(no subject)
Dear Embassy,
I went to Mynt last night.
Although the live Sax and Bongos over the house track was nice, the money atmosphere wasn't. Once upon a time, your building stood for dancing, for no ego, no pretention, just the music and the movement. I'm sorry that died. I miss Wednesday nights with house on the mainfloor, and breaks and downtempt downstairs. When one could spend the night dancing to something other than 90's club tracks in a jammed and sweaty floor so full of Bar Stars and meat that there's barely enough room to move without catching someone else's random appendage in a bathing suit area.
I'm shocked I was almost banned for wearing sneakers. Although the large-breasted blonde in front of me, wearing barely enough fabric to cover her nipples and the Adidas Shell Toes, was welcomed with open arms (literally. I'm not shitting you here people.). Don't worry Mister Bouncer Man, I won't be back so you're never gonna have to remind me to wear 'dress shoes' next time. And while we're at it; your eight-dollar cover charge, paid so I can sit and be seen is bullshit... so are seven-fifty highballs, by the way, incase you weren't aware.
I'm saddend that at no point did I want to dance, due to the amount of eyes and thirty-year olds attempting to reclaim their 'cool'. I really don't need to see white, middle-aged men, with too much money, who've dressed themselves up, wearing $300 jeans that look like something I could find for $20 at random vintage store 'A', standing around staring at anything with a large (and exposed) enough breasts to be interesting (at which point it's roofies and Sugar-Daddies all around). As much fun as I have watching someone whose last club experiece was rocking out to Flock of Seagulls try to move to a bossa mix of house and live sax, it's not something I need to see on my average Saturday night.
Calgary. Lose your fucking "New Money" stench. We aren't impressed. You aren't trendy. Fuck you and your dress codes, over-priced booze, exposed tits, sex-to-sell, no-soul, fucking bullshit 'status' of which you deem yourself worthy.
Never again.
I'm sorry for betraying the memory of sweaty nights, REAL house music, bouncers with a sense of humour, a bar that will let you order water all night (as long as you tip), DJ's that don't pepper the night with inane banter (DJ's that spin REAL music), a vibe, a soul, something other than yuppie fucking money.
Sincerly,
A Once-Upon-A-Time
Fan.
P.S. The bathroom attendant? No, really. I've seen your bathrooms. They're sketchy. putting a little East Indian man in there to squirt soap on my hands and turn the water on and off for me ain't impressive. It's bullshit. You aren't that fucking special.
fin
I went to Mynt last night.
Although the live Sax and Bongos over the house track was nice, the money atmosphere wasn't. Once upon a time, your building stood for dancing, for no ego, no pretention, just the music and the movement. I'm sorry that died. I miss Wednesday nights with house on the mainfloor, and breaks and downtempt downstairs. When one could spend the night dancing to something other than 90's club tracks in a jammed and sweaty floor so full of Bar Stars and meat that there's barely enough room to move without catching someone else's random appendage in a bathing suit area.
I'm shocked I was almost banned for wearing sneakers. Although the large-breasted blonde in front of me, wearing barely enough fabric to cover her nipples and the Adidas Shell Toes, was welcomed with open arms (literally. I'm not shitting you here people.). Don't worry Mister Bouncer Man, I won't be back so you're never gonna have to remind me to wear 'dress shoes' next time. And while we're at it; your eight-dollar cover charge, paid so I can sit and be seen is bullshit... so are seven-fifty highballs, by the way, incase you weren't aware.
I'm saddend that at no point did I want to dance, due to the amount of eyes and thirty-year olds attempting to reclaim their 'cool'. I really don't need to see white, middle-aged men, with too much money, who've dressed themselves up, wearing $300 jeans that look like something I could find for $20 at random vintage store 'A', standing around staring at anything with a large (and exposed) enough breasts to be interesting (at which point it's roofies and Sugar-Daddies all around). As much fun as I have watching someone whose last club experiece was rocking out to Flock of Seagulls try to move to a bossa mix of house and live sax, it's not something I need to see on my average Saturday night.
Calgary. Lose your fucking "New Money" stench. We aren't impressed. You aren't trendy. Fuck you and your dress codes, over-priced booze, exposed tits, sex-to-sell, no-soul, fucking bullshit 'status' of which you deem yourself worthy.
Never again.
I'm sorry for betraying the memory of sweaty nights, REAL house music, bouncers with a sense of humour, a bar that will let you order water all night (as long as you tip), DJ's that don't pepper the night with inane banter (DJ's that spin REAL music), a vibe, a soul, something other than yuppie fucking money.
Sincerly,
A Once-Upon-A-Time
Fan.
P.S. The bathroom attendant? No, really. I've seen your bathrooms. They're sketchy. putting a little East Indian man in there to squirt soap on my hands and turn the water on and off for me ain't impressive. It's bullshit. You aren't that fucking special.
fin