When The Wheels Come Off

For me as much as for anyone, there are no shortage of reminders that I am only human. Once I get to be riding very high in any respect, there always comes the humbling moment to bring me back down to terra firma. This is the case where the body is concerned as well as the mind. I never have been the kind of person with an aptitude for athletics. My greatest achievement of that kind was to block two shots in succession during a pick-up basketball game during the sixth grade. After that, it's all downhill. If I were ever to forget that and let myself believe that I were in possession of physical attributes allowing me to go above and beyond the capacity of ordinary men, recent events would surely have set me straight with no possibility of confusion.

It will be no surprise that this humbling came in the context of partying. I have a lot of friends these days, and my friends throw a lot of parties. At these parties there is not always a lot of alcohol and never substance abuse, but two things on which you may rely as a near-certainty are themed costume parties and dancing. Always is there dancing. I will never be described as the finest dancer in the group, but I'm always game. On a recent weekend, a string of parties was planned. It started off with a party of complicated provenance held in the neighborhood of MacArthur Park, right down the street from the Mexican Consulate. It went rather late and was marked by nearly uninterrupted thumping music and dancing to match. I did my best, and then went home.