Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

December 12, 2006

character study of a club

Not much to see at first glance: a bruise-hard room with one brick wall, one staircase, one dance floor and bar. An epileptic light show is projected weakly against the mezzanine. The DJ, Alex Patterson, is at work alone inside his head, hands busy. But the crowd's quite the symbiosis.

Nearest our corner haunt are nerds in neatly buttoned shirts, dry-cleaned and baby-faced behind their stony glasses. One paces drinklessly from bar to bench.

Next and closest to the turntables are a Goa crew; one evokes Richard Simmons, that hairy fey. He wears a clingy red tank and floppy green pants; an obscene length of white scarf turnip-tops his even more obscene caucasian 'fro.

Short arms arc over a silly grin to complete this gross rainbow. His favoured dance move is the splits; his girl, in compliment, with her whippet of red hair also enscarved, slowly and repeatedly touches her toes -- a ridiculous denim bum upturned and disrupting barward traffic. Drifting alongside them like a kite is a standard stoner. He looks as though he's thrown a coat over his pyjamas to go out and collect the paper, then stayed for the sunrise.

A lanky Longstocking in denim A-line entices a very short Greek. A dapper dandy in miscellaneous checks and stripes whirls until he must stop to pull off a red corduroy smoking jacket. His buddy is all charcoal coloured and quiver-lipped, with one red stripe, and he dances very well. One of the nerds hops across the dance floor with sudden uncharacteristic abandon.

Over at the bar a tall laughing man has hair and goatee very alike satan's; this mustn't be beyond him. A South Indian fashionisto, tar dark with flashing eyes and wide gesticulations, wears a periwinkle diagramatic shirt over hair-lined pants, and also a paper-boy's cap. Their bartender shuffles out cups from beneath her top-hat and dangling, gift-ribboned pigtails.

On the wall a tiny Latina in a sunset-hued poncho leans holding hands with a Japanese ingenue, whose triangular haircut spills like oil down her exposed back. Some Amishesque prepsters crab-walk the walls as well, passing out artsy event cards.

An unhesitant blonde eventually takes center stage, and does not give it up for the rest of the night. There are a few slowly swinging girls alongside, with nostalgic Twiggy hair and eyes; one is weighted under a bread-thick scarf.

A few sets of dreads enter later to band with the Goas. Then, fashionably late groups of baby dykes and emo boys, with matching hair-cuts neatly combed down into their eyes. One such individual seems to have been born bored, with day-glo orange lips and hair their only comment on the night.

Some older dykes have been drinking wine offside all along; there is a remarkable quantity of these Roman-nosed iron femmes; they wear dark tops, assertively boring, their eyes serious almonds, and arms angled back to render shoulder blades into sharp NOs.

Posted by Delire at December 12, 2006 07:14 PM
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