Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Far across the piano bar late last Wednesday night, on a mesmerizing LCD television, a commercial for Saw V was playing in an attempt to justify the existence of Saw V. I glanced at Jigsaw’s horrific mug on TV, then at the Pabst Blue Ribbon–blue being the only color available, I was assured–clutched in my hand, and wondered what I’d rather be doing: pretending to enjoy PBR one foul sip at a time, or being locked in a booby-trapped house, clawing away at a key surgically inserted behind my eye. It was debatable.

The treaty I have with alcohol is tenuous at best. Mojitos continue to delight, but most everything else offends the senses and, more importantly, I don’t like buzzes. What should be relaxing instead brings only disappointment as I consider how much slower I become. And as the entourage moved on to the next scene, through the doors and across that dark threshold, I instantly recalled why I vowed, years ago at the White Star Lounge, never to enter another nightclub again: I’m simply not wired for nightlife.

I lack the vocabulary to function well, or at all, in this environment, which may prove detrimental socially and professionally. But them’s the breaks, and I made a beeline for the nearest patch of wall as soon as I stepped into the sensory overload, and against the wall I stayed for the duration, doing absolutely nothing besides witnessing the fascinating panorama before me. Be assured it was fascinating, from the packed dance floor bathed in psychedelic light to my shirt, which was rapidly absorbing smoke, perfume, cologne, and weed–the smell of night, I suppose–to the two chicks who hoisted themselves above the DJ to offer table-based gyrations.

Even then, my framework was deficient. It was, like, those chicks were hot, sure, wrapped in no more than two square feet of clothing max, but then I started wondering: did they have to take the train to get to this job, or were they given parking spots? Where did they go for dinner? Were they happy? Those fuzzy boots and those glitter-covered garters stuffed with cash–an actual factory made those, right? Was the factory affected by the recession? Any layoffs? Such a niche industry, but man, I hope the local branch is hitting its numbers.

Moments later, the rail I was leaning against began to jive to its own secret rhythm, and upon looking down the line I realized a couple was grinding against it. I briefly considered whether the builders had accommodated for such unique wear-and-tear, then decided they very likely just nailed the stupid thing to the wall five minutes before lunch break. Eventually I felt compelled to relinquish the rail to the couple, because clearly they were getting far more mileage out of it than I was. The rail was serving its purpose, in a way. It was meant to be there, in the club, at that time. I wasn’t.