ROLL!” said someone, presumably.
Barcelona is below ground, with stone walls. According to audiophiles, this is good for sound.
There was an elevated seating area in the corner, behind the bar. While we waited for the music to get better, we investigated. Another couple was already hanging out in this secluded section.
The woman blocked the entrance. “This is the VIP section. Are you 21? Ok, you can hang out with us.” She indicated the passels of younger women on the dance floor, their tiny 18-year-old bodies gyrating hither and thither, pumping their little fists marked with X’s. “It’s like Chuck-E-Cheese in here!” A couple of girls strutted by in hot pants. “Look at those little sluts!” Po showed me how she had tied the excess fabric of the back of her dress into a knot to make it shorter. “THIS,” she screamed, “is CLASSY.” I agreed vigorously. “What’s your name? Molly? I love Molly! She’s my favorite girlfriend! I’m hanging with her right now!” (I get this a lot.)
Her boyfriend, a veteran in his early 30’s with a shattered knee, was new to electronic music. We chatted about his life in the army while Po went to smoke a cigarette. “What’s your girlfriend’s name? I didn’t catch it.” “She goes by Po. That’s her thing. I have to respect her thing.”
Upon returning, Po continued to scowl at the other girls. “They think they can dance! My three-year-old is a better dancer.” She did an impression of her daughter’s moves. “If I have another daughter, I’ll name her Molly.”
Po recommended that we twerk. “Max! Twerk!” Max twerked too close to the sun recently, having followed an instructional video only to pull a muscle and retire immediately on the verge of a promising twerking career.
Having recently come into some cash from my Craigslist freelance editing gig, I was generous with myself in terms of tequila. I don’t remember what Salva sounded like, but I do remember dancing like a mo fo.
The next morning was a four-beverage kind of morning.