First of all, Merry Christmas everyone! Hope you find the time to reflect on things in the middle of your wasteful frenzy of purchasing. If you did, good going :)
The end of the year brings many things to many people. Presents, Resolutions, New Beginnings, Hope, Good Cheer and a lot of other things, like Herpes, being foremost on the list of things people get, whether they want it or not. One thing everyone gets around to eventually is parties. Well, most people. My social networking inbox was inundated by notices of parties ranging from beaches to back yards and it has been the highlight of my day today gleefully individually deleting them.
I’m not that big on clubbing. Let me rephrase; I would rather have my legs run over by a herd of hippos and then stand on the footboard of a local bus, than go dance at some party. Back when I was in school it was the “in-thing” to go clubbing and we were giddy as little boys clutching t-rexes under the Christmas tree when we found a place that would let us in.
Now that I’m significantly older and smarte- After spending many nights with the following scene playing itself out, I kinda grew out of it.
We stepped into the establishment. People called it a night club, but I call it trouble. Losing sight of my companions in the crowd, I head to the bar. The surface looks old, it’s seen its share of skinny teenagers slamming their fists down on it, droplets of their hair product slowly arching towards the bartender with his back turned towards them as they nod their heads to music that would make a mob-boss scowl. Unthinkingly, I bring my glass to my maw, and take a sip. It feels like I was hit in the gut by a baseball bat. Like ol’ Billy had me tied to a chair and was trying to get a girl’s number outta me.
After a while I make my way to the dance floor, just drunk enough to not care. Thirty minutes later I’m left wondering if I should have just stayed home. Home was bed. It wasn’t a good bed, but it was better than my bones feeling like it was hit by the 9:15 to Chicago. I tipped my hat at the rest, and stepped out into the alley. The stones crunched under my feet like the teeth of a loan shark’s ex-customer. I lit my cigar. It started raining. The city fell into gloom once more.
It’s just that I really suck at dancing. Dancing creepily by myself in my room with music playing in my head is fine, I like Just Dance(Gaga) as much as the next guy, but on a dance floor, it’s a battle between my brain and my limbs. I mean, I can stay relatively vertical while standing in a bus that’s seemingly been driven by an Epileptic wearing a disco light ball for a helmet but on the floor, my body decides to make like a Possum and play dead. It would help if there were a least a few members of the opposite sex who were even remotely the same age. Online polls indicate that 90% of teen girls sneak into clubs. The other 10% are actually girls methinks*.
Sometimes I go along with people anyway. I give in to peer pressure easily like that, and just do my own thing and hope people aren’t running away screaming in two minutes. If they aren’t, rejoice, for the rest of the people on the floor are just as bad. I’m still not sure what this 31st will bring, maybe I can escape to some hill in Badulla and watch the sunrise with Now We Are Free playing in my ears. I don’t know.
*statistics pulled out of that place where most people tour their stats from.