Mamma Mia

So, it’s late Saturday afternoon, and I find myself in Edison, NJ. For those of you who do not know, Edison is little India. That’s where a hungry expatriate goes to find some decent Indian Food. (There’s this place at the corner of Oak Tree Road and Middlesex Avenue that has the Best Pav Bhaji ever!). Actually I was there trying to hunt down some Indian Beer (Apparently people like Kingfisher!) for a party the next day.

So there’s your back story and the scene. Rajneesh, semi-seedy Indian restaurant, excellent Pav Bhaji and the stereo blaring out loud, fairly up to date Hindi Film music. Now, I am not a big fan of Hindi Music. (That is an understatement. Saying that would be akin to saying that Hitler was a misunderstood chap with a few unpleasant eccentricities.) Well, one of the songs had this bit in English, “It’s the time to Disco.”

And I ponder, "Is it? "

Really? Is it the time to Disco? The singer of the song seemed giddy at the thought of imminent Discoing. I did not share her misguided enthusiasm.

I continue to ponder, “Am I in the seventies?”

I look around. Nope, no bell-bots or funky sideburns. Granted, the folks at the next table were a nice Indian family, but still.

Well that’s cleared up. It isn’t the seventies. Ergo it isn’t the time to disco. (And judging from the funky hairstyles and bad, bad clothes from that decade, I’m pretty sure that the people from that decade regret the fact they ever discoed.)

I demolished the food and left. Without once succumbing to the singer’s earnest pleas to disco! I got into the car and turned on the radio.

“…Mambo Number Five
Jump up and down
And move it all around…”

Fuck.