Industrialized dancing in a black room with cement floor, wild working rhythm generating its own exertion of knees and hips and chests and shoulders. We were kung-fu fighting, we were rocking the casbah.

Ten television screens overload raging in colors, white noise supreme, scenes of ice-skating bloopers, dreams of color swirling, clips from Godzilla Vs. Mechagodzilla, ridiculous rubber fire-breathing dragons. Nerd bank illuminati, three immobile faces working behind the spin man, catching and overlaying the live video feed of the crowd in the negative, in the polarized, in the spectrum.

The whole throbbing crowd breathing in out in out banging hard and with the tempo, feeling the concussions travel from heels to skull, feeling the throb in fingertips, feeling the sweat on faces. Senses of taste and smell, sense of touch dulled with the heavy vibrations, depth charges of bass, constant thump against the bone’s marrow.

Everything moves with the tempo, feet, elbows, eyebrows, hair, all moves with the rhythm, throat drinking beer in time, door opening in cadence, the whole place tuned so well doing it so right that if exhaustion caused any of us to collapse we would even fall on the downbeat.

For the ladies. Keep doing what you do.