Our ultimate party: We're headed out to visit a friend in Brooklyn. We take a few shots of Grand Marnier, and in our jacket pocket is this CD from a Kansas City band that was repeating on our iPod the whole flight over. It's catchy and dance-y, but in this inexplicably classic way -- the songs are just good. They're hard, dark, sexy and tuneful. So we get to this party, and after more drinking and flirting for an hour and a half with a Jessica Biel lookalike who turns out to be dating a poet who lives in Chelsea, everyone's dancing to '80s music on a crowd-pleasing mix CD the host has made for the occasion. Then the CD runs out, a lull begins, and we seize the moment. In goes Roman Numerals. The bass knocks shoulders and necks out of joint. The tempered disco drumbeat kicks feet into motion. The Chelsea poet scowls and leaves. What is this? someone yells. Before we can answer, "The Rule of V" begins blasting, and the black-clad bodies start moving again. Two guys and a girl make out in a three-way. A bottle of Chartreuse is passed. Fishnet stockings are ripped. The album plays to the end, and the dancing doesn't stop. When it's done, the party's over.