Tuesday Morning Upload

I really do want to blog about my weekend. It was extraordinary. It’s just that it’s Tuesday now, and I’ve already processed most of what the weekend held. Then again, my weekend extended an extra day, as I decided to drive down to Chicago last night. Jason spent yesterday cleaning his apartment, and that was a good enough reason to haul ass down 94 after dark on a Monday. Indeed, the place is much cleaner – both in the messy way and the dirty way. Jake, Jason, and I watched Barfly (if you didn’t know – it’s pronounced “BARF-lee”). We decided that we ought to drink while watching, so we cracked open what we had laying around – a bottle of champagne.

Back to the weekend. Yes. Saturday night I had made plans to go dancing with my friend Abbie. Back when we both lived in Rogers Park, we’d go to Big Chicks and dance the night away, drinking the free shots they give out at midnight, and not have to worry about being oogled or manhandled. (There was one time where I was accosted by an attractive but agressive woman, but that’s a rarity.)

I purchased a bottle of Smirnoff Cape Codder ($6 at the sto’ – it must be discontinued) and brought it along to have with dinner.

As I took off my coat, Abbie congradulated me on wearing black. She had Metromixed the closest clubs, and learned that there was a goth club, known for it’s cheap drinks, three blocks away. What’s better than dancing at a gay bar? Dancing at a goth bar called Neo.

As it turns out, a 750 mL bottle of the stuff will put two Irish Catholically educated women into a state that is west of Tipsy. (That’s a $3 drunk, if you weren’t paying attention.) We also drank port, which I found too sweet and good.

We put on too much makeup, and headed out. I wasn’t sure if my cute little brown peacoat was going to be a visual shibboleth, but there was a coat check. The drinks were not as inexpensive as Metromix had quoted, but it was still a great place to sit down (in a dark corner, naturally) and peoplewatch sulk.

There were six people on the dance floor, and it was obvious that their reason for dancing superceded the cultural more they were breaking. The majority of people were standing or sitting along the perimeter of the dance floor. Despite the lack of dancefloor excitement, there was plenty of fog machine action which continued into the night.

True to form, the dance floor filled up directly after midnight. Having pumped more cocktails into our systems, we were ready to dance as well. I’d like to consider myself a good dancer, if not an exuberant one, and I wasn’t sure how to dance appropriately. There seemed to be two styles: women in too-short skirts and heels dancing sexy, yet morosely; and guys dancing kind of house, but angrier. I chose the angry athletic style, and proceeded to shake my ass and show them what I was working with for about two hours.

It’s Tuesday, and I’m still sore.

That was the action, but the best part were the observations. This place seems to be a catch-all for outdated modes of style. I saw some Flock of Seagulls, I saw some ravers, I saw some City of Lost Chidren, and of course the high-end Hot Topic freaksluts.

Anyway, it was both a sociological zoo visit and a party night all rolled into one. The fact that it’s so close to Abbie’s means I’m putting on my Lydia outfit, getting predrunk, and going there again this summer.