That was a different time in my life.
(*Please note: funny as this image is, I cannot claim credit for it.*)
I actually hate the pretentious, obnoxious, soul-rapingly vapid atmosphere of most nightclubs. To give you some idea of the depth of my hatred, I wrote an abortive sci-fi short story in which a disguised hitman made his way through such a club, silently killing one person after another, unnoticed, Assassin's Creed-style. But it totally wasn't a self-indulgent, morbid fantasy. It's probably a residual effect of my lingering social awkwardness and the resentment it arouses, but my Annoy-O-Meter spikes ten points the second I set foot in such a tool-shed (Take a minute . . . . get it?). In my headier, more ambitious days, I designed a t-shirt bearing my personal slogan, "Pubs, Not Clubs." Ok, so it was only "designed" in my head, and I never followed it up, but I still have it trademarked. In my head.
Still, I have friends who enjoy such diversions, and my borderline alcoholism dictates that I must drink somewhere, with other people if possible, so I find myself venturing into nightclubs of various descriptions more than I care to admit. As a general rule, I avoid the time-tested, truly horrendous ones that have a sign outside which says, "You must be this douchey to enter." Nonetheless, you can find many of the same types at any random club, and most of the funniest ones (as long as you can choke down your gag-reflex) are the people who are under the laughable impression that they are dancing.
The most common is, of course, the Bobbing White Guy. You all know him. Most of you probably are him, so it's definitely ok to laugh. This is the painfully Caucasian man who still insists on hitting the dance-floor, if only to maintain proximity to glistening cleavage, but is all too aware that his skills are roughly on-par with those of a poorly-coordinated orangutan with an inner-ear imbalance. He knows that if he attempts any serious moves he will look like . . . well, 90% of the drunk girls trying to imitate Shakira or Beyonce. Except stupider. His solution? Bob. Just . . . bob. To the beat, if at all possible, but honestly it does not much matter, since the amount of movement he is performing barely registers in the human eye. By rhythmically nodding his head, and just maybe pivoting slightly at the waist, he is proving that he could totally bust a move if he really wanted to. He just doesn't want to show off, or possibly look gay. The number one rule is to only use the torso, unless he is allowed minor pelvic thrusts by a semi-willing/wholly-shit-faced weekend whorrior.
Worse, there's the Aryan Bro, a very white man who actually believes he can dance. Much like a paranoid schizophrenic (or, again, Charlie Sheen), he occupies a world completely of his own making, a fantasy he violently forces on our collective reality, symbolically raping us as he literally rapes the dance-floor. Nine times out of ten, this is because he thinks he is black on the inside, blessed with the soul of James Brown and the feet of Michael Jackson.
Sound familiar?
Back in the day, we used to call these guys "wiggers," though the line between them and generic douchebags has blurred to the point that I now lump them all together into one hazy category of so-white-they're-almost-transparent. It is ironic that by trying to be blacker, they only come out looking clearer. But the Aryan Bro is oblivious to this fact, proceeding to pretend that he knows how to C-step (if you don't know what that is, damn, you are even whiter than me), flailing about and picking at his clothing like a spastic gimp in a full-on LSD-trip. Surrounded by his "crew" of similarly delusional "boys," he will continue to "represent," "step up," and potentially even "stomp the yard" until he hurts himself or is taken away by the authorities (or actual African Americans take over the floor).
Sadder even than that spectacle is the Black Man Who Cannot Dance. *GASP!* Is it more racist that I am making fun of this phenomenon because they are black, or because the stereotype is that all black people should be able to dance? If that makes you uncomfortable, you may as well skip to the next paragraph, unless you are absolutely certain no people of African lineage are around. But it is time we as a nation acknowledged a bitter, ugly truth about our race relations: despite our preconceived, WASPy notions, not all black people can dance. It is not inherent to their genetic makeup any more than succeeding at finances comes with being born Jewish. As a matter of fact, it actually surprises me that I need to point this out anymore. I think that's just a testament to how deeply-ingrained the paradigm of black "coolness" is amongst the pigmentally-challenged: most of us just assume that anything a brother does is innately the bar of [insert whatever the newest term for "cool" is here]. Case in point? Black Man Who Cannot Dance. Instead, he resorts to the Duck Walk, at one time popularized by Nelly, or the Dougie, more recently. Contrary to popular opinion, this is not in fact dancing at all. Look up a video online. It more resembles a Down Syndrome fit, doesn't it? Yet, because African Americans are doing it, you can bet that Asians will soon be imitating it, followed six to nine months later by whites. The very fact that the Dougie has entered my cultural awareness means it perforce must be out of date already.
Then there is Way Too Old To Be Doing This Anymore Dude. Like all those listed above, this is yet another sub-type of That Guy. He sticks out like a herpes sore because he so clearly has no fucking idea what he is doing. Since probably the early '90s, W2O2BDTAD (What, if boy bands from the same era can do it, why can't I?) has roamed the club scene, ostensibly picking up and dropping each new trend in a vain bid to deny his advancing years and lack of success. He reaffirms his self-worth by hitting on girls ten years his junior, sidling creepily around the floor in a vague mishmash of moves that look like they were gleaned from an obscure Japanese video game. What makes this doubly hilarious is how epically W2O2BDTAD is usually failing. If three Jager-bombs, two MGD 64 bottles, and a test-tube of neon mystery liquor can't convince her to fellate you in the bathroom, your meandering, opportunistic "dancing" probably isn't going to melt her. It's time to retire. Creepier still are the guys who you are fairly certain haven't been doing this their whole pathetic lives, but have recently taken it up. Have a normal midlife crisis and buy a goddamned Harley, you perv.
"If you want, you can pretend we're still jailbait, tee-hee!"
That's it for now, but my nightclub rant will continue in Part 2. That's right, I'm doing a shameless cliffhanger to ensure future audiences. Deal with it.
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