listening to: the sound of silence
I should not be awake at this time and I should not be posting. I am not particularly good — as of yet — at sacrificing things, or being all that realistic: I tend to want everything all at once, I think I can do it all. This is one of my greater delusions. It tends to leave me tired.
Tonight my plans for a quiet productive evening were interrupted by a text from Tina, who wanted to know if I was coming out tonight. I had no idea what she was talking about. Turns out she’d sent me an email I somehow never received about her birthday celebration, and since I hadn’t seen her in forever and value her friendship, there was no way I could not participate.
Rally. Throw on a black dress and black boots and go.
Tina is single, childless, and plugged into the LA club scene; she always knows the hot new spot and the person who can let us breeze in. Tonight it was the grand opening of a place called Guys and Dolls, which used to be a place called Guy’s (seems every club in this part of LA used to be another club that used to be another club, in what amounts to a kind of nightlife recycling). I had not stepped onto the Scene in months, and it was oddly reassuring to see how it stays the same while my life is undergoing big changes. The same collection of unusually attractive, decked-out people, the same breed of stunning model-actor-bartenders, the same faces in the crowd that you remember from other crowds in other clubs. Long-haired heir of multi-billion-dollar fortune who hangs out at the prime real-estate VIP tables with Paris and co.? Check. Matthew Perry, standing in the circle of a protective group of friends, his gaze carefully averted from the people who forget themselves enough to point him out to others in the exact way an LA hipster is not supposed to do? Check. People who look familiar enough that you think you must have met them before, except you’re experienced enough to know such ‘recognition’ only means you saw them on some television show you can’t remember? Check. Tall olive-skinned guy in the skullcap, always on the fringes of Leo’s posse at Club Villa when it was still the taste du jour, who kept hitting on your friend Stephanie? Check.
And so it goes.
Although the music was different — as the night progressed took on a harder dance element that would not have been out of place at a rave. The music made me happy, and although I didn’t exactly close the club down* — getting too old for that — I stayed longer than intended. Dude and I exchanged a few texts. Dancing like a wild thing , I informed him. Celebrating the superficial. I like the superficial. He informed me that he was working on a million-dollar proposal for his nonprofit organization. I greatly admire what he does, but there are times when a girl’s gotta dance in her boots until her feet hurt.
* Clubs at LA close down at 2 am, when the Scene shifts to house parties in the hills. Yes, it’s a school night, but that’s the point. Only the peons save their partying for Fri and Sat nights, when anybody who is truly Anybody wouldn’t bother to show their face in a place overrun by the workaday commoners.
Strike a pose.