We Be Clubbin'

So as we get older, hopefully we grow and learn new things. But there are some things we just know about ourselves. I for one realized sometime around the age of 19/20ish that I hated clubs. Lounges and bars – loved them. I could even handle a club before thing really get popping – when the Happy Hour specials are still in effect, the dance floor is kinda empty, the DJ hasn’t started his reggae/dancehall/wtf set yet, and I can still roll through in a cute workish outfit, wearing flats.

But I realized that what I totally hated was putting on a “freakum” dress, 3 inch+ heels, making sure my hair was did, looking as Amaretto would say ‘behind God’s backyard’ for parking, standing in a long line, paying an unreasonable amount for coat check, only to be surrounded by a bunch of stank lookin chicks and ‘what yo’ name is’ nyggas, listening and "dancing" (cause you know we don't dance no mo') to the same top 10 songs from the radio, and so on. So once I learned the best place to dance and be considered fabulous was the gay club, I pretty much stopped going “clubbing.”

And yet last week during Howard’s Homecoming, I was met with this question. “where are you going to party this weekend?” “Ummm… Nowhere,” was my reply. Mainly because I have am a wee bit fearful of the mix that is Negroes, likka, and pit bulls. But I digress. So I left it up to my fellow co-worker who’s also 28 to do the heavy lifting. She hit up some spots and came back with a report. And it was just how I figured it would be. And confirmed what I already knew, it ain’t nothing but some bullshyt out there.

So co-worker comes back with tales of this man tried to holla and he was driving a NICE range rover. And then this man tried to holla and he has a mansion in Tysons Corner (oh that's “wealthy" area for those not in the DC Metro). This other man who tried to holla was part owner of some urban t-shirt company. And we exchanged numbers. And... And I was really trying my darndest not to give her a 'wtf' look the whole time she spoke. But in my mind, I was like, “for real?” Like do you really believe that mess? Did you really entertain them like beyond the VIP section access and the free grey goose? Do you really think any of those men are/were worth your time?

And that takes me to that age old question, can you really meet somebody in the club? Like for real, for real? If you were in the club and someone stepped to you, would you really take them seriously? And maybe that’s why I really stopped doing the whole club thing because it felt like people were looking for something that they were never going to find. Just chasing something as elusive and transparent as air. One person in the dark, something completely different in the daylight. Just fake. And phony. Broke people “buying” the bar. Women with weaves to their behinds. People passing out homemade business cards that describe them as "consultant". And I know that when you are first digging and getting to know somebody, you are really meeting their representative. But in the club, it feels like you’re meeting their secretary.

And while I don't knock anyone who likes going to the club (I just silently judge them in my head and now on this here blog), I do wonder - after you've reached a certain age - don't you get tired of it all? Isn't it just the same thing weekend after weekend? And then can you really be upset when you come back to work on Monday "blown" that there were no decent men? That they were all posers. Or too gay. Or too short. Or too thuggish. Or too nerdy. Or too young. Or too old. But never just right. And never quite what you've been looking for. Never what you really want. Or need. Just filler. Seemingly standing in the way of the real thing...

That's my time y'all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!