Sunday, March 8, 2009

Day 66

Mood: Tired

Mode: Old

Thoughts: I used to be a party animal.

At 15, I started hitting the young clubs and dances. I knew in my mind, the party didn't start until me and my crew rolled through. We came in, shut the party down, had fun in the process.

By the time I reached 18, I had done and seen most of the things that happen in the club; the wallflowers blooming, the drunks weaving, the freaks gyrating, the lovers rocking. Shy guys playing the tough role, tough guys playing shy, both with the same goal; to get the girls to go home with them.

I've seen the women who wouldn't dress like that, dress like that. Breasts perked up, 3 inch heels, skirt with no panties, ready to go... and get attention. They love the attention, whether it's from a guy who they'll let buy them a drink, or the guy who acts as if the female in question is invisible. Doesn't matter.

I've seen dudes have the light bulb go off and KNOW the next drink is the last drink because they are going to pass out, and yet, they drink anyway. I've seen the jealous boyfriend let his girl dress in a seductive way, and get mad at EVERY dude in the club because he's looking. I've seen the group of girls come in, low tops, high skirts, everything hanging out, making sure that they are the center of attention, just to get free drinks for the night. I've seen the flyest woman there have her D.U.F.F. (Designated Ugly Fat Friend) with her, gassing her up, making the D.U.F.F. work to get her flyest friend all the free food and drinks for the night. I've seen Security throw people out, break up fights, cause a couple of fights, and have sex on the floor. I've seen the DJ go from super hero status to super zero status with one song. I've seen the DJ get head while he's spinning. I've been to the hole in the walls, the sweat boxes, the house parties.

And I can say with a straight face, I'm done with it all.

Tonight, I went out with some female companions. After paying our way in, I was immediately reminded of why I quit doing this years ago. Guys looking at my friends as if they were a showcase of breasts and ass, then immediately looking at me as if I robbed their mother. Women staring at me, trying to figure out if I'm either gay, or just some poor soul who got dragged out with his girl and her friends. Waitresses running around half naked, serving watered down alcohol, cold food, and even colder stares for tips. The DJ cutting the latest record from Jamie Foxx about passing the blame, so the dance floor is packed. Dudes that have no rhythm, dancing like their life depended on it, and the women who stick around only for the inevitable drink offer afterwards. We immediately post up at a table and chair. We get our overpriced drinks, and we survey the land.

At this point and time, the DJ has decided to quit his job. Either that, or he sucks ass, because at that very moment, he starts to play Techno Cher. Looking around, I had to make sure I went to the right club. My friends are also confused by this exchange. The dance floor clears immediately. People start leaving, so we find an empty couch and chair area to sit at. We move over there, and look at the menu they have placed. Spring rolls? Sushi? Garbanzo Bean Dip? What the hell are you serving here, pseudo exotic foods?

As we see the waitress come over to place our non-existent order, another waitress interrupts her and informs up that since we started a tab at the bar, we must remain at the bar all night. Shaking our heads, we go back to the bar. At this point, me and my friend Rachel are standing around, and we see a group of guys (frat, Navy, groomsmen, etc.) walk towards us to the dance floor. In this group, one guy, and I don't know which, has decided that enough is enough, he needs to hurl right now. He proceeds to throw up on the floor, right beside us. I don't immediately notice, but Rachel, who's wearing flats, feels the warm spatter of liquid splash on her. At first she thinks someone dropped their drink (normal), until she looks and sees chunks of food on the floor mixed in the liquid (not normal). I look down, and see the bottom of my cream slacks speckled with... vomit. I immediately turn to the group of guys and start with the berating. Security comes over and I explain to them that there is a spill on the floor. The guard actually laughs and goes to get a mop.

At this point, I'm ready to walk out, and everyone else has decided that their time is up as well. We walk outside, and we see drunken ladies pulling their skirts up and down in an eternal battle of tug of war, guys pleading to the cops to let them go, cops trying to pull over all the cars with loud music.

And in my head, I'm wondering, was this worth me coming out of the house tonight? Was this worth the money I paid?

The answer, short and simple, is no.

Sorry, Ron Brows, I will not be jumping out of a window to your song in the club. Actually, the next time I hear that stupid excuse for music, I think I might pull a Erick Sermon and jump out the window for real.

Now playing: Kanye West - Flashing Lights (Ft. Dwele)
via FoxyTunes

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