Dan Yoder
Staff Writer
So I’ve decided I hate clubbing. Here’s why:
A night of clubbing usually starts innocently enough, fighting with your closest friends about the chump who gets to drive. Once that determination is made, it’s time to go buy some fun. Arriving at a club can be done in one of two ways: if you have a palace on wheels, go ahead and pull up to the front to be quickly ushered into your VIP suite. If your car falls short of the $50,000 price tag, head around back and shell out a month’s worth of gas money to park.
Many clubs implement some kind of queuing policy. The desperation to enter a world of fun intensifies as you creep toward the ominous velvet rope, only to have the worthiness of your appearance judged by a juggernaut ex-con on his way to strike three. As he glares at you and your party, you wonder if you applied enough cologne after your evening shower to warrant entrance into this sacred fortress. Luckily he lets you in, but several of your friends are turned away; too bad for them.
Walking into the club is like entering a sauna with a subwoofer. Sweat immediately begins soaking your clothes — thank God you wore deodorant. For the gentlemen, this feeling of discomfort is intensified due to the strict long-pants-only dress code. The ladies are somewhat able to avoid this perspiration and keep their dignity, waltzing in wearing a selection from Page 1 of this month’s Maxim.
For those who are 21, ordering a drink at the bar requires two important skills. First, you must be able to make direct eye contact with the bartender. Second, you must be able to fight the impulse that normally prevents you from the idiocy of throwing down an hour’s pay for a plastic cup filled mostly with ice. Amazingly, skill two becomes exponentially easier each time you practice this exercise throughout the evening. After all, you can’t put a price on fun.
Social walls are immediately erected when stepping onto the dance floor. If you thought it was hard to make friends when mom and dad shipped you off to summer camp, try having a conversation with someone while 150 decibels of Eminem are blasting in your ears. Despite this hindrance, you must press forward. It is a man’s duty to meet women in these forums; it’s the way God ordained it.
You will observe many circles of suburban girls dancing together, each impressively demonstrating their intimate knowledge of the song lyrics, which tell the tales of pimp-hood and murder, to which they so closely relate. Don’t let this scare you away. This is your chance to showcase your rhythmic skills and prove without a doubt your adequacy as a mate.
Finally you find the love of your life, blurrily appearing to you through the crowd. There’s no way to be certain with all the noise, but you think her name started with a T. You get her “digits” just as your driver (who has been banging his head against the wall for the past several hours) whisks you back to the car.
A night well spent. Even though your credit card is now throbbing from a night of vicious monetary pillaging, it was worth the expense to know Paris Hilton was somewhere in the roped off area upstairs in the club … at least that’s what you tell people who were not there. The financial setbacks can easily be compensated by eating a nutritious diet of Top Ramen for the coming weeks.
So, I guess you can see why I hate clubbing.
10-07-2004