Nothing like some gonzo journalism on a Saturday night

I found myself surrounded by hedonists squirming like snakes on the dance floor. An hour earlier I was ashamed of my shitty dancing and wanted to escape to a pub for a quiet game of pool. But after a few drinks, I was suddenly content to plant myself in the middle of the hive and judge these godless, cold-blooded, creatures as they writhed around. I pretended I was one of them so I’d have something to blog about in the morning.

Then one of them began to grind me. “I just want to dance. Just dance.” He screamed into my ear over the house music. Hot on the heels of the previous night’s swing dancing lesson, I spun out of his grasp and sang, “no no no.” (This is me trying to be nice. It was too loud to properly chastise him. Try articulating a thoughtful explanation as to how inappropriate it is for a man to presume he can rub his bits and pieces on your unsuspecting ass over a Killers/Jay Z mashup. Best just twirl away.)

This is me at the Century Room, a club on King Street between Spadina and Bathurst. Heather’s hair stylist, Dustin, put her and ‘a friend’ on the guest list. That didn’t spare us having to wait in line, however, and I still had to pay $10 cover (reduced from $20) but I’m trying real hard not to hate this place already.

This is me trying new things. This is me being 26 and, having identified who I am and what I like to do, backing up and realizing maybe I was too quick to solidify. Maybe I should try dancing again. Maybe I’ll love it this time? Maybe this time I won’t fail and feel like a tool? So I went swing dancing at the Reservoir Lounge on Friday and on Saturday I am permeating the club scene.

Finally the lady with the clipboard unhooks the velvet rope and we’re allowed in. We approach the bar and buy drinks. Bottles of Keiths are $7 each. Plus tip—which is expected cause you have to seem loaded in a place like this. The bartenders don’t even bother being nice—they’re bringing in fivers by joylessly pouring sets of vodka red bulls that GTA guys are throwing down their gullets. And the bathroom attendant is scoring toonies for…standing there watching chicks fiddle with their lipstick?

Not like I’m cheap. I’m just not used to such pointless affluence. Shut up Jules, try to have fun. Look on the bright side. It’s an adventure. You’ll get to blog about it.

I breathe and observe the scene. There are tables surrounding the dance floor. I’d love to sit down cause my very best John Fluevog shoes are killing me, but we can’t sit there cause those tables are reserved for parties who’ve requested bottle service. A group of 8 sits down. It’s probably someone’s birthday. They stare into space and don’t talk to each other on account of the loud music.

I say into Heather’s ear, “People DO this? People MEET here? How? Why?”
She shakes her head. Mentions maybe they’re not drunk enough to have fun yet.


Next I observe the clientele on the dance floor. The guys have short hair and collared shirts worn open to expose waxed chests. Big arms. Over-plucked eyebrows. The girls have dyed hair and shirts worn low-cut to expose cleavage. Deep tans. Fake nails. Over-plucked eyebrows.

I immediately pick out the bitch I hate most. At first I thought she was grinding up against my back cause she liked me, but turns out she was just shimmying me so I’d feel uncomfortable and get out of her way. Then she flipped her mass of curls into my face.

So THIS is why there’s high police presence in the entertainment district, I reflect. Cause people like me want to smash their beer necks against tables and ram them into the throats of their adversaries. Or pull out a switchblade, stab her thigh, and put an end to her dancing days.

Instead, I got out of her way. Heather and I spotted Dustin. He approves of Heather’s hair, he says. He also says something about MDMA and blow, which makes sense considering he’s acting like a rat in a mirror maze. Then he flies off again.

Heather and I do a shot of vodka and get an other round of beers. The music seems better, the club is fuller, and I’m actually inspired to dance. I put my purse and pashmina in a puddle of something and get my groove on to some remixed classic rock songs. I long for something by Snoop Dogg.

That’s when it happens. I become one of them. I accidentally have FUN. I WORK UP A SWEAT.

Near the end of the evening, I encourage Heather to go talk to a hot black guy who’s looking at her. She does. We leave him and his buddies at the club, which is emptying out now that it’s past 2am and the bar’s closed. We try to get into the Drake Hotel cause it’s open til 4am but there’s a half-hour wait. So I take off my shoes and walk the five minutes in my bare feet to Heather’s place.

The black guy texts to invite us to a hotel. Even though it was so classy of him to treat us like prostitutes, we neglect to reply to his message.

I finally get it. THIS is how people meet in clubs! THIS is what they do! It’s something I might even do again if I feel like reminding myself why I’m happy being a pub girl who plays sleepy games of pool and indie rock on the juke box.

MORE things I hate and love!!!

I hate:

— Leggings worn as pants, especially stirrup ‘pants’
— Public camel toe


YAY CAMEL TOE? NO.

— Dirty/dysfunctional trouser snakes
— Crocs
— When people fail to remove price tag stickers from the soles of their shoes
— Fitting rooms sans mirrors + sales staff on commission
— That in every role (even though she’s great) Diane Keaton still has that mannish Annie Hall style
— Actresses wearing lipstick during morning scenes
— Shows that don’t bother hiring medical consultants to authenticate the doctor-character’s ‘prognosis speech’
— People who are sanctimonious about their avoidance of TV
— The same people who are all smug cause they don’t have cell phones (cause being unreachable means you’re on an elevated plane of being?)
— Disingenuous thank-you speeches at award shows
— Commercials generally
— Bad Boy commercials specifically
— Ads in toilet stalls
— Bitches who leave the tap running after they’ve washed their hands
— Public nail clipping, hair brushing, and nose picking
— Jobs that are posted on job boards even though the company has already promised the job to someone
— Plastic bags caught in trees
— Plastic cups
— When “lol” is used in text messages and IMs to diffuse gravity from the statement it follows
— People who block the subway doors
— Cockroaches
— Caterpillars
— Roaming flower vendors
— Skids who treat me like I’m useless at pool, who then turn around and keep needing to be told we’re high ball, who then don’t honour their wagers. And to top it off they usually ask for my number cause they’re too drunk to realize I’m tolerating them only sarcastically
— How my jaw clicks while I eat my breakfast in the elevator and I know my fellow passenger hates me for being so ‘noisy’
— When the savages in my building remove my period panties from the dryer because, distracted by an important phone call, I was 10 minutes late in collecting them


I love:

— Subway mice overcoming adversity…totally inspiring!
— Snails avoiding adversity…so strong!
— That everything David Bowie touches turns to gold
— Cartoonish thoughts (ie. An evil pony tail attaches itself onto a man’s head and uses the man as a host body to get itself into metal shows)
— Subversive humour
— Comic jams
— Borat
— Degrassi
— Documentaries and mockumentaries
— Nouns used as verbs (bone, couch, shark)
— Hand-written letters received in the mail
— All-day breakfasts
— Meltdowns at Master Control
— When events stray from the original plan, and pleasant surprises ensue
— Doing something I thought I couldn’t
— Adrenaline rushes
— Endorphins
— Playing the ‘bitter bartender’ for shits and giggles despite the fact that I’m secretly friendly
— Calling people “slick” and “chief” and “boss” and knowing they’ll take it cause I’M IN CHARGE, PONYBOY!
— Dirty gin martinis
— Picnics
— Eavesdropping
— People watching
— Plays
— Leaf green next to sky blue
— The feel of summer grass on my bare feet
— Being loved in return

HEARTS :)