Saturday Night Pants-Dance Fever

For the last few days, I've been hanging out with an high school friend here in my old home town, having a great time reminiscing about the past. This evening, my friend decided it would be fun to have me check out one of his favorite spots, a local restaurant in Danvers by the name of the "Village Green". It seems that every Friday and Saturday night, this place hosts something they call a "singles dance", featuring a disc jockey, buffet, and plenty of mixed adult beverages. Folks reportedly flock to this event from as far away as New Hampshire and Boston; my friend (who is single) qualifies as "a regular", and reports that it's a hoot.

Now even though Mrs. Toast is 1,800 miles away in Texas, I'm still not exactly single, so I had to make sure this plan was OK with her. Fortunately, she trusts me to behave myself.

She also knows that I'm not going to be able to get in too much trouble while sporting my spiffy oxygen tank and nasal cannula. This accoutrement does not exactly scream "sexy".

So it was with much anticipation that I put on my best duds, coifed my hair, and prepared for a big night out on the town, which I have not done for many years. As we were getting into the car, my friend said to me:

"They're not going to let you in wearing those pants."

I had on crisp black denims and a black shirt, which I thought looked quite raffish in a Johnny Cash-sort of way; it was an outfit that any respectable Texan might wear to a bar or night club, and I scoffed at his suggestion that such attire might be considered inappropriate.

That is, until I met The Pants Nazi.

As we arrived at the club, at the door was a tiny blue-haired old lady collecting the $5 cover charge. In front of us was a man wearing nice looking blue jeans, who was in the process of receiving a lecture on Proper Attire for Gentlemen.

"No denim!" the Pants Nazi croaked, pointing to a large sign above the door stating that men must wear closed-toed shoes (no sandals), a collared shirt, and dress slacks. After haggling for a few minutes with no luck, the man said he was going to the local discount store to buy a pair of casual pants and would return shortly. I stepped up to her confidently and offered her my $5 bill, but she looked at me with disdain.

"You too," she said. "No denim allowed."

I tried to sweet-talk her, explaining that I had come all the way from Texas and these were the nicest pants I owned, but had no better luck than the previous gentleman (who was now monitoring my attempt to charm The Pants Nazi with great interest). "Hey, I'm going to the Mall to get some pants," he said to me. "If you want to go too, I'll give you a ride."

For a moment, the whole thing seemed so absurd that I considered telling the Pants Nazi to take a hike, and leaving. Then, I thought of the old Groucho Marx phrase, "I would never want to join any club that would accept someone like me as a member", and it became a freaking challenge to me. I suddenly remembered that I had another pair of pants outside in the Toastmobile; they were denim too, but of a much lighter fabric and color, with a pleated cut more like Dockers than jeans.

I looked The Pants Nazi in the eye and did my best Terminator impression: "Ah'll be bhaack," I said.

I felt like an idiot changing my pants in the car in the parking lot, and frankly I thought these pants were even more jeany-looking than what I had on to begin with. But change I did, and tromped back to the door to see if The Pants Nazi would approve the new cut of my jib.

"Whaddya think," I asked her, doing a little catwalk-turn for effect. "Will this pass muster?"

The Pants Nazi looked me over through her bat-wing glasses. "Close enough," she said. We were in! Not only that, she comped me the $5 cover charge because I had made the effort to change my pants. Maybe she had a soft spot after all.

Once inside after this fashion incident, I came face-to-face with one of the more bizarre sights I have yet seen on this trip: the blurb for singles night stated that the event was for anyone "from 30 to 60", but every single person I saw was much closer to the upper end than the lower end of this range. Numerous couples looked to be in their 70's. The sound of the Bee Gees boomed from the speakers while elderly men did their best Tony Manero and the ladies tried to "get down" without losing their false teeth on the dance floor. Holy shit, it was Disco Night at the Retirement Home! My oxygen tank and cannula was going to fit right in!

I'm certain that it's highly unlikely that the elderly blonde woman in the black dress that barely covered her bony ass is reading this blog, but in case she is (and you know who you are, Grandma) let me tell you this: any dress that leaves considerable doubt as to where your sagging boobs end and your extended stomach begins is not an attractive look for you.

I thought the entire affair was just wrong on so many levels, and it has quite frankly ruined the Bee Gees for me. I will never again be able to listen to Barry Gibb's sweet falsetto on Stayin' Alive without seeing the disturbing mental image of Grannies Gone Wild. Disco may be alive and well and living in Massachusetts; it is certainly, at the very least, on life support.