:: Electric Psychedelic Pussycat Swinger's Club ::

:: Wednesday, November 24, 2004 ::

mature

It's a little known fact that my friends and I are complete idiots. Little known, that is, until the moment you meet us. Our idiocy is especially well documented on the dance floor. But we truly enjoy ourselves, which is more than a lot of the familiar faces we run into at parties can say. You know that cheesy adage, "dance like nobody's watching"? Well we take that a step further and dance like we're retards cranked up on cocaine DESPITE everyone watching.

Take last Saturday for example. My friends and I partied at La Caverna for a law school friend's 26th birthday. It's a stark contrast to your typical club in that it's an underground bat cave in the middle of the LES. Anyway, this night had all the quintessential elements of a typical night of dancing for us. Whenever we get the feeling that the party we're at is too stiff and boring, we create our own entertainment. This can take many forms, but mainly involve drinking enough to forget how lame a party is, drinking so much that we (well, mainly 'A') starts dancing with chicks who rate so high on the "GoOo" scale we know the bartender hasn't been stiffing us on our drinks, or just good old-fashioned public humiliation in the form of dance.

If I'm feeling it on a particularly good night out, I will try to get the party started by garnering as much laughter as I can by dancing like aforementioned retarded kid. To go into more detail, I'll do choreographed zombie moves straight outa "Thriller"; bust out the sprinkler, the bus driver and the shimmy-shake; go into my best robot; and finally break into a jazzercise routine. Dead serious.

The jazzercise-ing dates back to last winter. My friends and I were at a club where all the chicks dancing were being so cold and taking themselves waay too seriously on the dance floor that I said 'fuck this' and started doing side-bends and jumping jacks in the middle of the club. Needless to say these pretentious hoochies were dumbfounded as to what to do and ended up clearing out the dance floor. Meanwhile, people sitting along the sides who actaully had a sense of humour were all cracking up and cheering us on.

I do all this crap because, more often than not, I feel this usually puts the self-conscious at ease and loosens everyone up enough to forget about whatever preconceived notion people have about their "image" and allows them to just laugh and have a good time. They won't have to worry about looking stupid because, hey, I've done enough embarrassing shit for everyone in the club by 11pm! And all this will occasionally allow me arrange everyone in a mock Soul Train lineup and get people who you never thought would dance do the solo down the SOUUUUUL TRAAAAAIN line. Now that's entertainment.

Anyway, back to Saturday night at La Caverna. We reached a new low that night as we started giving each other, and unsuspecting friends in attendance, ATM's mid-dance. Giving someone an 'ATM' entails sliding the edge of your hand down someone's ass crack, mimicking the sliding of a credit or ATM card at a cash machine. How fucking great are we?!

So the highlight of this involved yours truly when I thought my friend 'S' was dancing over in the corner and I creeped up behind him and gave him an ATM. When dude turns around and it's not 'S', but some random Joe, I had that slow-motion "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...!" look on my face and felt queasy. Dude turned around and shot me one of those "What the FUCK are you doing to my ass" looks. Terrified, all I could say was 'Oh. Sorry, man. Wrong guy". HAHAHA. Dude probably thinks i'm a butt-pirate. Oh well. So of course I sheepishly retreat to where my actual friends were and upon telling them what just happened, we all share a 5-minute long laugh and slap each other high-fives.

Would you still believe me if I told you we were 27 year-old law students?

PS. Quick shout-out to dude who I violated: thanks for being an integral part of my entertaining evening, dude. My hand in your ass helped make it a memorable one.

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