I’m a night owl by nature. There’s something inherently intriguing about wandering the city under the streetlights that has its own allure. I’m usually 100% behind whatever New York nightlife has to offer me, with one big exception, clubbing.
By and large I’m not opposed to the concept of a nightclub. I genuinely love dancing, something that I don’t get to do that often, and I don’t mind meeting new people. Of course, that concept goes out the window when you have a bunch of guys having a pissing contest to see who can seem the most important, as if having bottle service is some sort of aphrodisiac for Victoria’s Secret models. I preface my next statement with all of that, because I have to admit that I hate going to a club if I don’t have a table.
I don’t need the overpriced liquor, I don’t need the bouncers protecting my table like it was a state secret, no, I just want a fucking place to sit. The one square foot of space you need to park your ass is the most valuable piece of real estate in the whole damn club. I don’t want to be packed into someplace like sardines, I don’t want to be accidentally grinded on, I just want the minimum amount of personal space. And thus, since I refuse to spend $800 on a $30 bottle of mid-grade vodka, I usually avoid clubs like the plague. However, this weekend was an exception.
I have a friend, and let’s refer to him as “The Committee” (for reasons to be explained in a later post) and when he rolls into town, he’s a hurricane leaving a swath of well-intentioned destruction, but destruction nonetheless in his wake. We’ve both had a pretty shit summer, and he needed to blow off some steam, so I said “Fuck it”, and this whole past weekend, I went out with a bunch of his friends.
If anyone regularly reads this blog, then you know that I prefer the company of sweatpants and takeout. I have a preternatural inclination to be shy. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve just always been that way. Approaching women has been, and still is one of those things that has eluded me. The Committee had an invested interest in meeting women, of which I was fine to play accomplice to. To be completely fair, I haven’t gone out with the express purpose of meeting women since I was 22. I was hoping that the last seven years would’ve had some magical transformation on my ability to attract women (spoiler alert: It has not.)
The Committee, as in his hurricane like nature, got tables at two clubs. Quite hilariously, they were across the street from each other. I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t care how much of a trooper you are, if you’re going to be dancing while being blasted by obnoxiously loud music while staying up until 4am, you need to be caffeinated. Obviously, this is where the Red Bull comes in.
Red Bull does not give you wings. Red Bull gives you a caffeine rush that you need to deal with an interminable stream of douches and the patience to shout things directly into someone’s ears in order to have a conversation. Going out with the Committee when he is in the lead is a singular experience. He’s a great friend, but is a singular tour de force of alcohol fueled debauchery. The Committee is essentially a catalyst for stories that you only tell your closest friends, not because you’re ashamed per say, but they wouldn’t really be believed otherwise.
So, this is one of those stories, brought to you by the Committee…
To Be Continued: Part II- Dammit, Oliver.