You’re going to The Bang! on Saturday. Your calendar is circled. Each Bang! has a theme and this one is “Back to School." 

You shower. Shave. Carve interesting facial hair. Something you saw on the Internet last week. You moisturize. Deodorize. Gym teacher or captain of the tennis team? Who cares? You carb up. Not too much. Be sensible, for christsakes.

You walk to a friend’s house. He lives above an Indian restaurant but it smells more like cheese than curry. You link up with fellow Bang! goers - a lunch lady, a math teacher, a student council presidential candidate. You accept a sip of this, a taste of that. Someone offers you a jalapeno pickle. Locally grown! You’ve never had Rich and Rare mixed with Rock and Rye. Locally produced!

Text, text, text. See you at the Blind Pig. Forces are marshaling. Is that guy really wearing jean shorts?

You get to the Blind Pig later than planned and there’s a line. You get mad at yourself. You hate waiting in lines. Thankfully it moves quickly and you forgive yourself. I owe you a drink, you say to yourself. You’re so nice to yourself, it’s adorable.

You head straight to the basement — the 8-Ball. You pee. You get that out of the way. You order two drinks at the bar. The line is a lot shorter down here. You weave your way back upstairs. What’s that funk song? Who cares! You dance. You get your bearings. Magic Mountain is projected on two giant white sheets hanging from the ceiling. There’s a giant school bus on the stage. Everyone is taking pictures. Show them your good side.

It’s dark and it’s hard to pick out your friends. At least the ones not dancing on stage. You wave your hands in the mother-bleeping air. You just don’t care. You don’t give a damn about your bad reputation. You never said you wanted to improve your station and you’re only feeling good when you’re having fun. Besides, you don't have to please no one.

You stare at the guy in the argyle sweater. The girl who looks like your 10th grade English teacher. Another tennis team captain! A girl with pigtails and a tartan skirt. A science teacher. A cheerleader who looks up to no good. You dance some more. Arrhythmically because a recent scientific study in the U.K. determined that dancers who vary their moves, use a lot of space and employ a lot of upper body movement are the most alluring. No running man or mashed potato for you tonight. You lose yourself. Was that Eminem or Descartes?

You spill your drink. Ooops. You spill a bit more. It’s getting hot. Spilled drinks mix with sweat, which is actually 20 percent booze. You do the Humpty Hump. Some of the fellas around you are bare-chested, tying their sweat-soaked t-shirts around their waists. You aren’t sure what to think, but you maintain your distance. Your sweat and booze is one thing but … better safe than sorry.

You didn’t anticipate this many schoolgirl outfits, but, really, didn’t you expect a lot? Like 30 percent? You spot a really good Mr. Belding. More dancing. Good thing you’re wearing shorts and sweatbands. An Abba song comes on. Admit it, you love them. Your arrhythmic moves feel ridiculous but trust the science. You never know who’s watching.

You sip the champagne of beers, PBR and some lemon thing. You dance next to the girl with dreads, tattoos and high red heels and a guy dressed like a wrestler. The Greco Roman variety. The music is loud. The playlist is varied. You’re sweating pretty freely now but so is everyone else. The money tucked in your sock is soaked. Gross. Tip your bartenders generously.

They play the Beatles. They say it’s your birthday. Is it your birthday? Probably not. You hit your stride during a Lady Ga Ga jam. You are immortal. Also a little tired. Don’t worry, you can rest when they play a rap song you don’t recognize. Or Deadmau5.

They ask what you’re writing in your beer-stained notebook. You stare at them, hard-like and tell them, “My innermost thoughts.” If they press, say you work for a university in the U.K. and you’re doing a study on dancing and sex. That’ll satisfy them. Don’t admit you’re the press or they’ll eat you alive.

You see at least three tambourines. It’s nearly 2 a.m.. The dance floor is littered with bits of popped balloons, glitter and spilled drinks. Maybe sweat. Sweat, sweat, sweat. There are a lot of arms in the air. You get caught up in the energy. Ladies are being lifted in the air. You dance the final two songs. You know you make me wanna shout? The music stops and the lights come on. It’s time to go. You gather up a few of your friends. You’re hot and the Blind Pig smells like a locker room after the second period of a hockey game. A big man in a black shirt ushers you into the cool night. It’s never felt so good to get kicked out of a bar.

So you went to The Bang!. What did you think?

(Richard Retyi writes the bi-weekly(ish) column “Lie to Your Cats About Santa” which is not about Santa or cats. You should check out the next Bang! on October 30 and please dress up - it’s kind of lame if you don’t. Read more of Richard’s extremely controversial writing here or Google him and ignore all the links to published UFO-ologist Andreas Von Retyi - we’re pretty sure they aren’t related.)