Lifestyles of the poor and nameless

"We be clubbin" was a song by Ice Cube sometime circa 1998-2000. Catchy beat, retarded song. How appropriate that it is the theme song for today's post.

In honor of SlowMet's birthday this past Sunday, I agreed to tag along with her and my college roommate, YOR to dinner and a lounge on Saturday night. When I think dinner and a lounge, I think of a relaxed, quiet, somewhat upscale evening with good food, conversation and perhaps a drink or 2 to round things off.

But I was hoodwinked! Bamboozled! I arrived dressed for a dinner and a lounge evening. (Complete with uncomfortable dressy shoes....because after all, how much standing/walking does one do at dinner and a lounge?) What I got was: "so...what is there to eat in this neighborhood? And where's the nearest Black club?" *Sigh*

We walk around for a while and end up at a local pizza shop. After one slice each, we're ready to roll. We end up at a place called 40/40, which is somehow Jay-Z affiliated. After standing/walking around for a while, we find out that you pretty much need a reservation to sit anywhere in there. Survey says: Blah.

After chatting it up with the bouncers, SlowMet and YOR find out about another club in the area called Eugene's. We stand in line for a bit and then get inside. The decor was nice. But next thing you know, we're at the cashier with the "reduced admission" passes we got and the cashier is hitting us up for $20 each. Damn, that's "reduced admission"?! One more reason why I hate clubs (in addition to the fact that I never know what to wear to them). Perhaps I've been spoiled...on the rare occasions I've been to clubs with friends in the past, I've never paid more than $10 cover. If it costs more than that, we leave and find another place. But, in my old age I'm still subject to peer pressure, so I went in.

Less than 5 minutes after walking in, I recognize a guy that I used to talk to 2 years ago named S. Mother@#$%^! We took a seat somewhere and S came over and sat right next to me. I avoided making eye contact and ignored him. Eventually we got up and made our way to the dance floor. Since I'm not a dancer normally, and definitely not one when my shoes are cutting off the blood supply to my feet, I decided to have a drink. Grey Goose with cranberry is always an effective anesthetic. Eleven $%!@#* dollars.

Ah well. As the tranquilizer took effect, I relaxed and enjoyed the music. We sat down and I knew my feet were getting swollen, but there was no pain. Because all good things must come to an end, SlowMet and YOR wanted to check out the other club that we had access to. On the way out, I passed S at the bar. I didn't see him, but he saw me, tapped me on the shoulder and waved hello. I gave him a weak wave in return.

The next club called "Select" was pointless. About 10 minutes later we were back at Eugene's. Around 1am I decided to pack it up since I had to get back to Brooklyn and take my brothers to church for 8am. I hobbled to the train station and got back to my house at 3am.

I got to church a little late that morning and my feet were still screaming. But, I lived to tell the tale. The moral of the story: I still hate clubs....and pointy shoes are the devil's handiwork!