Maybe sometime I'll explain things in depth, or at least complain about having the first crowd-induced panic attack that I've had in a very, very, very long time, but for now let's just say that I will never ever ever go back, to Manray or any other dance club, and I'm very sorry about it but that's just the way it has to be.
It wasn't all that bad, I'll give you that. There were certain parts of the evening where I felt like I was having a good time. I had a very nice conversation with a nice young lady and her friend outside the club that revolved around the exchange rate between cloves and regular cigarettes, and I listened to a nice drunken young man try to convince a nice drunken young lady to go to bed with him, and there was a nice couple who ducked back down the alley with such amorous intent that I got up and moved down the wall a bit so as to give them a little privacy once I heard slurpy sounds, and two nice girls ducked behind the dumpster across the street for I'm not sure what, and that all was very interesting. But when I was in the building I felt like the kid who'd broken his leg and had to watch from a plastic loungey chair while his friends got to splash around happily in the pool.
I mean, I'm not a dancer, I am just a big doofy-looking white guy who's so unaware of his physical surroundings on a cramped dance floor that he ends up apologizing to more strangers over the course of the evening than should be humanly necessary. Add to this the fact that the only amounts of booze in the world that can make me feel comfortable enough to even try are almost lethal, and the fact that -- yeah. I'm old. I'm a old large doofy-looking guy who doesn't even have a decent outfit for such activities. This social ritual is as alien to me. As it is not fun for me, I have no motives to do it. I understand some people have the same reaction to things I like, such as roller coasters ("How can you ride them?! They're so unsafe! You will fall out! It will fall over! You could never get me on one of those things!") so I decided to just keep quiet about it, so I wouldn't spoil anybody else's fun. If you can have fun there, go ahead, it's all for you.
And I liked seeing the freaks show up, and I liked the various outfits, and while I wasn't too thrilled with the fact that the videos they silently played on the monitors were for songs more fun, mostly, than the ones played by the DJ ("I Eat Cannibals! C'mon, they gotta play that one") I liked seeing them all the same. I forgot that Taco was one scary mammajama. But all in all we have to realize that there are certain environments and settings in which we do not thrive. Ones that are so adverse to our whole being that when we find one and experience it, we just have to say "Sorry, no. Never again."
Yet at the same time you eat your heart out over it because if everybody else is having fun and you're not having fun, obviously you're the problem. Well, that's how I felt last night. So I can't do that again. Because it makes the state of no-fun and exacerbates it beyond belief. And once I realized I was unable to breathe and had to go run outside (and congregate among the smokers) I realized it was over. But I couldn't walk home cause I hadn't told anybody and my bag was in Ari's car.
(The car, by the way, was a very exciting experience. Fitting 8 people in a Subaru is an adventure in and of itself, and when poor Ari bottomed out leaving the parking garage, the people on the sidewalk applauded.)
I'm sure I had a point to continue on, as it is a slow Sunday at work and I have nothing else to do, but frankly, I'd like to stop writing about it. It's over, I've realized there are things in the world I cannot do, through no fault of anybody's but my own, and I'm glad everybody else had a fun time because it sure seemed like it. I'll be all right after an ice cream sandwich and a bit of meditation.