very very very very important people
Late saturday night, Becky and I went over to the Riviera to see the boys from a band who lives out our house play. They had put us on the guest list.The militant fella at the front door wouldn't let us in though, based on some rule he had about honoring the guest list after a certain hour. We were put on the guest list by a band starting to play at 2am, but he only honored the guest list until 2am, or something along those lines.
I was getting cold, so I suggested a possible solution.
"Fuck this, let's go"
"No, no, Frog will answer his phone in a minute"
Finally Frog, the bass player, came out. He started haggling with military man about letting us in. Military man was not budging, so Frog found someone else to talk to about it. He kept haggling with different people standing outside until one decided to let us in. There were like 6 dudes outside with headsets on and no one in line but me and Beck.
Anyway, finally we are in.
It was the sort of protocol square dance that could only possibly make sense to soldiers, cops, or the headsetted bananas outside the club. We finally got inside. The first thing I noticed was that the place could easily mistaken for a shithole by the untrained eye. Sadly, two of those very eyes were living inside my face.
The walls were painted a blue that should only be reserved for items which no one has to ever look at. It was like baby blue after it had gotten a little too old to be cute and started hanging around with old greasy porno industry colors. If you looked up at the clear blue sky and spraypainted your eyeballs yellow, you might see this color for a split second before you were blind.
The carpet was of the ass-cheap variety, and served only to hide the concrete floor beneath it. If the carpet was taller than two cocktail napkins, I'd be shocked. It was black with neon lines running around on it in a design which must bave been creafted specifically to make you not want to look there.
Thankfully, the place was dim, so my eyes didn't explode. Frog led us back to the VIP room, where the haggling about who was or was not on which of two guests lists got started anew with the 3 or 4 bananas in the back.
Finally, the bananas were satisfied, and we were let through. Everyone else in the VIP room had paid through the nose to be in there. It was basically like a fairly decent little bar in the back corner of a cavernous dance club. It was walled off from the rest of the place, but you could still feel the bass pulsing through the wall.
There were couches around on the floor, although not terribly nice ones. I saw some fake boobs that looked pretty comfortable, but I didn't get to sit on any. All in all, the whole club could have been a huge furniture store or something during the day, for as much money as they spent on making it look nice inside, even though everything you wanted to do there cost outrageous amounts of money.
There were loan officers from the bank standing around in case you actually wanted to order a drink, and god HELP you if you want to sit in one of the many little special areas they have for special people. Out in the huge club part there are little boxes roped off where you can sit with your friends, but of course you have to pay.
As we were watching our guys play, Beck and I sat down at some chairs right in front of the band that no one was using. A suited banana came over.
"You can't sit there." he said.
"What?" I asked him.
"You can't sit there." he said.
"Okay", so we stood up. Right next to the chairs. Like, we didn't move, we just stood up. He went away. I noticed a sign on the table. "VIP ONLY: Reservations required."
So, we had mistakenly sat at a table for very important people, who are more important than the people who are just very important, and much more important than the teeming hordes of plebs outside dancing in the cavern, when we were only very important.
I don't mean to be a hater, I just can't understand why anyone would enjoy being treated like that. Some people love going to those clubs, so for those people, I say knock yourself out. I feel that if I am being asked to cough up a ton of money to be somewhere, it should at least look nicer than my house, not to mention nicer than a roller rink somewhere in hell.
I don't really know anything about running a dance club, though, so don't listen to me.
<-- | Comments(5) | -->