There Yours Truly was and I can, perhaps, for the premier time, admit that I was not minding my own business.
I went to World's Largest Disco last night, having volunteered again to docudramaticize all the sub-happenings for Dave Pietrowski, knowing that YT wished to have a likeness captured via photons with celeb du soir, Danny Bonaduce. That kooky loose cannon filled in for snoozey Erik Estrada and Danny did not disappoint, first thing he did upon entering the VIP party was to march over to the top-40 dj in the house (Roger Christian) who earnestly slapped on "I Woke up in Love This Morning." Danny BonVivant asked Roger his name and he turned around in his faux Sabres jersey to reveal his name on the back - Roger. Well, Roger, Danny said in his spent-yet-distinctive voice, I always said that if I ever heard this song again I'd blow my brains out.
So there, song gone, Danny resumes standing alongside fans who shelt out $15 to have a Polaroid snap made of them, and him.
He wore a fire engine red suit with black shirt underneath and later, when he was upstairs doing more meet & greet & schmooze & smile I noted that his black shirt had fallen by the wayside and his hairy chest just hung there between the red lapels.
When he was on the mainstage with Dave Pietrowski he noted that many ladies in the house, probably braced by slutty polyester ensembles and scads of Grey Goose molecules and the like, had grabbed his nether regions. Not that he minded, he said.
When I had my likeness captured with him he held my shoulders oso tight as I asked if he'd liked the hockey game he had gone to with Dave P. the night before. He said he dug it, his first ever. I told him I'd just gone to my first game, too, thanks to Dave P. The man. The mover.
The usual mayhemish situs arose that one eyewitnesses at parties: polyester ass-grabs, dancefloor charisma and its yang ... the dancefloor wipeout, faux 'fro pickings, Sly Stone leanings, party train effusiveness, tentative shuffles, and Saturday Night Fever imaginings.
At some point it was time to give this annual 70s moment the slip before all the revelationized dancers became too too boogey-oogey-oogeyed.

Slippery poly-oly-ester Love.