rollerskating rinks are interesting places. i went to one tonight for the first time since, i think, a circa-fifth-grade birthday party. and lemme tell ya, between 1989 and now, a lot has changed.

brigitta threw herself a little gathering at this rink in columbia to celebrate her 27th year. she subtitled the event "obsession with regression." i don't like to skate (wheels are meant for cars, not feet). but i do love brigitta, and any chance to hang out with my buddies from the old-school retriever weekly crew is guaranteed to be a good time. in other words, brigitta isn't the only one obsessing with regressing.

i arrived, paid the $6 entry fee, declined the skate rental (which got me a strange, "are-you-sure-you're-not-here-to-pick-up-the-kiddies?"-look from the lady behind the counter), pushed my way through droves of loud, rolling preteens, and approached the rink, where i scanned the zig-zaggy crowd for any sign of my friends. it was kinda dark and confusing, so i changed my strategy to waiting until they saw me. so i stood up against a wall. in my raincoat. with my hands in my pockets. watching the kids whiz by. until i realized i probably really did look like a pedophile kidnapper. at which point i took the raincoat off, and instead probably looked like a pedophile kidnapper in a burgundy V-neck sweater.

luckily, jen promptly saw me from the rink and skated over. then various other familiar faces rolled up: brigitta, david, casey, karen, ian, leah. i was actually the only one there not skating. but everyone was great about making sure there was usually at least one pal to sit on the sideline benches with at all times. and when there wasn't, i just hung with the sundry parental supervision. some friendly moms and dads there. i joined a book club.

it was pretty alarming watching the young'uns skate. more often than not, they'd start grinding to the music, wriggling their osh kosh b'gosh-sized hips around in an attempt to look "hip" and "sexy." it'd have been sort of perversely funny if it didn't attain such a high jon-benet level of creepiness. but other than the dance moves, the kids seemed to have OK taste. they all clamored into the rink when the DJ began playing beyonce's "crazy in love," then appeared to flee in horror when the follow-up turned out to be hilary duff. i'm sorry, and i know i'm not exactly poor hil's target audience, but have you seen her album cover? it looks like an overly-touched-up high school yearbook photo with the glittery turqoise background that set her parents back $8 extra. the shit on there can't be good.

i rest my case.

we ended up leaving the rink shortly after the duff debacle because one of the referees accosted brigitta's old college roommate adrienne about her "inappropriate" outfit. the upper part of her chest was exposed or something. whatever. they didn't seem to mind the 11- and 12-year-olds who were dressed like rollergirl from boogie nights. so we went to a cozy little pub nearby, where the conversation was merry, the appetizers were decent, and, most importantly, the amaretto sours were $3.20. sahweeeeeeet.

quote of the day: upon hearing a horrid performance of chris isaak's "wicked game" come from the bar area.
"oh, it's karaoke night here?" me.
"no, that's a band." david.