Definitely one of them disco sucks boys back in the seventies. Too many rules in them bass happy horas for this rock and roller so you'll excuse me for ignoring Donna Summer when my last dance card is punched and I kiss the spirit in the sky.
Though just shy of sixty I dropped in a dive featuring old school rock cover bands and glittering cobwebs figuring I'd lean against the wall with eyes closed and head bopping while swigging from a long neck Budweiser. A goth gal maybe two score my junior pulls me to the dance floor despite my protestations of being too fragile to frolic with bones rattling like broken glass in a box. Kids with cellphones circling like buzzards. By the bridge of "Get out of Denver," my lungs are burning and the lead mullet's measuring me for my burial suit.
But the rush lingered like a lover's perfume. Funny how pushing that envelope with my saint's prayer on a Mass card makes me come alive and now it's fuck the marathon, I'm sprinting to the finish and Saint Peter can bury my bones wherever the hell he wants cause the music in me ain't dying.