Glitterball Existentialism

I don't like parties.

I hate nightclubs.

Don't get me wrong, an informal gathering of the kind that normally involves a trip to a distant off-licensce and, subsequently watching Star Wars mildly anaesthetised by Red Stripe and breadsticks... I'm bang up alongside that idea.

The problem, though is that I can best be described as a witticism in trousers. I am solely a stick-structure of theories. Drily mumbled comments are the main avenue for my self to touch the outside world, and there is no atmosphere more hostile to drily mumbled comments than a dark, noisy room full of drunk people. Then there is normally a soundtrack of WHUP WHUP WHUP WHUP and a gravelly voice-track of a man explaining that he enjoys heterosexual sex, and that it forms a significant part of his lifestyle.

It's at times like these that I normally slip into the kind of mindset that I imagine occupies Mighty Mitch Clem for most of his waking hours: one where you can't help feeling that you'd be a lot happier if you had half the intelligence.

There's a paradox to clubs as well, at least for me. I only ever go because friends have cajoled me to, but the instant you enter any club you are insurmountably alone. Well, OK, that's not strictly true: you have company to the extent that you can communicate by bellowing into a proffered ear, or by the medium of bump'n'grind. Neither is my chosen format. Handing over my dinero for a inkstain on the back of my hand is akin to some kind of last rites, because the moment the light of that glitter-ball hits me I have temporarily ceased to be.

The only victory I ever achieved was to go with the flow up to the moment of evanescence, and then to leave immediately under the cover of WHUP WHUP WHUP.

Rockin'.

revolution, revolution