Back in August, I went back to my old stomping grounds of San Francisco for a work conference. There, in addition to all the other oddball things that were – let’s be honest – par for the course for the city (10:00 pm runs for banana creme pie, elaborate mini golf in a bar, Japanese karaoke … the usual), I found something truly extraordinary. Prepare, friends, for a gem of the universe called Morning Gloryville.
This (because don’t tell me you’ve guessed what it is — you haven’t) is a sparkle-filled, legging-wearing, high energy dance party. Oh, and one detail: It starts at 6:30 in the morning.
6:30 IN THE MORNING. Normal people are sleeping at this hour. Or at the very least showering and putting on makeup. They are not dancing.
But at Morning Gloryville, they are. My friend Lindsay and I arrived in a cab, stressed and thinking we were late, only to be greeted by a cheery woman in pigtails. “You’re here!” she gleefully exclaimed when we got out of the car. She gave us both hugs. I thought Lindsay knew her. Nope.
Inside, a shirtless man with angel wings checked us in. “You need more glitter,” he said, looking at me. He gave me a sheet of gold stars to stick on to my face.
The interior was a huge warehouse filled with fresh-squeezed juice, homemade muffins, and at least a hundred and quite possibly more people dancing. Everyone is in crazy colors and things like zebra patterns, and everyone is rocking out. Heads nodding, hands jiving, legs pumping. A woman is hula hooping in the corner, and a man has climbed atop a spotlight box in the center of the room and is in his own zone. Everywhere there are balloons, and everywhere there is glitter. It is amazing. It’s not even like a real place.
Morning Gloryville … Pf. Whoever thought of that, serious props. And oh, one other thing: Please come to DC. Government workers need dancing, too.