Y'know, one day I was riding the train and a shitload of teenagers got on making a shitload of noise and drawing a shitload of attention to themselves. Cussin' and being plain ol' rebellious and loud, y'know the way kids like to do. Hell, the girls' mouths were even fouler than a lot of the boys' were. One group of kids even managed to start up a dice game right there on the train, against the door. And trust me, I can't stand to ride the train with kids, primarily teenyboppers. Still, even though I hated it all and wanted to scold or smack or choke, the living shit out of every last one of those teenyboppers, I managed to exit the train at my stop and not feel like an old bastard.

Tonight changed all that. I went out for the first time in a minute to a popular new local spot called BLANK. Now don't get me wrong, BLANK isn't the name of this joint, I'm just calling it BLANK to keep from using the ACTUAL name which is ____. Wednesday night. Middle of the week. Hump day. For some reason amongst all the lovely women with nice round bottoms and eager smiles I couldn't enjoy myself and it didn't take me very long to figure out why. I soon discovered that it was pretentious night at BLANK. That's right, PRETENTIOUS NIGHT. You know that night at the spot where all the movers and shakers are elsewhere and their stunt doubles show up. 

I suppose my first clue should have been when I reached the door of BLANK and I was stopped by a door guy who asked me for a PASSWORD. Did I spell that correctly? P A S S W O R D. Yeah, I got it right. I'd never been to a joint with a real live password before, but luckily I had already been told the crucial words to gain entry into this hotspot. So I stroll up and say, "ABRACADABRA" (of COURSE that wasn't it, but I can't tell the p-word and you folks wouldn't want to be in there anyway) and the guy steps aside and there I am. Smack dab in the center of a fuckin RAP VIDEO. There's really no other way to describe it all. My suspicions were confirmed when the bottles began to pop. And then I thought to myself, am I too old for this scene? I wasn't turned on by anything that was going on. There was no place to dance and yet the music was blaring as if this place were a club. There were sofas and soft seats abound, even little coffee tables. The place was set up for patrons to drink and socialize and network, but it wasn't happening that way. 

Another clue that it was PRETENTIOUS NIGHT was the dress code sign hanging in three different windows of the establishment. You know the rules, no jeans, no boots, no sneakers, no headgear, strictly dress to impress. Whatever. I get inside and what do I see? You guessed it, jeans, and boots and sneakers and hats; warm-up suits even. But wait, the sign in the window said… Ahhh yes, but they knew the password. I spent the night trying to figure out my place in this bizarre world, looking for the director's chair, waiting for Hype Williams to shout CUT! or THAT'S A WRAP! Anything to get me out of this pretentious scene. But then it dawned on me that I was there to witness this ridiculous phenomenon for a reason. It was there so that I could write this article, which cost me twenty-six bucks in drinks, tips notwithstanding. So I suppose my question is this: Is this what a night out looks like nowadays? Is this what passes for "intelligent nightlife"? Is there no middle ground, some place a bit less self-absorbed? Where do those who find this rap video scenery dull and weather-beaten go to enjoy a night out? What if I don't want to be besieged on my left and my right by bottle-poppers who feel that they are entitled to more space because they have a chilled white star Moet at the ready? And exactly when did it become so necessary to make the extra effort to make it evident to everyone else at the spot that you are having a good time? Are you really having a good time if you have to try so hard to look like you're "doin the damn thing"?

So can someone tell me exactly where it was that I got old? Because it became pretty evident to me within the first fifteen minutes of being at BLANK that I was a fish out of water. Am I old? Is it me? C'mon, I mean, I KNOW I can't be the only one who's experienced such silliness at a night out and wondered was there someplace for me to go and relax and socialize OTHER than my living room. Where, for Pete's goddamned sake, are the people who just go out to enjoy themselves and meet other people without pretense and without pseudo-cool posturing? Cause that's where I need to be. And don't jack me off with your little signs about dress codes and such if you're only going to enforce it halfway. I can be condescended to without a door charge or a drink minimum. So there you have it boys and girls, the Gumby perspective on the phenomenon that I like to call Pretentious Nightlife. I spent twenty-six bucks at BLANK and all I got was this lousy column.

Somebody get me a cigarette and a girly magazine.

GD!