some folkster pulled out an archaic mandolin/satire love child. I audibly gasped when another guy pulled out an accordion. Scene set.
That said, I love dancing, a lot of my friends in MA are brilliant DJs and have a wide variety of house, psychedelic, trance, and electronica. Most of our dance parties were in living rooms, dilapitated studios, warehouses, and were nigh near euphoric gatherings.
Last night: After lounging on my couch all day, I get up to go to a friend's birthday at a bar in midtown. I don a pair of worn handmedown jeans you'd tend a garden in. And since it is SNOWING, and I have no health insurance, I put on wool socks, andLL Bean Snow "Duck" Boots. A purple scarf, brown long sleeve t shirt, and eyeliner. OK. The bar itself is super casual, with a rock band and beer being the drink of choice.
After 45 minutes, one of my friends - S - comes rollicking in. She seems like she's been partying already and ultimately has a plan. She declares that we are going to go dancing. She's fun. Within minutes she has hailed a bus in the middle of the avenue out of sheer gumption and pizazz, and informs me we are going to Chelsea. I snort.
Chelsea? The land of all that is cool, waxed, and chic. Her friend says there's a dress code. I agree. I figure in my outfit even McDonald's would have a dress code. S systematically refuses.
We're in Chelsea. We go to find a bathroom at this Punjabi deli. It's hopping inside, and the Besan Barfi is calling my name. My best friend calls me on the phone, and I decide I'm ending my evening here and will order some Pakistani food with the merry crowd of clubbers and use my free minutes for a while. S refuses. They've decided on the club. Marquee.
"Is Marquee worth all the drama at the door to get in? The chi-chi West Chelsea hotspot from the folks behind the promotion of the formerly trendy Suite 16 is the kind of place where, if the too-cool-for-school doorman deems you unworthy of entrance (straight men without women, beware), a couple of beefy security guards will forcibly evict you from the velvet rope line. Even if you pass muster, you’re going to have to wait on that damn line anyway; only the beautiful and the well-connected get a free pass here."— Sean Kennedy, The New Yorker
Goodbye Naan and Cashew Barfi. Hello bouncers and disgrace. I figured it's the price of dorkdom, you get thrown out of cool places now and then.
Waiting in a standstill, with uber hotttttt denizens, all my attempts at bowing out have fallen on deaf ears, S strikes up a conversation in French with two French guys who are in some special VIP-line moving really fast. At this point it seems like an adventure, and I have a vested curiosity as to whether I'll get in. She tells me to say I'm French. I reply, "je m'appelle Mercedes" and we get in line while I make small talk in Spanish.
At the check I keep my coat on tightly, tousle my hair, and hand over my IDm and smile pretty. Everyone else has passports, visas, I have Massachusetts, from the boots to the handmedowns to the ID. I smile at the guy, a big smile like we're buddies. He waves me in. S seems unfazed "I told you so" she laughs. I mean earlier she had hailed a bus, and she had said "New York is crazy, I only try cause I know anything is possible". She had gotten into the VIP-esque line. She'd gotten a granola bar into Marquee. All in a night's work.
(Oh, and I got my Pakistani pastries later).
2 comments:
The soles are suede, allowing them to slide easily, which makes turns and spins almost effortless. Some studios offer dance shoes for sale, or there are many sites online from which you can order. I also don't recommend wearing open-toed shoes, such as sandals or flip-flops. Remember you're in a beginning class, and there is always the possibility of someone accidentally stepping on those toes!
Hilarious! Must run in the blood because I'm not much for going out (dressed up looking sassy kind), but I do love dancing! Oh man, I thought your story would end up with reject from chi-chi club... glad you made it in. Reminds me of a scene out of The Devil Wears Prada!
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