Monday, January 09, 2006

Keep The Heads Ringing

I don't dance. Let me rephrase that: I can't dance. After a brief sixth grade stint of trying my best to work the running man out while sporting one-strapped overalls, I learned my lesson. Most of my friends dance, some of them even do it with conviction and style. When most people dance, no matter how talented or epileptic they may look, they generally appear to enjoy themselves. Remember MTV's "The Grind"? If so, perhaps you can recall how when hosting the show, Eric Nies was often camera-caught on the sidelines bobbing his head with a barely believable tough-guy mannerism? He taught me everything I know.

I don't consider myself to be a conservative individual. On the contrary I think I tend to live my life, socially and ethically, in a fairly unorthodox standard. However, I don't dance. Nothing in this world provides me with a deeper sense of self-consciousness. Next to nothing in this world makes me feel so uncomfortable. Even during dire times, when the dance floor is being held down by folks that are embarrassing themselves to extents far greater than anything that I'm capable of, I don't dance. Of course, exaggeration has it's place in writing and I can't truthfully say there haven't been a few exceptions. For the most part, a copious amount of alcohol can't get me shaking what my momma didn't give me and neither can gorgeous girls grabbing me by the hand. Both however, in rare instances, have.

The Exit, for a few varying reasons which I'll gladly elaborate on, is the worst bar in Chicago. The first, and most obvious rationale, comes with the notation that most distilled beverage consuming Chicagoans that I choose to dabble with would agree that nearly all four a.m. bars are bad news. It's a pretty straightforward theory: By two a.m., unless you work in a bar, chances are that in a formal sense, you've already had plenty to drink. The four a.m. bar, by nature is a spill over locale for every drunk fuck from within in the city and elsewhere. Last chance to splatter your brains, last chance to splatter your pants, so forth and so on. The result can be and usually is, rather disastrous. As an individual who tends to think that most people don't tend to think enough, spending even fifteen minutes with drunken apes who've missed out on Darwinism doesn't seem too ideal. That being said, as an individual who unfortunately has a tendency for reckless thirst consumption, I find myself, from time to time, out and about at three a.m in the company of many slurring, slobbering no-necked, primitives who are desperately trying to fufill their instinctual desires. People watching is one of my favorite hobbies.

Moving a long, any bar or commodity-based establishment that chooses to market itself under the term "punk rock" is adhering to an irony and contradiction rarely surpassed. Yes readers, I'm sure this is a point that could easily remain unspoken. The Exit, a self-proclaimed "Punk and Rock Club", with it's five dollar cover, overpriced drinks, offensively cliche jukebox, jocks-in-leather-disguise patronage, flame and skull decor, and multi-level dance cage, hardly seems to fit the term. May I also mention that I find it incredibly difficult to find positivity or differentiate, in the year two thousand and six, between a roomful of people chanting a long with the Misfit's "I Want Your Skull" and a roomful of people chanting a long with the Grateful Dead's "Box of Rain". Both options seem rather trite. People watching is one of my favorite hobbies.

Last Saturday, I found myself at the Exit... and dancing. You may be asking yourself: why, oh why Brian, did you stoop so low? To take notes friends - to take literal and figurative notes. At best, I got to sit on a gutted motorcycle with my legs crossed in the tightest of ways, limp-wrist revving, trying to see what kind of anger-rise I could get out of the looming industrial-fist-clenching-punk-as-bunnies crowd. At best I got a surplus of laughs. At best I learned that Social Distortion is still quite popular. At best I made my friend Anna buckle into near-tears as I electric slid and interpretive danced my through a swarm of serious, very serious, pulsating, morbid techno fans. At best, after thankfully exiting the Exit, I went home and stayed up until eight a.m performing puppet shows with my socks, discussing which martial arts super heroes my goldfish could defeat, and studying the details of the D.D.T. wrestling maneuver by watching one Mr. David Holtz demonstrate it on a chair. At best I learned that the Exit is still the worst bar in Chicago and that I still can't dance. At worst I spent 15 dollars on three canned beers and woke up mid-afternoon with a moderate headache. So drunken friends and future wives, consider this a challenge: I won't be dancing or going to the Exit anytime in the near future. Until you prove me wrong, I'll be wallflowering it prior to two a.m., with my head nodding in Nies style.


Anonymous David said...

I guess some of us were smart enough to call it a bar night before 4 a.m. It's better to keep your 4 a.m. self amongst friends and in apartments, well, at least that is what your furniture thought.

9:00 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

At last! someone has denounced the Exit! I'm guilty of the incredibly rare visit to that place- usually with out of town friends in tow- but its just to show them how absurd the place is. Try going there Fran- his dancing- I'm sure- is worse than yours.


8:53 AM  
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