Clubbing
I think this was the first time I'd gone to a "club" in four or five years. It's also probably one of the worst personal decisions I've made in that same period of time. After having dinner with a few friends I decided to tag along with them because I'd been promised free drinks-which never materialized-and I figured I'd give it another shot. By the time we reached the club all of my friends had disappeared, and I was left standing behind a velvet rope, waiting for a guy who looked like he had been passed over for the TSA to deign to make eye contact. After entering the club, we walked through a corridor that reminded me of the scene in Hostel whereJay Hernandez's character is trying to recover his two-by then dead-friends by returning to a seemingly abandoned castle in Slovakia.
So far pretty awful, right? It gets more depressing. After taking the elevator up five flights, we emerge onto a rooftop filled with women who look they've been cast in the next season of the Jersey Shore and men who resemble the Hasidic ecstasy couriers in that film with Jesse Eisenberg. And the music was worse than anything I imagined. It made me long for the ear-splitting, brain-deadening tones of ranchera. I suppose the one thing I gained from the evening was the knowledge that I will never be a club person.
So far pretty awful, right? It gets more depressing. After taking the elevator up five flights, we emerge onto a rooftop filled with women who look they've been cast in the next season of the Jersey Shore and men who resemble the Hasidic ecstasy couriers in that film with Jesse Eisenberg. And the music was worse than anything I imagined. It made me long for the ear-splitting, brain-deadening tones of ranchera. I suppose the one thing I gained from the evening was the knowledge that I will never be a club person.