The night started out so well.

We each drank a glass of Johnny Walker Red in the hotel room, and gazed out at a gorgeous view of the city.

Then we piled into a taxi.  Our director of sales knew the town, and he knew how the town worked.  He said to the driver, “What kind of deals can you give us on tickets?”

And the driver gave us cheap tickets to a nightclub called Rain.

And when we arrived at Rain, a line full of beautiful young people snaked out the door and around several swaths of velvet rope.  But again, our sales guy knew what to do.  He went up to the bouncer and spoke to him in low, urgent tones.  The bouncer said “Go see that guy over there.  His name is Dean, and tell him I sent you.”

And before we knew it, we had bypassed the line and were inside Rain.

The club was packed and it pulsated with music.  Red and blue lights blazed across the crowd.  Two wall-mounted cannons would sometimes spit out tongues of flame, and it wasn’t just visual; you could feel the heat ripple across the entire club.  It made everyone scream.

And then I realized: they were playing ‘80s music.

First Eurythmics.  Then Human League.  Then New Order.  Then Thriller-era Michael Jackson.

I started to shake it.  I started to shimmy it.  I started to groove it. I felt as though I had somehow, somewhere, someplace, come home.

And the DJ said: “We’re taking a little trip back to the ‘80s!”

And everyone cheered!

And the DJ said: “Let’s hear it for the ‘80s!”

And everyone cheered louder!

And the DJ said: “The ‘80s, when all of you were about four years old!”

And just like that...I came down.

And I collapsed.

And I curled up into a fetal position.

And I chanted Bananarama lyrics to myself, as though they were a sacred prayer to a sacred time--one that continues to recede into the swirling mists of the past.