You read that right. I went to an actual, real-deal-Holyfield dance club. The many years that have passed since my last club visit have only served to increase my sense of how effing surreal that whole scene is.
We started at the Foundry and had a few drinks there with friends (Oatmeal Stout, Hopslam, Brother Thelonious; hello BUZZ).
It was then suggested that we go to Mint, the club formerly known as the Empire Room. The space has been rearranged, but the décor/lighting felt about the same. I don’t know how packed the club is most of the time. The night we went, the club never felt empty, but never felt crowded either. Crowd demographics (my best guess): 60% straight, 40% gay. 50% “scenester”, 50% dorks like me (and I’m fairly certain I was the only one in an ironic/punny t-shirt)
Also, I’d wager that 90% were younger than me. The Chris Rock bit about the old guy in the club came to mind more than once.
At most clubs you can find a place to have at least some semblance of a conversation; there was no such escape here. House and techno was a-blarin’ at a high level. The dance floor was a mix of gay guys dancing suggestively with each other and straight girls…dancing suggestively with each other. We stayed just off to the side since we found a couch to sit on.
I tend to harbor a lot of nervous energy, especially when I’m drinking. Usually it manifests itself as pacing, fidgeting, and talking a lot.
My friends got a rare treat when they got a full-blown helping of Get Down.
I reached the infrequently-visited intersection of “buzzed enough” and “wide freaking awake enough”, and the dancing began. It started innocuously enough, but quickly spiraled into bigger movements until I was pretty much covering the entire expanse of the raised seating area we were in. I wasn’t being a total spaz (hey, I can move a little when called upon), but I certainly wasn’t dancing seriously by any stretch of the imagination.
Apparently someone was impressed, because a random girl came up and started talking to me…while I was sitting on the couch with my hand on my fiancee’s leg. Random Girl was making awkward small talk until I looked at her like she was crazy and said, “I’m engaged. To her. The person I’m touching right now.”
Weird, although it served a purpose: my fiancee now MUST know that if she were to leave me, I could have a considerably less-attractive, less-articulate, less-stylish, less-socially-graceful version of her lined up faster than Cher could believe in life after love.
Like dummies, we stayed until 3am and got to bed around 4. But in retrospect, I guess I’m kinda glad we did this—we made the best of it, and sometimes you’ve got to take a self-inventory to see what you’re about.
CONFIRMED--I’m not about clubs, and I’m more than fine with that.