We went to a party last night in Bernal Heights, at the home of a guy we have learned to love as a zombie-lover and excellent dance party-thrower. The last time we were there, our dance party was so intense that it became a "Dance Party on the Move," (a term we have patented), for which there were two rooms, one playing dirty hipster rock, the other playing old school Michael Jackson, both ideal for dancing conditions. Dancing got so necessary that suddenly just dancing to one song wasn't enough, so at any point in any song, someone would yell "DANCE PARTY ON THE MOVE, LETS GO GO GO!" at which point we would all run down the hallway in our fancy attire (it was a dress-up party), stampeding with our platform boots and dress shoes down the wood panel floors to the next room, and we'd bust out there even harder than we had in the other room. This happened a good seven or eight times before we just stuck to one room and rocked out for the rest of the night.
This party, although I did not stay long enough to witness the "Dance Party Turned No Pants Party," was also pretty great, given the excellent company these people provide. There was no official theme, but being that Bunny and I don't like going to parties without being in some kind of theme, we requested one for ourselves, which we often do, to which Sean (the host) responded "Be Your Favorite Verb." This was gold. So I safety-pinned some quick-drawn patches on my shirt and decided to be Command-Z,
because my favorite thing to do is