So, Friday night, as mentioned before, I was floating on the fumes of waaay too many Cosmos. After a while, we moved the festivities from the apartment to Jello. Hey everyone, look: even six years after my last visit, it’s still populated by the same fuckwads who were always there. Regardless, I’m beyond caring, the cold and alcohol have rendered my brain useless. I mean, I even accepted waiting 5 minutes in the cold to get in.
We struggle through the crowd, sweating in our winter jackets because, even though the club doesn’t mind packing in as many people as it can, as long as there’s a way to make a buck, they can’t spend a few dollars for extra hangers. I don’t know, maybe they’re hoping that the pheromones in our sweat will make us just that little more attractive. Yeah, good luck. Get to the bar, where we all pitch in to help keep it up. The bar. Keeping it up. Never mind.
A few more drinks and the pixie in me comes out. There’s some dude next to me who, in my altered state, I swear looks exactly like Angel from Buffy, right down to the top two buttons of his pale-blue rayon shirt undone. Mind you, not fat, present-day David Boreanaz Angel, but the thinner one from a few years ago. I’m dragging all the girls over to check him out, and pretty much making fun of him. Why I didn’t get my ass handed to me, I’ll never know.
But, what really made me laugh during the course of the evening was seeing all the geeky, male-pattern-baldness, approaching-30-and-never-was-cool-in-any-way guys who, in their sad way, not only had a cell phone clipped to their belts, but a pager as well. Now, who in the fuck needs a pager and a cell phone?! And, if they really do, what in the name of all that is good are they doing in a club where they’ll never hear the ring or feel the vibration anyhow?
Damn, no wonder they all have the sexual prospects of a eunuch in a petting zoo.