Nightclubbing

It's hard to believe, but The Warehouse just celebrated its 10th anniversary last weekend.

I say that it's hard to believe because a) most nightclubs in Cincinnati stay open an average of a year or two, and b) I've practically been going there since it opened and there's no way I could possibly be that old. But since I haven't been out dancing in nearly six months, Zappagirl and I decided to stop in on Friday night to catch up.

Since we wanted to arrive fashionably late, we ordered Chinese delivery and watched Ocean's Eleven over General Tso's chicken. What an eye candy movie. It should be against the law to be as charming and attractive as George Clooney. After the movie (and much coffee, naturally), we ran upstairs to hurriedly get ready.

Now in my book, "going out" clothes means little black dress, but the question remains: which little black dress? I had decided upon a short tank dress with silver buckles at the waist, accentuated by a long blue and silver scarf and black boots. Not exactly trendy, but fun and functional with a retro flair. Zappagirl remarked that I looked like the goth Mary Tyler Moore, and offered me her beret so I could toss it into the air in front of the club. (She, on the other hand, was wearing a long skirt with a black corset , which provided her with a handy built-in place to put her drink.)

Since it had been a long while since we'd been downtown, we were both a little apprehensive. "Tell me again why we're doing this," Zappagirl commented as we sped down the expressway with the Beastie Boys blaring at top volume. "Aren't we too old for this?"

"Nah," I replied. "We're never too old. Hey, you missed the turnoff." Indeed she had. Zappagirl, in her nervous condition, had completely driven past Vine Street. "Just follow the spotlight," I suggested, indicating the sweeping light in the night sky. (Dave, the owner, has always been partial to renting spotlights for special events.)

After parking and getting our hands stamps and arm bands (Dave had been at the front door when we entered and comped our admission - we're such rock stars), we headed towards the back to scout out the dance floor and get a drink from the bar. "Do I want to drink the well whiskey here, or should I shell out the extra buck for the good stuff?" Zappagirl asked as we greeted our bartender.

I shuddered at the thought of the McCormick's whiskey. "Spend the extra buck. Trust me on this."

The format on Friday nights has recently changed from house to goth/industrial, and the crowd was reflective of the change. The majority of the patrons were in their early 20s and bedecked in black. It looked like a Hot Topic (or as I like to call it, the Goth Gap) exploded.

The music was mopey and undanceable, so we decided to head back to the front and mingle. We stopped by the mini-bar to say hello to Mkie Dangers, who welcomed us with mystery shots that tasted suspiciously like Tang flavored paint thinner. After being completely dissed by the guy who still thinks we're the beautiful people, we settled at a table to people watch. We were joined in a matter of seconds by a short Hispanic man intent on chatting up Zappagirl. He asked her name. She gave an exasperated sigh and turned to me. "Do I have a name?"

"No, not tonight," I replied.

She relayed her lack of moniker to her would-be suitor, in hopes that he would get the message. No such luck. He continued his game of 20 Questions with her. Was she from around here? (She told him she was from Venus.) Did she like music? (She said no, overlooking the fact that she is in charge of the music department at her job.) Did she like to dance? (Again, no, although we'd been commenting that we were dying to dance once the music got a little more upbeat.)

Finally, she flagged down the largest bouncer in the club. "Jaybear, be my boyfriend," she smiled at him. Jaybear explained to the guy that we were with him, and he should probably move along. We thanked Jaybear, and he headed off to look for underage drinkers to kick out of the bar.

We decided to move to the front bar and get another drink and make up new lyrics for the Minsitry videos that they were showing on the TV screens. "Burning Inside" had already been re-written as "Washing with Tide" several years ago by Rosencrantz, so we busied ourselves in coming up with satirical words to fit "The Land of Rape and Honey." The result was an ode to insecticide called "The Land of Raid and Bug Spray." ("Kills flies!")

Zappagirl at this point had again found a new admirer, a blond guy I'd seen before but couldn't quite place. Regrettably, he turned out to be 20 years old, and any man that theoretically could have been a babysitting charge is too young. (Yeah, like she was going to do anything anyways. She's too in love with Timmy.)

After a few minutes, we were joined by another friend, whom I'll call Rushboy (for reasons that will become clear momentarily). He breezed past me without saying hello, and asked of Zappagirl, "Hey, aren't you Myopic's friend?"

Zappagirl looked at me. "I don't know. Am I your friend? If not, what the hell is your car doing parked in my garage?"

Rushboy immediately apologized. It had been some time since I'd seen him last and he hadn't recognized me now that I'd let my hair grow out. We all started catching up, but eventually the conversation floated back to the new Rush album, which we preceded to talk about for the next 20 minutes. Well, Rushboy talked about it. I just smiled and nodded a lot.

At this point it was last call, and we still hadn't set foot on the dance floor. The music was still mopey goth, which is fine for background music, but not exactly toe-tappin' stuff. "It's like Perkigoth Radio," Zappagirl commented, citing our favorite online station to play spades by.

"Yeah," I added. "Without the perki-."

The music picked up during after hours (they had switched DJs during the break), and, after choking down a shot of Jagermeister with a group of ex-bartenders, we headed out to the floor, where we were joined by a local DJ who goes by the unfortunate on-air moniker of Penis John. We spent the rest of the night dancing, until the lights came up, signalling the end of the night.

"Anchor?" Zappagirl suggested as we retrieved our purses from behind the bar. But of course, the Anchor was our next stop. How better to wrap up a fun-filled evening?

We decided to add to the fun by dragging a few other people with us and cramming them all in Zappagirl's car. A hearty breakfast was had by all, and the Barbie band performed two Patsy Cline numbers for our listening pleasure. It was just like being young again.

Of course, the following day I was reminded of why I don't do this on a regular basis. Ow. Every muscle in my body hurt from dancing for two hours straight, and I was exhausted all day. Maybe it's a sign: if the club one frequents is having a ten year anniverary party, maybe it's time to hang up the dancing shoes.

Or maybe not. I'll let you know when my knees stop hurting.