Dance hall days

So D. comes back from Frankfurt, Amsterdam, wherever really, then tells over dinner of this alleged pile of CDs from the 1980s he brought along.
“So whaddaya mean, really,” I ask him between the wolfing of the bruschetta and the champagne. “Like, The very best of Wang Chung, volume three?”
He´s pretty much the only one to laugh from across the table.

A couple of hours afterwards Darkseid, who´s like this constipated angry god from back in the comics kidnaps Wonder Woman from Brainiac´s ship into his own on TV, only to discover she was a robot duplicate after all (thus always to transvestites, blow-up dolls, clones and robot duplicates...).
I take one last sip from the sort-of nutty, sweet port wine then turn off the DVD player and glimpse past the window outside only to see the very first droplets of rain in almost two months, then decide against going to this nightclub on my own anyhow, and off to the shower.