Club and Bar Adventures in New York City
Recently, a group of friends decided to try and take me out of a funk I was in. So, they snatched me up one night and took me club hopping. Now, ordinarily, the only time you will catch me in a club is when I’m requested to wreck the turntables as a deejay, or when a friend or business partner is having a major soiree. Other than that, I don’t frequent nightclubs because they have become nothing more than meat markets over the years. The possibility of having an ass full of lead, courtesy of some temperamental jackass that decides to fire his gun, is yet another reason. I’ll catch a groove every now and then at “The Shelter” in New York City or “Temple” in Brooklyn (NY), because “house music” provides a much safer environment.
Anyway, we get to this club and it’s like the scene from “Saturday Night Fever.” The one where Tony Manero and his crew walk into the disco and everybody welcomes them warmly. The ladies were flocking to my friends because they were regulars. They also happened to be significant players in the entertainment industry, and through their light banter they made sure plenty of women knew this. Many regarded them as the life of the party, but I just faded into the back and took a seat to watch events unfold.
About a half hour had passed and my friends were getting funky on the dance floor. This woman approached me and asked if I wanted to dance. I should say, at least she looked like a woman. I immediately got this image of Austin Powers saying, “It’s a man baby, yeah!!” It had more razor stubble than I did! Talk about, “Not by the hairs on my Chinny-chin chin!” I’m almost certain there was a bulge between her legs too! Damn near breaking my ankle in the process, I quickly retreated to the bar for a glass of Hennessey, straight up!
Another fifteen minutes or so went by. “Karen” made her exit, and I went back to the table. My friends were sweating up a storm on the dance floor, and I sat there like “Clueless Cal” wondering if the she-male would descend on me again. The thought was frightening, and I started hearing that famous line from “The Crying Game”. “I thought you knew!!” It was at this point that I encountered a woman with a rather intriguing outfit. It was transparent! As I looked on in stunned silence, I wondered how she could leave the house with such an outfit on. My thoughts were interrupted when she asked me to buy her a bottle of Moet. In exchange, she stated she would keep me company all night. Just when I thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, she flashed this smile at me. Now, here’s a tidbit for you folks. Generally, when you smile at someone, particularly if you’re flirting or trying to seduce them, it’s nice to have some damn teeth! I quickly retreated to the bar for another glass of Hennessey, but this time I requested a double.
Many of the guys in the place were just as strange. When that liquid courage kicks in, anything goes for some guys. Just standing at the bar, I was able to hear these guys tell the most obvious lies, all for the sake of trying to “get some” or please their intended target. It was really pathetic. They were self-centered and egotistical, and all they did was talk about their alleged wealth. I could not help but think of that vintage “Daffy’s” clothing store commercial while listening to these idiots. The voice-over went something like this. “The shirt is Gucci. The tie is Bernini. The pants are Versaci, and the pockets areâÂ?¦.empty.” The camera then pans back to reveal the guy’s pants pockets turned inside out. These club hounds were basically coming off the same way.
One guy proceeded to tell this woman that he was meeting with New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg in two weeks to submit business proposals. Being the inquisitive man that I am, I could not let this opportunity go by. I asked, “I’m sorry, but in my experience proposals are submitted to representatives within the Mayor’s Office before Bloomberg actually receives them, and even then a meeting is never guaranteed. Knowing how extremely difficult the process is, I was wondering if you could tell me how you managed to obtain this meeting?” I don’t think he appreciated me asking the question. He immediately slammed his bottle of Guinness Stout on the bar and walked away. I said to myself, “Dude, don’t hate the player…hate the game!” The woman looked at me with the sweetest grin, patted me lightly on the back, and went to join her girlfriends at a nearby table. I suspected she knew the guy was full of Chivas Regal.
After about an hour, I took a chance on someone who asked me to dance. She was short, extremely pretty, and reminded me of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” star Sarah Michelle Geller. As we danced, she pulled out a piece of aluminum foil and inhaled the contents. I looked at her in disbelief, and she extended her hand to offer me some. There was this strange but sad look on her face when I pushed her hand away. In disgust, I turned and walked off the dance floor. I retreated to the bar, but this time for a glass of ginger ale. Within a half hour, I said goodnight to my friends, and I jumped in a cab and headed back home to Queens.
The weeks that followed were not any better. The guys somehow convinced me to tag along for at least several more outings. They partied until dawn, and I kept wishing I had stayed home. Maybe it’s partly my fault for not opening up and having a little fun, but at the same time, I must adhere to certain standards. I simply could not get into the hunt. When you’re raised in a house full of women as I was, with my mother and three sisters, you come to appreciate beauty, compassion, intelligence, grace, style and splendor, which I consider to be the key components of a woman. I guess that is what I was hoping to find, on some level, while I was hopelessly lost in “Clubland.” Not!
I now realize that divorce and separation have made most of my friends take a footloose and fancy-free approach to life and women. While they engage in a quest to bang women like screen doors caught in a hurricane, I often wonder if I should be more like them or if I should simply be “G,” a man on an endless quest for real love, a sane woman, and a stable relationship. Am I supposed to learn from their traumatic experiences with marriage or common-law arrangements and avoid commitment? If I were to base my answer on the last few outings with them, the answer should be obvious, or so you would think. I’m still trying to figure this bad boy out. I guess the best thing to do is just sit back, avoid women with razor stubble and bulges between their legs, and try to enjoy this wild ride called life. If she’s out there, I’m sure The Creator will send her my way eventually.
