Posts Tagged ‘ club chronicles ’

Club Chronicles: Did That Really Just Happen?

Usually as the seasons change from summer to fall, I’m able to adjust to the cold pretty well. That has absolutely not been the case this year. All the cold weather is bringing is inconvenience and tighter pockets. With that said, going out to a party has become more taxing and less appealing than ever before. First, I have to warm up the car and waste about $1.50 worth of gas. Then I have to cover up my sexiness with leggings, jeggings, tights, or some other restrictive article made of spandex. Don’t forget your big coat and scarf. By the way, that coat is gonna cost you $5 to check at the club, but only after you take the long, excruciatingly cold walk from the car to the club entrance. What awaits me inside is usually pretty standard. Alcohol, loud music, foul smells, drunkie hoes, big girls who don’t know the laws of personal space, and old men sipping whiskey & water, hoping to get lucky. There is nothing that I can ever do to mentally prepare for the shenanigans I witnessed last Saturday night…..

I’ve frequented many clubs, bars, and lounges in DC, and no matter where you go, you’ll find 2 or 3 types of people that go to every club, no matter the crowd/music genre/cost, just to be seen in their $200 shades and $350 Prada shoes. For these club-goers, the night out is all about being seen in their fancy clothes with big labels all over them in order to feel accepted by the people who aren’t wearing such foolishness. It’s actually pretty common for these over-zealous, wanna-be baller to toss a stack of (one) dollar bills in the air to make it rain on the peasants who can’t afford a VIP table. This particular night brought about a different kind of “making it rain” experience that I’m unfamiliar with. Right as some Wacka Flocka Flame song came on, someone threw a mighty stack of bar napkins to the heavens, and watched it fall on the multitude of puzzled faces. It’s like everyone in unison stopped, looked around, and asked, “Did someone just throw napkins in the air?”. Absolutely priceless. That is, until those napkins reached the wet floor and then got stuck to the bottoms of everyone’s shoes. Everyone looked as if they just left the bathroom with a trail of toilet paper stuck to their shoes.

When women go out together, its fairly obvious that we do not want our circle disturbed by anyone who wants to dance with any member of the circle. Its a pretty well-known fact that one of the girls has to signal that she’d like to dance by turning her left shoulder 90 degrees toward the outside of the circle, in an effort to invite someone nearby to dance with her. Before she gives the signal, it is absolutely rude to assume that she is allowed to dance with anyone not in the girl circle. It is ESPECIALLY rude to pull any member of the circle away because they are more interesting than the rest. By interesting, I mean white. Those white chicks came with us, and I understand how they may stick out and thus attract more attention, but we brought them for a reason: to dance and have fun with us. Those are OUR white girls! How dare you pull them away from our circle and teach them the latest dance of the hip-hop community. Thank you very much, but if Katy and Jenny want to learn how to Dougie, I’LL be the one to teach them!

If the last paragraph wasn’t evident that women stick together and take care of each other when they go out, let me reiterate. When women go out, they stick together and take care of each other. This means that if she didn’t come with you, don’t concern yourself with her. I got this. She may look drunk to you, but she in fact has a tummy ache, and is getting a little dizzy from the cloud of hot must in this club atmosphere. So please, don’t feel compelled to ask me if she’s going to throw up or tell me to get her some water. Mind your business, homegirl, I’m taking care of my friend.

This one was definitely unforgettable, although I’d LOVE to forget every part of this memory. Let me first set the scene: As mentioned, my pal is not feeling so hot, so we’re on the way to the bathroom so she can get herself together. In the bathroom, there are three stalls. One is broken, one is open, and the last is occupied by my pal. In the tiny bathroom, there is a line of about 6 girls, that wraps around to block the door. Need less to say, it was crowded. i’m standing off to the side in front of the broken stall when I see a big girl walk in, wearing a lime green dress and a synthetic weave. She, along with everyone else in line obviously has to potty, but feels that she has to go way more than everyone else. When she sees that nobody will let her cut the line, she proceeds to squat in front of the door to reveal her monkey to all of us, and relieves herself into the glass that used to hold her vodka and cranberry. With a lemon wedge. When the unfortunate cup reached its capacity, the next victim was the floor beneath our feet. That’s right, this dirty bitch pissed on the floor like it was nothing. I am reluctant to say that I watched her from start to finish, because it was like watching a car crash. Horrible, but I just couldn’t look away. After I handed that dirty bitch a wad of paper towels so she wouldn’t touch me or anything around me, I banged on the occupied stall to let my pal know it was time to get the fuck out of there.

With all that said, I have come to the realization that going out in the fall is a terrible idea, and I should just wait until spring hits to resurface.

What. A. Night.

Club Chronicles: Club Etiquette

I’m on a diet. Diet equals no alcohol. No alcohol equals moderate partying. Moderate partying equals no Swag Surfin AND P-Poppin on a handstand Dougie . One or the other. Moderate, sober dancing equals more time to notice what’s actually going on around me. I feel it necessary to set the standard for what is decent and orderly when in a club setting. So, I’ve compiled a list of things the masses should take note of in order to maintain proper club etiquette:

*Disclaimer: The timing of this post comes now only to protect my livelihood and avoid being severely battered with quarters and Tropicana oranges by Africans and Guccimaniacs. As such, it’s content may not be as hearty and/or entertaining as some of the others. In addition, any Africans and/or Guccimaniacs reading this should learn to respct my gangsta.

1. Don’t stand directly in front of me. Firstly, you almost stepped on my toe. Secondly, I can’t see my friend. No, we’re not talking or dancing, but I need to be able to see her, and you, sir, just put your rainbow gator shoes right in the middle of our imaginary barrier. Thirdly, I’m tall. Like REALLY tall. Especially when I put my heels on. 6’3″. Not only do I now have the pleasure of observing your balding scalp, but I KNOW YOU CAN SEE ME! GET YOUR OOMPA-LOOMPA ASS THE FUCK FROM IN FRONT OF ME!!! Furthermore, when I tap you to let you know you’re in my way, please do not feel compelled to look at my breasts. Yes, they’re eye-level. Yes, they’re big. What, you’ve never seen a titty before? Move.

2. Watch them elbows. This especially applies to women with oversized purses, women re-adjusting their strapless tops, people holding drinks and trying to squeeze through the crowd, and anyone dancing to “Hit ’em with the Flex”.

3. At no time is any man supposed to be bent over to form the perfect 90 degree angle. Lol. I have to chuckle a bit when I think about this guy. You know him. He’s the over-zealous mofo in the middle of the circle that he created by dancing on everyone’s feet and breaking up each individual imaginary boundary. He especially enjoys the songs, “My Dougie”, “All the Way Turnt Up”, “Mo’ Money Mo’ Problems”, “Freaky Girl” (?), and “Say Ahhhhh” (???). I’m all for bending over in front of strangers and shaking a tailfeather, (If we’re facebook friends, please reference the pictures from my birthday party) but just like grabbing boobs, kissing a man, and drinking any brand of rum, I can do it because I’m a woman. When you do it, you look mighty gay. Migh-ty gay. You stand up straight, and take whatever bending over I’m going to do in front of you like a man.

4. Offensive tattoos. “Whoa Nelly”……….. That’s just rude no matter where you are.

5.  Trying to dance with me when you look like you just stepped out of the 9th ward after Katrina hit. You’e sweaty and gross, and if you even look like you’re thinking that you might want to touch me, you will surely perish. And by perish, I mean, I’ll call the Africans on you. I know them and they have machetes. All of them. Something about they need them to “bring dinner home”. I don’t really know why all Africans have machetes, because all Africans also have fly ass cars and wear velvet blazers. What kind of lifestyle are these people living where they’d ever need to carry a machete and wear a purple velvet blazer and drive a Range Rover in the same day? Are they hunting antelope before they go buy up the bar? I digress. Go cleanse yourself in the waters of Lake Minatanka, doll.

To be continued…

Club Chronicles: Niggas vs Bobby

No explanation required. Read on.

1. I’m trying to be nice but you’re about to make me strong-arm you to the other side of the dance floor. Sir, my friend obviously doesn’t want to dance with you, so maybe you should stop trying. I understand how you might think I’m blocking, but that’s only because you can’t see the “get this fool away from me” face she’s making. No, no. I don’t want to dance with you either. No, no. Neither does she. We’re fine, sir. Thanks. No, no, I said we’re fine, thank you. Are you following us?! No, no. We’re just going to dance with each other, we really don’t want you to join in.

2. WHOA, WHOA WHOA!!!!!! Hold up, pal! Did you just put yourself in the middle of our all-girls circle?! What were you thinking?! Stepping into the middle of our dance circle is like taking your cousin to the prom—–good in theory, terrible in execution.

3. Hold up there, old ass African. You touch me again, and I’ll turn your pretty velvet blazer into a bar mop to soak up this drink I’m going to accidentally spill on you.

4. “Hey, how are you? Can I buy you a drink check your coat?”

5. What would EVER make you think that it’s ok to touch my hair? EVER? It doesn’t look like a weave, so I know you’re not trying to satisfy your curiosity. I understand that it looks luxurious and you can’t keep your hands off of it, but you don’t see me rubbing every beautifully bald head that I see. Restrain yourself. Or die.

6. Oh, no. He sees that my friend went to the bar, and now I’m standing here alone. He’s about to pounce, I can feel it in my drunken bones. I can smell him from here and he wreaks of perverted-man-wanting-to-jump-my-bones-ness. Doesn’t anyone else see this T-rex approaching me?! Why isn’t anyone saying anything?! STRANGER DANGER! STRANGER DANGER!

7. “Hi, (extends hand) I’m Bobby Ray Aldeson. Do you want to dance?” Soooooo, you’re just gonna come up to me and introduce yourself without grabbing my booty or violating some other portion of my bubble? Bobby, I don’t know if you noticed, but this is a Black club. Well, maybe you did notice. Ok, maybe something like being the only White person in a sea of color is hard to miss. I feel the same way when I go to Whole Foods.  Wow, I really appreciate you asking about my life and my night before you start grinding on me from behind. That’s cool. Bobby, you’re freakin awesome, of COURSE I’ll dance with you! I gotta tell you, being the only White person at a Black club is one sure way to dance with anyone of your choice. I don’t know why, but we just appreciate you making the effort to come out, and thus feel drawn or even compelled to oblige your corny advances. Wow, look at you just respecting my space and getting your half-beat boogie on. What am I drinking? Ciroc and lemonade will do just fine, Robert. Nobody has ever asked me before what I was drinking, and then when I gave my answer, replied, “Maybe I’ll get you one a little later.” ?!?!?!?!?!?!? Bobby, that’s not how this works, but your asshole-ish nature is just soooooo smooth!!! You know what Bobby? You’re a smooth dude. You respect the rules of girlfriends dancing with each other to certain songs without trying to hump your way into our circle, you have great conversation, and you’re dressed nicely. And you cut a mean rug. And you finally bought my drink, and got one for my girl too.  Above all, you can come and strike conversation with a beautiful stranger, enjoy my company, and go on about your business. Let’s be facebook friends. 🙂

Club Chronicles: The Wrong Shoes

My experience at the club last week was……eventful. So many things going on, and so many thoughts going through my head.

Big Girls.

Why are there so many? I know some will have you thinking its ok to be big, and “skinny women are evil.” Its not, and we are- but only because your big ass keeps stepping on my toes. Do your stanky leg and your dougie within a designated, invisible play pen. Stay in your big ass bubble, please and thank you.

What are these drops?

I can’t tell if this is sweat flying from the hard-working Mr. Bojangles sweating to death in his suit and sweater, or escaped spit from the hood baby reciting every word to “Put it in your mouth.” No, no, the exposed pipes are either leaking or dripping with condensation from this hot ass room.

I’m standing still for a reason.

Please do not attempt to dance with me if you see me standing still. I’m standing still for a reason. a) My feet hurt b) I don’t like this song c) I just don’t want to dance with YOU d) I can see your erection through your pants…..which brings me to the following:

What the hell is that poking me?

I understand that the club can be an exciting place. Scores of half-naked women making everything on their tight bodies shake and bounce to the beat, 5 of Souljah Boy’s top hits, complete with their respective dances, competitive drinking between you and your boys. I can see how the combination of all of the aforementioned can be overwhelming to you. But for Pete’s sake, please try and control yourself! If you can’t, please don’t think that I want to feel it when you come up and poke me from behind.

“Watch out! Its on you!”,

Jerica exclaimed as she shoved me out of harm’s way. The colors reflected from the disco ball can be very easily mistaken for an assassin’s laser. “They almost got you, girl!” I can’t lie, it was funny as hell.

Oh, you’re also from California?

Yeah, that still doesn’t make me want to give you my number. Oh, you’re a Marine? Happy belated Veteran’s Day and thanks for everything, but no, I haven’t changed my mind. How did you know I had a boyfriend? (I don’t) Because you knew I couldn’t be a lesbian? Oh. Swallow this if you can, but I’m just not that in to you.

Ouch! My eye!

Girl, watch where you’re swinging that synthetic shit! You damn near slit my eyeball when “Put yo hood up” came on. RUDE! Either tame that situation on your head, buy human hair, and/or calm that ass down. This is a direct order.

VIP

Nothing puzzles me more than seeing a table full of 5-10 men stuntin in VIP with their bottles of whatever. You look gay. All of yous. You look broke and self-conscious. Please invite a female or two. Hell, invite 10. Please don’t invite me unless you’re sharing liquor, and by liquor I don’t mean champagne. It makes me burp.

I should’ve worn my 4-hour shoes. These aren’t they, which is probably why this post is so bitchy. My damn shoes ruined my entire club experience. Lesson learned.