Last night, Rick and I were invited to a dance party at the home of some much younger friends. I haven't encountered such a terrific mix of 1975-to-present dance music since -- well, whenever. (How many twentysomethings do you know who buy a new turntable to play vinyl LPs of groups like the Average White Band?) We also contributed excerpts from the infamous Stahlhut 80s Tape; got everyone bouncing first to Romeo Void and then to the Gang of Four. Now wondering whether the next thirty or forty years will bring about an increase in dancing-related back and neck injuries among senior citizens trying to pogo to the oldies.

Years ago I belonged to a different social circle which, like this one, was filled with musicians and whose parties often erupted into bursts of energetic dancing. That group, though, unlike the current one, was burdened with an excess of head games. (Okay, maybe all groups have them, and it's just that I'm simply long past having to participate.) It was strange, though, that in the first group, I would outwardly eagerly await their parties, and the dancing, and the music, while inside I always felt like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. The latter assessment turned out to be correct. My reaction, fueled by the most intense rage I've ever felt in my life, resulted in my near-complete loss of interest in playing or listening to music of any kind. It's only slowly come back over the last two or three years, to the point where I can now touch the keyboard (my obsession until my late twenties) every few weeks without an increase in blood pressure.

That's why dancing with our new friends last night was as refreshing as forgiving an old enemy.