Why I'm through with clubbing

The nightclub industry seems to spend a lot of effort dissuading people of my demographic from participating in their institution and the industry has been largely successful. The music's too loud, the drinks are weak and overpriced, and I've seen cleaner bathrooms at train stations in developing countries. And ultimately, I get bored of dancing after about five minutes. I am so over it.

Last night was an exception. I was cajoled to go to the Club Papi event which doubled as a fundraiser for ProLatino on its 15th anniversary.

The rest of the week, we are cued by the television networks to understand that prime time is from 8 to 11. Not so in the nightclub world where the party doesn't really get going until after 11. I believe this is a deliberate effort to exclude sensible people like me who understand that the body is meant to go to bed at that hour. Why can't the three hours I intended to spend at the nightclub begin at a reasonable hour, say 8 p.m. and end at 11? Then, we could all make it home and be in bed in time for Saturday Night Live, drifting off to sleep shortly after Weekend Update when the sucky skits ensue.

My body brilliantly has a circadian rhythm that signals me to fall asleep around 11:30 p.m. and to wake at 6:57, after precisely three snooze cycles. Yet, on the weekend, I'm supposed to throw all that natural equilibrium out the window and pull a near all-nighter. Am I supposed to feel like a wuss for this?

What does one do between the hours of 8 and 11, waiting for the action to start? In my case, I took a nap.

We headed to the club at 11, ignoring my body's protests. As we drove past the club, we saw a lengthy line snaking outside in the rain, waiting to get in. Few other businesses treat their patrons like this. Even Denny's has a few benches inside the building for people waiting to be seated.

Nightclub owners view these lines of patrons waiting outside as good advertising. Whatever is going on inside must be great if these poor saps are willing to wait outside in the rain for it. Other businesses don't use their customers as drenched billboards.

After we paid our $15 to get in, the next step is to wait in the coat check line. Under normal circumstances, I don't find hanging up my jacket a task for which I require the services of an assistant. Nor do I consider the temporary use of a plastic hanger worthy of a $2 rental fee. I believe you can get 10 of those hangers at the dollar store--for a dollar. Next time, I'll bring my own and demand a discount.

Maybe I'm off-based here, but after I just dropped $15 to get in the door, I think that the nearly effortless task of hanging up my jacket should be included in the entrance fee. Like toilet paper, I just expect certain things to be part of the deal. We don't pay an extra fee for the security guy to stare blankly at my driver's license. We don't pay an extra fee for the cashier to take my money and hand me a ticket or for the superfluous guy two steps ahead who takes said ticket.

Anticipating this shakedown, we all left our jackets in the car, despite the rain, because we are all cheapskates. We were not alone. About half of the drenched saps were also jacketless.

Everyone once in awhile, you hear that they find a homeless guy on the street who froze to death in the cold. I have a hunch that many of those guys aren't homeless at all--they're club kids who were waiting coatless in the cold.

At the end of the night, about 200 people had to line up to retrieve their jackets from the coat check. We, on the other hand, gleefully bypassed the line and made a dash through the pouring rain back to the car. Ha ha! You didn't get my $2, Mr. Unscrupulous Nightclub Owner. I'll need that money to buy some cold medicine.