Saturday night’s alright by me, best night of the week. I used to like Friday night better but Saturday took the lead some time ago, don’t know when. I and two thirds of my brothers agreed to do the clubbin’ thing. Matt hasn’t made a night out since getting married, which, no, I do not understand. Sam had free VIP passes for City Nights, an 18+ over hip-hop club, but having seen Bambaataa spin before, I coughed up the dough for the Supperclub. Sam and I hadn’t hit a 21+ club since he came of age last October, a landmark occasion I’d say.
I got there before them. The sociable in a non-annoying way doorman advised me that I could get $5 off if I went home and changed into my warm-up suit. Home was too far, but I appreciated the offer. While waiting outside the regulars’ arrivals proved quite entertaining, fun and flamboyant bunch. The brothers showed up but had no extra warm-up suits, so we paid full price and wandered inside. Found a bar with padded walls and twenty-something disco balls hanging from the ceiling. Padded walls convey much potential kinetic energy, great touch. I imagined what kind of pit you could get going if there were a stage where the circular bar stood. Still miss that HB Strut. The restaurant went until ~12:20, so we were stuck there for awhile, not bad. The bathroom shone to impress, black on black, so shiny the tiles mirrored everything.
The woman with the coolest dress in the place, looked like chain-linked gold coins but was fabric, walked up to Sam and tried to convince him to get us all to go to a different club with her and her friends, but it felt too weird and we wanted to see Bambaataa. We got bored and strolled outside, where the ever so friendly Michelle from Wisconsin graced us with her thoughts. She lectured the young men about how their sexuality (her choice of words) would just get better with age. Once our eyes met she acknowledged that I already knew. John asked her what state had the best cheese, laughs for all but no answer (Cali rules, any arguments?).
Next time outside we met Israel from Spain. Israel was experiencing his 1st night in the city on his 31st birthday. Some guy he’d met on the CalTrain had given him some mystery pills. John said “Don’t take them”, to which he bellowed “I took them”. The guy was golden, classic bumming cigarettes in the streetlight, with that distinctive accent in his big white button-down.
Libertine Dutch artists started the Supperclub, which brings a smile to my face. Based on a club that got popular over there in the late 20th century, this place = off the hook. When they let us on the dance floor the white on white with blue spotlights effect kicked in. White stairs, railings, white sheets on stainless beds that lined the edges of upstairs and down, a spilled glass of red here and there to added chaos. Breaks broke and wrists got re-sprained as some competition level break dancing dove off the deep end of the floor, soooooo sick. Crowd danced well too, including yours truly if I do smell so myself. I wore a green hat with red hearts on it that Aunt Penny made, bold as love. She decided to give it to me after realizing that only I have the cajones to wear such a thing. I sweated and it itched but the desired effect came in pipeline style waves, absolutely glorious. Maybe that Love Parade has more going on than I imagined.
Split at 2:20, just in time to avoid a street cleaning ticket on 3rd Street. Moon roof came in handy on the way home, because that moon talked in tongues as it spiraled into the car. Happy moonlight, playful and free, taunting and strong continues to refract down my abysmal cortex, versal caudate, etc.