Don't Drop the Bomb

This past Sunday was another lovely evening at the Indiana Roof Ballroom. As always, the venue was perfect – walking through the doors of the Roof just gives you a sense of peace, a kind of days-gone-by ease of mind. We always arrive early and when first step out onto the hardwood I feel the tension drop about three notches.

Maybe it’s the subdued lighting. It’s a little like walking into the last rays of evening with the day behind you, the stars just starting to show through the violet-tinged sky, and a chorus of crickets warming up for the night’s performance (this Sunday that chorus was the horn section of the Lonny Lynn Orchestra limbering up their lips). Maybe it’s the way a historic venue like the Roof rhymes with my personal taste – I swear in another lifetime I must have spent most of my time hanging around the dancehall. Who knows what the real answer is, all I can say is that for me things are just that much better on the dance floor.

The Lonny Lynn Orchestra was…mediocre. They were on key but their selections weren’t suited to my particular taste for faster swing tunes and dreamier foxtrots. Apparently Mr. Lynn loves the foxtrot, though – the balance of his program ranged from draggy to spritely foxtrots from the 40’s and 50’s. They did throw in a bit of Latin music but strictly as an afterthought and with a version of Tequila that was slow enough to make Dan Flores (its author) cry and order something a little stronger.

But the so-so music wasn’t the thing that will stay with me. No, there is a horrific memory that I will relive possibly for the rest of my life.

About half way through the evening my dear wife and I were enjoying one of the few up-tempo swings the band pulled off. We were tripling with glee, right in the middle of the venerable dance floor surrounded by some people who probably were nearly old enough to remember its heyday when…it happened.

I came out of a figure-eight and right into a low-lying cloud of noxious gas. You know the type? The kind that not only makes your eyes water but seems to follow you around to maximize its lethality? I don’t know which of the (quite literally) old farts around us passed the gas but there’s definitely a dance law that needs to be stated here:

If you are about to soil your underwear, have the freaking decency to leave the dance floor and do it in private!

To this end I’d like to recommend a few changes to the Roof’s catering menu:

No more broccoli in the curette platters.
No more BBQ meatballs.
No more cheese platters.

Yes, that cuts down on at least one of my favorites but for the safety of those out on the dance floor I think I can manage the sacrifice.