...to the kids from France and from London...but I was there...

When was the last time you danced like crazy to Tiffany and Phil Collins?
If it wasn’t on Saturday night, then you should get with it already.

The scene: a few dozen shoulder-padded Wall-Street boom squash-playing cokeheads crowded into my favourite gallery.
The DJ played everything we loved about the late 80s – with an American Psycho leaning – think: Huey Lewis over Madonna. Comme des Garcons over neon.
(one exception...Golden Girls are still not winning me over. Am I alone in my disinterest in that guy?)

Then, clad in Holly glasses, 18 years old …all of 5 feet tall and 75 pounds soaking wet - this kid strolls up to the stage and kills it for the next 2 hours. Fucking. Unbelievable. Girltalk style mashups crossing Feist with old school Daft Punk. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the best parties are the ones that surprise you. For a second I saw my fleeting youth dash across the stage – oh to be 18 again and new to it all, notes of an LCD Soundsystem track whipped through my head. But then the second passed. Sure, we’re not 18 anymore. But my friends still know how to have a good time. And 27 isn’t exactly geriatric, either. Fuck – I’ll say it: 30 is the new 21.

It’s starting friends: The SPRING OF KELLY. Let’s hope every weekend goes out like that.