You Can't Find Me in Da Club

I did something Saturday night that goes against everything that I'm used to; I went to Atlantic City without my mom and grandmother. Don't worry, I stayed at the same hotel and ate at the same restaurants that we usually do. I'm not an animal. I was there with my brother and his friends for a "guys' night out on the town." So where do you expect to find a bunch of single twenty somethings in A.C.? The answer is not the penny slots, as I rudely found out. The answer is a nightclub.

Now, if you're me, you feel socially awkward in a nightclub... or any other place people are, for that matter. But try convincing a bunch of EDM crazed young men that pumping a progressive Wheel of Fortune machine full of money is more fun than pumping their fists to the first part of every popular song mashed together. You'd have more luck trying to win big at Blackjack. And similar to a casino, the 3lau haus always wins. So, when in Rome, go to Caesars.

There was no cover charge to get into the club. If you are unfamiliar, a cover charge is something that bars and clubs charge to enter in case you don't drink, there is live music, or just because they can. It's basically a bar tax. Taxation without inebriation! Anyway, we walked in past the bouncers, had our I.D.s checked, and entered the gates of Hell. 

Hell looked different than I originally pictured. I had only seen artists' renderings and movies. Hell is actually a place full of flashing strobe lights and bass so loud that I couldn't hear myself think, a true and fitting punishment if there ever was one. Now, as you know, I'm usually all about that bass, 'Bout that bass, no treble. Except not down there. Not in the belly of the Inferno, or Dusk, whatever the club was named.

That's when we ran into Lucifer. He was laying down the sickest beats, despite the fact that all of the songs were doctored. I felt myself saying "This is very impressive." Nobody heard me because the base was so loud, but it's whatever. 

At this point, I was having no fun at all. It's just not my scene. I don't get the appeal of five guys standing in a circle with drinks while sound makes it hard to breathe. And does a girl really want a guy with a raging boner grinding behind her? No, I don't think so. I danced a little, if you can call what I did dancing. But I'm too shy to ask girl to dance and too devastatingly handsome and intimidating for one to ask me. There's a catch 22 for ya. 

My brother and his friends looked like they were having a good time, from what I saw in between the strobe light flashes. They looked happy. But me, I was looking for any excuse to leave. It was 2 A.M. and I was about to fake a seizure when I saw my brother's friend motion that he wanted to leave. I yelled "Really? Ok!" and bolted up the steps into a fully operational casino, a rarity in Atlantic City. I sat down at a slot machine, turned three dollars into thirteen, and then lost all of that. My brother's friends eventually found me, and we left exhausted. If I didn't know any better, I would say that that's how you do AC.

(But I do know better, and it's most certainly not, so don't judge me. A dance club isn't my scene. My scene is a comedy club.)