Reason Enough to Stay Indoors

My friend was kind enough to spend an hour and a half with me on a drive to Whittier this afternoon, so when she wanted to go out that evening I was begrudgingly agreeable.  This is perhaps what the Bible means by that whole “eye for an eye” theory.  The result was a trip to a new nightclub, replete with topless girls and boobie tassels – Hollywood does stripper cabaret.  This was the subsequent punishment. These were the events of this evening.

1.  Shake my hand, you germaphobe billionaire. My friend introduces me to someone I’ve met years earlier and have since only seen in magazines next to movie stars and articles about political contributions.  When I stick my big mitt towards him he does a little wave close to his torso, like, “Oh, hey.  Hello, there.”  I mistakenly think this is an addition to the impending handshake that follows – a prologue, if you will – and keep my hand extended.  However, when I notice the way he warily snakes his hand into mine it is obvious he could have gone without the extreme physical contact.

2.  Is that a warm tropical breeze blowing through here or is that your mouth, sir? As I stand waiting for my friend to get her first drink, an older man to my left who has been eye-stalking me since I arrived inside leans over and blows on my neck.  Of course, I don’t see him go in for the kill; I am facing forward when the wind assault goes down.  After sensing an odd, humid puff on my neck, I turn to hear him say, “It’s hot in here” as he backs up.  Huh?  Did you just do me a favor?  Your tropical breeze, booze-ridden breath is hardly what I would call refreshing.  And oh yeah, stay the hell away from me.

3.  The DJ vs My Will to Live.  I wanted to party, I really did.  But the DJ in question is hell bent on playing nearly half of his Jay Z catalogue of tunes, which, if done properly and spaced out over the course of one week would be just fine.  There’s plenty of good music out there.  No need to abuse Hova.  And I would ordinarily criticize the people standing motionless on what is supposed to be a dance floor for not moving more than their elbows when facilitating getting their booze down their throats, but the DJ isn’t really inspiring anything magnificent in terms of a group boogie down.

4.  The 35 Year Old Boy.  Some asshole standing on the patio, blowing unwanted smoke into my face tries to tell me he’s 35.  He’s baby faced and draws doodles on white shirts.  For the record, they are good – something similar to a Shell Silverstein book on acid.  “You’re 22.  23.  Max,” I say.  He chuckles as he drags on his cigarette, brandishing his American Spirits with heady claims that they’re organic.  I demand he hand me his ID just because I find him irritating.  Born in 1988.  Barely 21.  I know your type: the type that still thinks this type of shit show is actually fun.

5.  Your Pants Make Me Want to Play Golf.  This morning I picked up my new pair of 99 cent “Surprise” pants from the dry cleaners.  I call them “Surprise” pants because I bought them without trying them on.  I liked the little gold buttons and the blue and red plaid going on and figured I was willing to risk a dollar on the chance that a size 12 might fit.  Having newly introduced them to my closet, I thought it would be a good time to take them out for a spin.  Surprisingly, they fit, albeit not in a conventional sense.  When I arrive at the club packed with girls wearing knock-off Balmain, the stretch jersey holding on to the bottom of their ass cheeks for dear life, my pants raise some eyebrows and command some confused compliments.  “Are those MC Hammer pants?” someone asks.  Later on I hear, “Your pants make me want to go play golf.”  I apologize for having turned off the entire male population with my baggy mom pants, but if it saves me from the masses of pervy neck-blowers I am forever thankful and steadfast in my fashion sense.

6.  Champagne Wishes and Caviar Nightmares.  My friend and I are dancing on the dance floor to the 18th Jay Z song when a short greaser comes up to us.  “Hey, my friend over there can’t stop talking about you,” he says to me.  I look over at Greaser # 2 staring at me from his corner booth with his arms crossed.  Nice button up, I say to myself.  “He wants to buy you a bottle of champagne,” he continues.  If only I were so easily purchased.  That works for girls?  My friend saves me by saying I don’t drink, which is true.  Greaser #1 only hears “no” before he tells us we are whack and rolls his eyes.

I start grumbling around 12:51 when I envision a foggy and groggy morning after, caused by nothing worth losing sleep over.  I pull on my friend’s arm like a helpless eight-year-old.  Please, mommy.  Please, take me home.  I take her keys and drive because she’s had a couple beers.  I accelerate with jerks because I’m driving in six-inch heels.  In four minutes I am in the safety of my house, my hair reeking of cigarettes and my ears ringing the way it does when it’s dying in little deaths…kind of like how I feel when I go to clubs like this.

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