I'll twirl and I'll tumble.

The sky is bright blue and the sun is hot here in Miami. I'm standing on the dock, shielding my eyes as I look up at the enormous cruise ship. My fellow passengers are boarding hastily, but as the ship looms before me, I feel my knees weaken and very nearly give out. I never have been a fan of boats or sailing. (I know, I know, it's not a boat, it's a ship. I got it.)

But I'm here, like it or not. And far be it from me to fight where the music takes me. For the most part, I do like it. Cruises may not be my ideal method of travel, but travel is my ideal method of living, so I decide to just go with it.

I board the ship just behind a newlywed couple holding hands and dragging their luggage behind them like some kind of human steam rolling, clothesline machine. It takes less than a minute to climb the steps to the ship's deck, and they've kissed ten times. Note to self: as soon as you get on the deck, get as far away from them as you can.

From the ship's deck, I look out over the vast blue ocean stretching out for eons to the east. It's hard to believe that just a few hours ago I caught my connecting flight from Toronto to New York, and now I'm here, about to set sail to the Caribbean islands. From Central Park to Shanty Town. I make the mistake of looking down over the balcony where the water laps at the ship's base. I shouldn't have done that. There go my knees again. Ugh, and my stomach, too.

I move away from the railing and deposit my luggage in my room before finding the nearest bar. A cocktail ought to settle my nerves and relax my mind. The ship honks its horn and we're officially off. I take a seat in an Adirondack chair (at home we call them Muskoka chairs), sip my fruity-coconutty beverage and close my eyes to the warm sun, listening to the chilled out reggae band playing nearby as we set sail for Jamaica.

Suddenly, the shrill chatter of the newlywed couple assaults my ears as they squeal and coo childishly at each other.  They're wearing matching Bride and Groom t-shirts and brandishing their wedding bands like shiny new revolvers in the wild west. I have nothing against the newly united, but these two are just over the top, dripping with love and sentiment, smearing themselves across the scenery like blobs of Valentine red and pink paint. If our love song could fly over mountains...

Mister and Missus are taking selfies over the deck's railing. It's windy, and I have visions of them losing their iPhones over the side. The devil in me relishes the thought, but then the angel in me knees my devil in the vagina and offers to take a photo of them.

They thank me profusely for my deed, and I make my way to the bar for another drink. I can already feel the island rhythms limbering my body, loosening my joints, lubricating my soul. While waiting in line for my cocktail, I begin to sway to the reggae music. I can't help myself.

Unfortunately, my moment of relaxed abandon is interrupted by raised and heated voices. A Christian, an Atheist, and a Scientologist are sitting at the bar... oh, you've heard that one before? Alright then. They're having an argument, of course, and I'm wondering if they met on this cruise by chance or if they came here together, three friends with different perspectives, believing the strangest things, loving one another despite their differences, but not afraid to tell it like they see it.

As interesting as the debate is, I don't have a head for it right now. I down my drink as the ship docks at the Jamaican port of Negril, and I disembark the vessel for my first shore excursion. Exploring the town, I'm lovestruck by the island's vibe and the friendliness of its inhabitants. I find myself a quaint patio for some refreshment, and a beautiful woman wearing a perma-smile and a name tag that says "Jean" brings me a deliciously cold Red Stripe. She's dressed head to toe in denim, and one of the locals calls her Blue Jean, simultaneously teasing and flirting with her. Everyone calls her that, she says, on account of her denim wardrobe - the fabric of her existence. She teases right back with acid washed comebacks. Sometimes I feel like the whole human race is jazzin' for Blue Jean.

I'm finished my Red Stripe and about to do some more exploring, when who should find me but The Newlyweds, clinging to each other and oozing cloying weddedness from every pore. They sit down at my table and I inform them that they can have it to themselves, since I'm moving on. They insist that I stay and have dinner with them - apparently this pub dishes up some of the finest jerk chicken in the country.

I'm not picky, but I can think of about a million other island delicacies I would prefer over anything in the jerk category. Still, I am hungry and could perhaps enjoy hearing how Mister and Missus met and tied the knot - knowing their story will surely make spending the next several days with them more tolerable.

It was love at first sight (of course). It was her first time at the gym. He gave her the tour. She said she needed a personal trainer. He said he couldn't be hers, on account of the conflict of interest. What conflict of interest? she wanted to know. Gym staff aren't permitted to be romantically involved with their clients. But we're not... oh. Oh! Ohhhhhhhh. (I just threw up in my mouth a little. Good thing I like Red Stripe.)

That was a month ago. They eloped in Vegas earlier this week. Now here they are.  They raise their cocktail glasses in honour of each other. To us! they exclaim. Holding their drinks in the air, they look at me expectantly and wait for me to raise my beer bottle for a little clinky-clinky action. Cheers! I say, toasting my new friends, God love them. And with that, the jerkiest chicken my nostrils ever beheld arrives, served  up by smiling Blue Jean, plates balanced up her arms before being slung skillfully onto the table before us.

I begin to dig in, but Mister insists we give thanks to the Big Mister in the Sky for this meal. Sighing silently, I lay my fork down and close my eyes and listen to the prayer. Mister is thankful not only for the food and Blue Jean's nimble delivery of it, but he's ever so thankful for the Missus at his side, she beaming uncomfortably with a wide grin and expressionless eyes. He waits for her to echo his sentiment, and she does. God only knows what I'd be without you.

Turning their faces to me, I exclaim "Amen!" and we finally begin our meal. It's the best jerk chicken I've ever eaten in my life.

After dinner, I bid adieu to The Newlyweds  in search of a suitable location for a me party (what can I say? I enjoy my own company). I happen upon a happening little place with a band playing and people dancing. This is where I shall spend my evening. I trade in the Red Stripe for rum and juice, and let island rhythm carry me away, twirling and tumbling on the dance floor. Until, of course, the newlyweds find me, yet again.

I keep my distance while they make like Swayze and Grey on the dance floor. Thankfully, there is no chance of making accidental eye contact, since their gazes are fixed, unblinking, upon each other.

Fine, let them have their moment. I'm having mine anyway. Rum + reggae + dancing = bliss. Everything's gonna be alright tonight.

It's late, and I'm drunk and disheveled. I've enjoyed my evening of partying with myself, the locals, and some other tourists. I made a game out of guessing how many times the newlyweds would crash into other revelers on the dance floor with their exaggerated dance moves, spilling and knocking drinks clean out of people's hands. I stopped counting at 10. I don't think they noticed even one.

I stumble back to the cruise ship with the help of another fellow tourist, and crash down into bed. Tonight was a good night. Tomorrow we set sail for the Dominican Republic.

*****

I awake with a banging headache, the heat of the morning already feeling oppressive. I throw some water down my throat and dress before making my way up to the main deck for some fresh air. Upon my arrival, I sense that something is not quite right. The other tourists, including my friend from last night's party, all seem to be as confused as I am. We're clearly bobbing up and down next to a tropical looking island, but it feels like another part of the world.

It is another part of the world. The ship's captain announces that over night, we somehow went adrift, and we've sailed through an oceanic wormhole, carrying us to the other side of the word: Borneo. Oceanic wormhole, you say? Is that a thing? For real? Like the Bermuda Triangle or something? But we weren't even close to... ah, forget it. There is so much we don't know about the world, and the ocean in particular.

The captain tells us we must dock here temporarily. We're allowed to disembark, but we do so with caution. The local indigenous Iban people are friendly, but rainforest life is challenging, and we must watch out for wild orangutans. There are no hotels or resorts in the immediate area, but tribal longhouses are a popular tourist attraction. The captain tells us we must be back on the ship by dusk.

Finally, a real adventure! I decide to take a shore excursion into the nearby village. The captain was right - the people are friendly, gracious and welcoming, though busy. They seem to be preparing for some kind of festival, with bright coloured costumes being sewn and patched. I hear the word Gawai uttered in conversation. I don't know what it means, but it seems to be a joyful word, bringing smiles and laughter and excitement to those who make say it. They can barely restrain themselves from dancing as they prepare. They twirl and they tumble. I like the free world. They say it's pretty this time of year.

It turns out that Gawai is the word for festival. I am invited to join a local family as they prepare for the celebration - I help tidy the longhouse, and help prepare food, and visit the graveyard with the family to bring offerings to the dead. They invite me to take part in the evening's festivities, but I tell them I must decline in order to get back to the ship on time.

Before I leave, the family's teenage daughter sneaks me a piece of traditional cake and some rice wine, and she shows me her beautifully detailed costume. She plays some traditional music and we dance together on the edge of the jungle, our own little private celebration. Suddenly, we're interrupted by a teenage boy from the village. She doesn't seem to like him much, but he seems to like her a lot. I don't like him at all, there's something off about him. He makes me nervous. Look at his eyes, did you see his crazy eyes?

David Bowie - Neighborhood Threat - Zapkolik - zapkolik.com

The lad convinces my new surrogate sister to give him the last of her rice wine. I give him mine, too, and she speaks to him angrily. He stomps off, but I get the feeling this is just one moment of an ongoing drama between them.

Sadly, I bid farewell to my host family and return to the ship. It's in a terrible state - something has obviously damaged it during our journey through the wormhole, and the ship looks to be taking on water, anchored lopsidedly off shore. I stand with my fellow tourists looking at the ship in dismay.

Just then, the newlyweds emerge from the jungle yelling obscenities at each other. Apparently Missus caught Mister making out with one of the head locals' daughters. For her part, Missus was wooed by a tattered Playboy t-shirt-wearing local man, encouraging her to stay on the island. She wasn't considering it at the time, but now she might just do it. Though I know in my heart we're drifting apart, can't believe that our love is dead.

See all music videos David Bowie

A sweet silence falls over Mister and Missus as they join the rest of us in looking at our sinking ship, wondering what's going to happen now. Dusk turns into evening, and evening turns into night. The joyful sounds of the Gawai in the nearby village beckon me to return. I turn my back on the ship and hurry away from the crowd of stranded tourists, back in the direction of my new surrogate family.

*****

This album is a fun mix of covers and originals. If Tonight was an all you can eat cruise ship buffet, it would be filled with all of the most delectable and bad for you things you can think of... pizza, fried chicken, banana splits, cakes and chocolates. If there is any nutrition at all, it comes in the form of fresh tropical fruit like mangoes and pineapples. You couldn't live on it forever, but damn it's a good little vacation from the everyday grind. Of course, filling up on all that sugar means you have to go and dance it off after.

One of the reasons this album is maybe a bit "nutritionally devoid" is that it seems to have the highest concentration of love songs on any Bowie album so far. Love songs aren't necessarily bad, and Bowie's love songs are better than most, but the sentimentality is still a bit surprising. Especially since I've sort of gotten used to chewing on something a little more substantial over the past several months.

For me, Tonight includes Absolute Beginners. I may have made it seem like I don't like the song, but as a chick I am biologically programmed to want it. It's like a pretty, sparkly sprinkled cupcake with whipped frosting a kilometre high. I'm powerless against its saccharine charms.  And while I know it wasn't recorded until after this album was originally released, I can't imagine listening to Tonight without it. It just makes sense here. Hence its inclusion in this story despite its anachronistic bonus track status.  

One of the coolest things to come out of this album is the 20 minute short film Jazzin' for Blue Jean, which is basically an extended music video for Blue Jean. I highly recommend this neatly presented dish of pan-seared tongue(in-cheek) served on a bed of dry British humour, garnished with a sprinkle of mime-shtick and two heaping dollops of David Bowie making fun of himself.

Despite the punch and candy vibe of Tonight, or maybe because of it,  writing this post was a bit of a different experience, because rather than coming just from my imagination, I got the opportunity to learn a bit about the indigenous Iban tribe of the Dayak people of Malaysian Borneo. I may have blurred the details of the traditional Gawai festivals for this story (Gawai Dayak happens in late spring, so I'm a little late). If you want to know more about the fascinating Dayak, you can start by going here. Who knew that I needed to go to Borneo?

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.

It's a quiet Friday night after a crazy work week. Today I managed to do the impossible and get not one, but two major projects out the door. I'm exhausted and ready for the weekend, so I crack open a delicious beer and put my feet up. I don't really watch much television... I have a handful of shows that I'm committed to (True Blood, anyone?) but right now I just feel like cruising down cable river and seeing what's on.

I take a quenching sip of cold beer and grab the remote. I press power. Nothing. That's weird. I get up and flip some lights on and off. There doesn't seem to be a power outage. Annoyed, I pick up the remote and stand closer to the television, pressing and pressing and pressing the power button, with no reaction from the television whatsoever.

Alright fine.  Who needs TV anyway? I toss the remote to the chair, but it doesn't quite make it. Instead, it falls to the floor with a loud crash. Suddenly, a luminous, multi-coloured red, green and blue light blasts from the remote and shoots toward me, enveloping me, electrifying me, and then continues past me to the TV screen. The hairs on my body are standing on end, but I don't feel any pain - more like I'm in a cocoon made of static. And there is another peculiar sensation. I look down and see that I am floating above the floor.

Just as I'm wondering what is happening and enjoying the pretty light and funny feelings, the TV switches on and the RGB light pulls me through the room toward the TV. I'm afraid I'm going to crash into it, but instead, I am sucked right in through the TV screen.

Goddamnit. I left my beer on the other side.

Alrighty, where exactly in TV land am I? I seem to be in someone else's house. A typical sitcom-style living room. I can hear voices in the next room - the kitchen, I suppose. The voices start to get louder and I realize the characters of this show, whatever it is, may not be expecting to see me. I dash behind the couch - in sitcoms, no one can ever see you behind the couch. It works - the two young, TV-attractive men emerge from the kitchen. One of them is wearing a baby. All three humans are of different ethnicities. The two smooch each other sweetly and concisely on the lips. The live studio audience applauds and whistles. I get it. It's a show about modern love.

Suddenly, a wild neon-clad neighbour, big in the hair and even bigger in attitude, comes bursting through the door performing some kind of flygirl routine. Her spindly limbs flail about with fierce expression, threatening to knock the duck lips right off her heavily made-up face. The force of it almost knocks the modern couple over.

 Then she stops in her tracks and looks right at me. She lunges at me and pulls me out from behind the couch. The modern lovers gasp in surprise as the flygirl throws her arms around me, crying with a nasal, nails-on-a-chalkboard wail, "Oh honey, you're back! You guys, you never told me your sister was coming back from Australia! How was it? You must be so jetlagged, oh you better just run right upstairs and get yourself some sleep, then come over and tell me all about it!"

"G'day, mate!" I stereotypically reply, thankful for the opportunity to escape from this canned hell. The audience laughs as I bolt up the stairs, the show's two main characters watching me with overly wide eyes and overly dropped jaws on their overly stunned faces. Lucky for me, I don't get to find out how they get out of this one.

Upstairs in the sitcom house is a dark and strange place. The paint is peeling on the walls, and the light bulbs are flickering creepily. Bits of garbage litter the floor like an obstacle course for cockroaches and silverfish. Is this what is hiding above every sitcom living room?

 I can only faintly hear the sounds of the live studio audience downstairs. I decide to crawl out the bathroom window, which conveniently has a fire escape. As I hurry down the stairs, I'm aware of being in what looks like not a very good area of town, the inner city, as it were. The air is damp and smelly, and there are sirens not far off. As I walk around to the front of the building, I see a young woman crouching behind the dumpster. She's badly beaten and bruised, her clothing torn, her face red from crying. I call for help.

I wait with the girl until the ambulance arrives. I'm a witness now, and a couple of investigators come to talk to me about the girl. They look really familiar, these investigators. Is that... Mariska Hargitay? Am I in Law and Order SVU?! I stifle the urge to shake her hand and ask her for an autograph, for obviously, this is a serious moment in the episode and I don't want to ruin it for those who may be watching.

I tell them everything I know, and they ask if I wouldn't mind coming to the station with them, to fill out some forms and give a statement. Feeling a bit uneasy about the whole thing, I go, feeling like I don't have much of a choice. Where would I go anyway? This universe is unfamiliar to me and I could end up in a situation not unlike that poor girl.

At the station, I'm surrounded by all kinds of people from all walks of life. Most of the people scattered around the station have a passionless, drifting way about them, like they just can't seem to get ahead. Everything about them is dingy and hopeless, caught up in a world that never gives back, forcing them to take what isn't theirs. They bounce off the walls and push through the combine, in and out, around and round through the revolving doors. Ricochet! It's not the end of the world.

I've waiting in this room for what seems like an eternity. I wake up to some commotion as a dirty, disheveled looking man who smells strongly of gasoline is brought in wearing handcuffs, his hands behind his back. He wears a disturbing grin, baring rotten, blackened teeth which look as though he's been chewing on charcoal. The edges of his coat are singed black, and black smoke practically wafts off his hair.

I've been putting out fire with gasoline he looks at me and says. Just then, a documentary crew comes flying into the station, demanding to know if this is the famous Catman, the elusive arsonist who has been setting fires all over town.

Finally, Mariska Hargitay appears and tells me I'm free to go. I ask her if the girl will be alright and she says she thinks so, thanks to me. Feeling happy to hear that, I leave the station light on my feet among the lost souls filing in and out through the revolving door.

Out in the street, the moon has broken through the clouds, illuminating the streets and casting glimmering sparkles on the river up ahead in the distance.  I start walking toward the waterfront of this television city. As I stroll, I find myself getting caught up in a crowd of people watching something on the street. I'm short and can't see over the crowd, but I can hear the sound of voices rhyming and singing in unison. I slither my way through the crowd to the front to find what looks like two rival gangs getting into a musical battle with each other - a battle of singing, dancing, and cheeky glances. Oh god, is this some kind of budget, television take on West Side Story?

Now the people in the crowd are getting in on it, dancing in choreographed unison to the song. How do they all know the moves? I look like a right moron, being the only one not dancing, so I start copying the moves of the people in the crowd around me. And then cartoon birds appear, singing and dancing along with us, in their magical Disney-esque way. TV world, you are weird.

The dancing crowd breaks up and the dancing birds flit away, but I hang around for a moment. The victor of the dance-off seems to have won the girl the rivals have been fighting over. She's a beautiful young Chinese girl, and she seems quite thrilled with the result of the battle. I watch as the girl and her man go walking off toward the serious moonlight, holding each other tightly.

(Things that are uncomfortable to listen to: this song. 

Things that are not okay in 2014 and I don't remember being okay in 1983 either: most of this video.)

As I make my way to the waterfront, I become aware that I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to get home. What if Chad changes the channel and never finds me? What if he turns the TV off?  How can I let him know that I'm in here? I'm basically homeless here.  I might have to shack up with one of those singing, dancing gang guys. Ugh.

Staring at the big white moon, I'm suddenly aware that I can see a face in it. Will you look at that, in the TV world there is a man in the moon after all. Of course there is. I smile and think about Chad. I wish he was here with me.

I sigh and think about where I might take shelter for the night. Suddenly I hear someone calling my name, ever so faintly in the distance, or through some kind of barrier. It kind of sounds like Chad. Wait, it is Chad! In the moon... that's his face! Then I start to hear other voices... disgusting gurgling voices, choking out what sounds like "brrraaaiiiinnnnssss". Are you kidding me? Zombies? Am in The Walking Dead now? I fucking hate that show! Fucking zombies! But boy do they move fast for a bunch of deadbeats. Shit.

More and more, I can see the image of Chad fading in from the sky. He's waving at me. He can see me! I wave frantically at the man in the moon, yelling at him to get me out of here. He's pressing all kinds of buttons on the remote control, but nothing is happening. The zombies are getting closer and closer. I mouth the word ZOMBIES at Chad, hoping he can read my lips. Nope. I scream it as loud as I can. He shrugs helplessly. Then he sees them. There's nowhere for me to run. Now he's pressing buttons on the remote like crazy. I have never been this terrified in my life. I'm going to be turned into a zombie. This fucking sucks.

Desprate, Chad throws the remote at the TV, tearing a hole in the fabric of the sky. The warm light from my living room beams through the tear. Just as the horde of zombies approaches, Chad's arm reaches through the jagged hole and he grabs my hand, pulling me off the ground, through the air, over the river, and through the hole in the sky, safe and sound back into my home.

Sigh. I hug him harder and tighter than I ever have before in my life.

And then a nasty fucking zombie arm comes grabbing through the hole in the TV. Without even a thought Chad and I grab the TV and chuck it out the window. It crashes to the ground 20 floors below, the rotten arm of the undead twitching in the wreckage.

Fuck television.

*****

Okay, this album didn't exactly set my imagination on fire. The first few listens were fun and nostalgic, taking me back to Grades 2 and 3. The songs Modern Love and Let's Dance seem to be printed onto my DNA, and I love them in that special kind of way. I even have a couple random fleeting memories of them playing, one where I was riding in the car to my uncle's girlfriend's house (she was like a part of the family - my sister and I even called her auntie) and Let's Dance was on the radio, and for some reason I associate Modern Love with the playground at my school in Grade 3.

I think that's why this album took me to TV land. I was a kid raised on television. I'm relieved that I've pretty much grown out of that now, but up until about 12 years ago, I watched a lot of TV.

The theme of getting zapped into the TV I have obviously pinched from TVC15 off Station to Station. I played with the idea of using that theme for the Station to Station blog post (get it? TV station to TV station? Ha, miso clever) but ultimately it wasn't true to the real feelings and images I got from that album, so it got shelved until now, when it just made much more sense.

I'm not going to say I didn't like this album. Obviously it earned its place in my heart long ago before I even had a say in the matter, but I will say the chances of it making it into my everyday rotation are not high.