Sunday, April 29, 2012

Nntza, nntza, nntza

There was a period of time where hitting the clubs was a common occurence for me and it was one of my favourite things to do.  Now, while I still love dancing, the club scene isn't really for me all that much anymore.  Occasionally, perhaps to reminisce and combat my new decade, I will go see if I'm missing anything.  I'm not.
A few weekends ago, Paul and I went to Ivy - some new supper/dance club in Burlington and while the music and atmosphere were decent, I spent most of my time observing and making a face.

The next morning, I reviewed the notes I furtively had taken on my Blackberry and these were my impressions of the club scene:

- "I'm a stylist"  There was this girl in an ill-fitting bandage dress in the bathroom who kept commenting on all the other girls' outfits with this loud disclaimer.  Yeah, I'm sure you are.  Hey, look at me, I put my own outfit together too.  All the zippers are done all the way up and the shirt isn't on backwards.  I'm sure Hollywood will be calling soon.

- There's always that one man who has his shirt unbuttoned just one button too many.  The gold chains didn't help, but he was probably trying to showcase them.  On advice from the professional stylist.

- A highlight of the night was seeing something shiny on the floor and mistaking it for a toonie.  Yep, I bent down and picked it up to be sure.  Finding change is actually a highlight of any day.  Finding actual bills, well that's just another level of euphoria.

- Paul and I were joking that we hadn't been at a club in so long that the only songs we know are really old ones or really new ones.  By 'really new ones' I mean anything we heard on the car ride there.  Apparently there is already a remix to that Goyte song. Tell your friends.

- At a club that is billed as an "older crowd", you see a couple different things.  First, there was a birthday celebration at one of the booths and someone had brought balloons that were emblazoned with "50" - if you advertised your age as over 22 at a regular club, you might be kicked out.  Second, at "older" clubs they'll play House of Pain's Jump Up and when you look around no one is actually jumping.  Maybe some people stand on their tiptoes or raise their glass a little higher, but gone are the days of bouncing around.  That's how you break hips.

- The strange opposite to the clientele at this older club was that annoying girls still weave themselves through the bar while holding hands like preschoolers.  There was gaggle of at least 8 girls who took several minutes to walk past me, all clutching to the person in front of and behind them.  Seriously, all that was missing was a teacher up front and felt nametags pinned onto their skanky dresses.

- Dude, don't wear a trenchcoat to the club.  And don't pop the collar.

Can we leave yet?

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