Thank you Chris Courtenay, who had us walking into some nice midtown clubs without
ever letting go a dollar, showing cards of DJ's and showing up on "the list."
There was the persistent thump of house mix and inebriated women in boas. At one
point, two women were dancing provocatively together as a darkly clad man reclined
in a chair wailing on a sax. One of the women turned out to be a friend of Chris'.
That was at a place called Tangiers; there I never really left the porch. Of course,
prior to that, we were in the basement of a place called the Leopard
with chairs and couches printed to suit the name and a room of wildly
flickering lights that looked more like a den than a club dance floor. There was
a DJ working diligently behind some delicate living room style lathe-work. We
just stood and talked, which explains why I'm hoarse today. Earlier that night,
we had met Chris at Cherry
where he was celebrating someone's birthday. Turns out to have been the birthday
of the girl who later danced at Tangiers. It has been a long time since I've been
clubbing; things have changed. I'm not sure I could afford it these days; I am
sure I saw 90% of Banana Republic sales for the past month walking around last