Studio A and Pawn Shop MIAMI 10/12/06
My GAY brother goes out too. But in Miami. He doesn't do the door but he works the list over.
I present Twinjob:
Its 11:30 pm and I am still at home. I’m drinking mug after mug of Echinacea Honey Lemonade mixed with Smirnoff. I’m trying to banish the beginnings of a fever and front load for the club. Roommate and Young-Long-Term-Houseguest are there. He is doing homework. I tell him to go to bed. Roommate laughs when I show her what I am drinking. Whatevs. It’s 11:40 and I am out the door, The night is nice, like it could be summer in Brooklyn. My car smells like mildew, left the window open in the storm today. I head to a club where next to my name on the guest list is a +2.
I am alone. The vodka battles anxiety as I get closer. I struggle to not turn around.
Fuck it. I am hott, Tight grey t-shirt, tight black jeans, my black sambas. Simple and stunning. I did 200 crunches before I left the house.
I park on the street give some dude on a bike a dollar to watch my car. A guy in an orange vest snorts at me, and I turn to give him a dollar too but he’s gone.
They ID me at the door. The girl with the list makes me say my name like eight times because she cant hear me over the music, and is eastern European or something. She tells me loudly I have a +2. The party host is sitting next to her. Thanks.
But it’s all good because around the wall and into the club and….its empty. E-M-P-T-Y. Tumble weeds empty. The music echoes into the bathrooms and back. I look at my phone: 11:55. I hate being early.
I step up to the bar and the bartenders fight each other for my service. The one who wins tries to charge me $7 for a vod/cran.
“Ahem… that should be four dollars.”
No, he explains, $7.
But there is a drink special.
Nope.
I return it. That’s right take it back. If I’m gonna throw down make me a dirty martini.
“But that’s ten.” He doesn’t get it..
No shit if I am PAYING for a drink than I might as well PAY (I could use the olive because I’m not eating the rest weekend with my lunch money all spent on stupid drinks). He makes it dry and I throw up in my mouth a little when I first smell it. I said dirty.
But enough with him I need to look intelligent and engaged. I pull out my phone. With my belly swirling with licorice nastiness I sloppy text Nicole. She’s in the cave, studying for midterms.
Save me I tell her.
How she writes back.
Um… anything.
Half my drink gone and its been ten minutes. I smile at the little bartender lady. I should have bought cigarettes because the guy in the bathroom wants six bucks for a pack. I'm trying to look uninterested and jaded texting crap on my phone, I complain to everybody who cares about the suckiness of the club. I even write to Smarty, up in Mass, to let her know what she’s missing.
Nicole shouts me out. Why are you there if it is so bad?
Because I need to accomplish something, because I want someone to buy me drink, someone to take me home. I want elbows crashing elbows and backs on backs.
I tell her she’s right I should leave.
After this drink, after I get it down.
The bartender asks how the drink is as I choke down a mouthful. I wave him off.
People start to show up.
L is spinning some good songs but no one is moving on the floor. Katherine, Twiggy’s friend, comes in and graciously says hello. We chat how we miss Twiggy, how she is moving to New York, how art part-time is rough. She bums a cigarette for me from a gaggle of girls wearing dresses, and she is off with her BF. A comes in, I thank her for putting me on the list. We say no more than three words to each other. That’s OK I am hott and alone in this club and my drink sucks, and I did it all to myself.
The band goes on. They are the pre-teens from the couch. They sound like Murder City Devils. I tell that to A who has come back for a drink. She says something but the synth cuts through her words and I nod like I know, and feel old because I listened to MCD 7 years ago.
I text Jailbait and Sucka. They tell me to go to Pawn Shop.
I’m lazy. Its far. Come here.
They do. Its 12:45, the band is still on. They fall into me. Jailbait is stumble drunk already. Sucka says we’re leaving. They paid $5 to get into Studio A to rescue me. Angels.
I am saved.
We hit the street. We walk to Pawn Shop…a block away, Who knew? We slide through the velvet ropes on someone’s list (like celebrities).
Inside front room is packed with university looking straights and bad decor. We go to the back room. It’s a mix of electro/indie/hiphop. WHAT?! Thank god for dance loving DJ’s. The three of us are a drunken mess of grinding to every song. Jailbait is the conductor of it all. Sucka told me when I first met her that people think they are lesbians. I wonder why.
The night goes on.
I buy a canned Budweiser for five dollars and the bartender is wearing The Ultimate Warrior makeup from the 80’s I don’t like him right away.
People form Studio A start to come in. People I saw there. Some hott guy with big arms and tattoos thankfully gives me a cigarette when I ask. By the way you’re hott I whisper at him as I light up.
The owner of Studio A walks in.
THE OWNER.
That is bad news.
They play MIA, they play Pitbull, they play Missy Elliot, they play the Faint, they play all these songs I only know from the clubs that make me dance and clap. Rick Ross comes on and I almost fall over.
We are dancing.
Its after 2.
We are dancing.
More people from Studio A. Some girl is dancing on the bar. She is little and muscley and I want to hug her. Suddenly she is behind me tugging on my ears.
They are big, (or something like that) she says.
Thanks, I say, smile and turn away.
Its after 3. Jailbait is laying down on the bed thing. Jackie and I are going strong.
There is a boy, He is cute. He is drunk and he won't dance with me.
He walks by and I stare. I lean on the wall. He is near by. I stare some more, He turns to me. I stare.
“How are you.”
Good.
He asks if I am a good dancer.
You tell me.
We dance,
We bump foreheads a little. He is hospital drunk, OK maybe just primary care waiting room drunk. We are head to head. We kiss and I try to cut it short because making out the dance floor is so eighth grade.
I tell him I need to go home.
I have work in the morning.
Its 3:30.
He asks me to take him home.
I do.
I present Twinjob:
Its 11:30 pm and I am still at home. I’m drinking mug after mug of Echinacea Honey Lemonade mixed with Smirnoff. I’m trying to banish the beginnings of a fever and front load for the club. Roommate and Young-Long-Term-Houseguest are there. He is doing homework. I tell him to go to bed. Roommate laughs when I show her what I am drinking. Whatevs. It’s 11:40 and I am out the door, The night is nice, like it could be summer in Brooklyn. My car smells like mildew, left the window open in the storm today. I head to a club where next to my name on the guest list is a +2.
I am alone. The vodka battles anxiety as I get closer. I struggle to not turn around.
Fuck it. I am hott, Tight grey t-shirt, tight black jeans, my black sambas. Simple and stunning. I did 200 crunches before I left the house.
I park on the street give some dude on a bike a dollar to watch my car. A guy in an orange vest snorts at me, and I turn to give him a dollar too but he’s gone.
They ID me at the door. The girl with the list makes me say my name like eight times because she cant hear me over the music, and is eastern European or something. She tells me loudly I have a +2. The party host is sitting next to her. Thanks.
But it’s all good because around the wall and into the club and….its empty. E-M-P-T-Y. Tumble weeds empty. The music echoes into the bathrooms and back. I look at my phone: 11:55. I hate being early.
I step up to the bar and the bartenders fight each other for my service. The one who wins tries to charge me $7 for a vod/cran.
“Ahem… that should be four dollars.”
No, he explains, $7.
But there is a drink special.
Nope.
I return it. That’s right take it back. If I’m gonna throw down make me a dirty martini.
“But that’s ten.” He doesn’t get it..
No shit if I am PAYING for a drink than I might as well PAY (I could use the olive because I’m not eating the rest weekend with my lunch money all spent on stupid drinks). He makes it dry and I throw up in my mouth a little when I first smell it. I said dirty.
But enough with him I need to look intelligent and engaged. I pull out my phone. With my belly swirling with licorice nastiness I sloppy text Nicole. She’s in the cave, studying for midterms.
Save me I tell her.
How she writes back.
Um… anything.
Half my drink gone and its been ten minutes. I smile at the little bartender lady. I should have bought cigarettes because the guy in the bathroom wants six bucks for a pack. I'm trying to look uninterested and jaded texting crap on my phone, I complain to everybody who cares about the suckiness of the club. I even write to Smarty, up in Mass, to let her know what she’s missing.
Nicole shouts me out. Why are you there if it is so bad?
Because I need to accomplish something, because I want someone to buy me drink, someone to take me home. I want elbows crashing elbows and backs on backs.
I tell her she’s right I should leave.
After this drink, after I get it down.
The bartender asks how the drink is as I choke down a mouthful. I wave him off.
People start to show up.
L is spinning some good songs but no one is moving on the floor. Katherine, Twiggy’s friend, comes in and graciously says hello. We chat how we miss Twiggy, how she is moving to New York, how art part-time is rough. She bums a cigarette for me from a gaggle of girls wearing dresses, and she is off with her BF. A comes in, I thank her for putting me on the list. We say no more than three words to each other. That’s OK I am hott and alone in this club and my drink sucks, and I did it all to myself.
The band goes on. They are the pre-teens from the couch. They sound like Murder City Devils. I tell that to A who has come back for a drink. She says something but the synth cuts through her words and I nod like I know, and feel old because I listened to MCD 7 years ago.
I text Jailbait and Sucka. They tell me to go to Pawn Shop.
I’m lazy. Its far. Come here.
They do. Its 12:45, the band is still on. They fall into me. Jailbait is stumble drunk already. Sucka says we’re leaving. They paid $5 to get into Studio A to rescue me. Angels.
I am saved.
We hit the street. We walk to Pawn Shop…a block away, Who knew? We slide through the velvet ropes on someone’s list (like celebrities).
Inside front room is packed with university looking straights and bad decor. We go to the back room. It’s a mix of electro/indie/hiphop. WHAT?! Thank god for dance loving DJ’s. The three of us are a drunken mess of grinding to every song. Jailbait is the conductor of it all. Sucka told me when I first met her that people think they are lesbians. I wonder why.
The night goes on.
I buy a canned Budweiser for five dollars and the bartender is wearing The Ultimate Warrior makeup from the 80’s I don’t like him right away.
People form Studio A start to come in. People I saw there. Some hott guy with big arms and tattoos thankfully gives me a cigarette when I ask. By the way you’re hott I whisper at him as I light up.
The owner of Studio A walks in.
THE OWNER.
That is bad news.
They play MIA, they play Pitbull, they play Missy Elliot, they play the Faint, they play all these songs I only know from the clubs that make me dance and clap. Rick Ross comes on and I almost fall over.
We are dancing.
Its after 2.
We are dancing.
More people from Studio A. Some girl is dancing on the bar. She is little and muscley and I want to hug her. Suddenly she is behind me tugging on my ears.
They are big, (or something like that) she says.
Thanks, I say, smile and turn away.
Its after 3. Jailbait is laying down on the bed thing. Jackie and I are going strong.
There is a boy, He is cute. He is drunk and he won't dance with me.
He walks by and I stare. I lean on the wall. He is near by. I stare some more, He turns to me. I stare.
“How are you.”
Good.
He asks if I am a good dancer.
You tell me.
We dance,
We bump foreheads a little. He is hospital drunk, OK maybe just primary care waiting room drunk. We are head to head. We kiss and I try to cut it short because making out the dance floor is so eighth grade.
I tell him I need to go home.
I have work in the morning.
Its 3:30.
He asks me to take him home.
I do.
filthy
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