It is a cold night. I lost my biking gloves earlier in the week, and now my fingertips are numb after I have pedaled down Howell Street in my search for a party promising a cartoon-theme-songs cover band. There are a few people smoking on the porch as I lock my bike up. A dull thud—very uncartoonish—is escaping through the house walls.

This is a dance party. It has all the trappings of a hastily thrown together gathering: a few cases of PBR, a sound system rigged up in the living room, and bottles of soap bubbles. My mature, intellectual decision-making abilities steer me away from the dance floor, where my skills are lacking, and toward the promise of blowing soap bubbles into the air, for which I have a rare talent first displayed during childhood. Soap spills, again and again, onto my pants, and the bottle begins to feel very slippery in my hands. The primordial lizard area of my brain takes over, and I blow a perfect cascade of bubbles through the dancing crowd before handing off the sudsy distraction to another partygoer.

The band explodes into view from behind a sheet hanging from the ceiling on the edge of the dance floor. My distracted musings on how long they have been hiding behind a dirty sheet in the corner are pounded out of my head by the X-Men theme song. The crowd is treated to feedback versions of "Sailor Moon" and "G.I. Joe" before the Themestresses finish their epic eight-minute set. People begin, shaken and cowed by the melodies of heroes, to dance again.

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