Clubs

Let's open up with some brutal honesty: I'm a worthless dancer, which is actually a bit odd considering I can beatbox (no, seriously) and several years ago won a freestyle battle competition at a Busta Rhymes concert (no, seriously); yet somehow the rhythm just doesn't transfer from my head and mouth to my hips and lifeless limbs. There are worse dancers out there, but I absolutely do my share in reinforcing that white-male stereotype. Suffice it to say, I dance like Helen Keller jump-roped. So I typically do everyone and my ego a favor and stay off the dance floor. But like NCAA rulings suggest, there are exceptions to every self-mandated rule. If the situation, music, and cleavage are right, sure, ol' Claude might cut a rug or two.

But rare exceptions aside, I stay away from clubs. It's not my scene and I'm mostly uncomfortable there. My inability to dance well is a large contributor to that, but it doesn't help that I'm not tall enough to be noticed, I don't own any skin-tight T-shirts slathered with dragons and tigers and indecipherable cursive, and my body is free of barbed wire tattoos around my biceps. Call me old-fashioned, but I far prefer to sit down with someone and, you know, talk.

If you haven't been to a club in years, even decades, nothing has changed. While modernity is always at the forefront of all visual and aural aspects of and within clubs, the fundamentals remain the same. It's still a meat market with nearly everyone in competition with their counterparts. There are still lights and effects, vibrant-colored drinks, and fire marshal-disapproved crowd capacities. The guys are still overplaying their hand, the girls are still flaunting fashion that's hot now but mockable in 10 years, and the DJs are still hand-picking the bottom of the barrel of Billboard's Top 100 and then remixing the crap out of it until its level of stupidity matches that of the increasingly intoxicated club-goers who have been busy equally dumbing themselves down by way of sugary mixed drinks and shots christened after various sexual positions.

The sociology you can study in clubs supersedes what any college course offers. As more of the sit-back-and-watch-the-night-unfold type myself, I take great, great pleasure in observing the predictable uniformity in roles all men and all women automatically assume upon receiving the literal stamp of approval from the bouncer. Without hesitation, we men go on the prowl with tongues hanging, eager to nudge any other male bystanders so as to point out any remotely sensual sights and build instant camaraderie with each other around our shared appreciation for the female body and those who parade it well. This is when we men are at our lowest and most vulnerable point; it's embarrassing. And women know this, which is why they, also without hesitation, taunt and tease anyone breathing and dance with each other in impenetrable, hip-locked groups, acting like attention is the last thing they want -- until 17 guys give it to them, and then it's all smiles, poses, and whatever it takes to get more attention and hopefully a night of endless free drinks.

Ah, clubs... if they weren't so pathetic and clichéd, they'd be funny. ...Actually, no, they're still pretty funny anyway.