Rant n' Rave With John Nagle

I straighten my tie and put my jacket on. I take one last look in the mirror. I like what I see. I take a deep breath and wonder what I am getting myself into. My phone beeps, and Clyde tells me he’s at the front door. Here goes nothing.

“Dude, if I’d known you were dressing up, I’d have done it too,” he says. “On the other hand, I am your bodyguard.”

Tonight Clyde and I are attending the grand opening of Lux, a new upscale dance club downtown. I’ve never been to a dance club before, mostly because they scare me to death. Axe body gel, throbbing techno music and flashing lights are not my idea of a good time. However, my new year’s resolution was to get out of my comfort zone. When I received the invitation to Lux, I couldn’t think of anything better.

Clyde and I can’t sit still, so we pace the floor of my room incessantly. If he’s nervous, he certainly isn’t showing it. We shoot the bull for several minutes, before Clyde comes up with a brilliant idea.

“What we need is a good story. Something we can impress the ladies with.”

Translation: When in Rome, do what the Romans do.

“I got it! We work for a magazine. I’m the publicist and marketer, you’ll be the writer.”

“Um, OK.”

“I’ll be like ‘Hi, I’m Clydesdale McFarlane. What? You think that’s a weird name? You’d be surprised how marketable it is. That’s what I do, I market a magazine. This is my writer, John. You guys should get to know each other.’ It’ll be that easy.”

Clyde was extremely good at this. It was almost like he’d done it before. Still, his story had a hole.

“If we work at a magazine, what is our boss’s name?” I ask.

“Bobby.”

“Bobby?”

“Yeah. Bobby Wilson. He’s a genius. He really turned the magazine around. It was floundering before he became editor.”

“What’s the magazine called?”

“M.U.”

“What does that stand for?”

Clyde actually thinks about this one.

“Modern……damn, I’m drawing a blank.”

I finally contribute to our elaborate ruse.

“Modern Urbanite?”

“That’s fucking perfect dude.”

By now, it’s 8:15, and it’s time to hit the road. It is a bitterly cold night, which makes me nervous. Extreme cold brings my disability to the surface. Hopefully we won’t have to wait in line too long. We get dropped off across the street from the club, and a gust of bitter air hits my face. Clyde and I gingerly go across the street as my back begins to tighten up. By my estimation, I have ten minutes before I start to have a spasm.

Damn! There are steps, and no ramp. I send Clyde in to check out the situation. I start to take deep breaths to ward off the inevitable. Fortunately Clyde comes out, flanked by two bouncers.

“Hey dude, we’re gonna have to lift you up,” he says.

I quickly scan the situation. Two steps are far from ideal, but they are definitely do-able. Any more steps and we probably would have to go home. I don’t do three and up. The two mountainous bouncers pick up my 200 pound chair like it’s a feather, and the warm air of the club is reassuring.

Even though I’m now inside, I’m not out of the woods. I quietly go up to the girl behind the desk. She asks me if I’m the list. I reply in a choppy sentence and she confirms my presence. Clyde and I hustle into the elevator, which is lined with mirrors. I am pale. Clyde has never seen me in this state, and starts to get worried.

“Dude, are you OK?” he asks.

“I’ll let you know in a minute.” I reply, desperately sucking air into my lungs. My back starts to loosen up. I’m going to be OK. The elevator doors open, and we are now in the nerve center of the club. The pounding techno beat slams against my skull. It takes me a while to figure out who is warbling, but then I hear Beyoncé call out to all the single ladies. Clyde and I walk across the dance floor and go up to the bar. It’s still early, so we get our drinks quickly. There is an open bar for an hour, and Clyde and I are taking advantage. My amaretto and Coke is perfectly mixed. Clyde and I go downstairs and find a table. We scope out the situation.

“There aren’t any chairs in this place John, except for yours,” Clyde observes. “Why is that?”

“Probably because chairs disrupt the minimalist motif.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well, they want this place to look like a minimalist underground loft, judging from that sculpture over there.”

There is a metal sculpture across from our table. The sculptor was trying way too hard to be edgy.

“That may be,” Clyde replies. “But when I am drinking whiskey, I like to be sitting down. I’m serious about my drinking, in case you didn’t know.”

“We could sit on those couches at the bar.”

“Dude, I am not drinking Jack Daniels on a couch!”

By now, more people have started to trickle in. Attractive women are in full force, but unfortunately most of them seem attached. Their boyfriends seem like parodies of macho club guys: gelled hair, bulging biceps, and Armani Exchange t-shirts. There are only two people in the club wearing a suit. The other one looks like he as a stick up his ass. After a few minutes of people watching, Clyde and I start to talk again. At this point, the music is so loud that we have to scream in each other’s ears.

“DO YOU EVER WALK INTO A ROOM AND AUTOMATICALLY KNOW THAT YOU ARE THE SMARTEST PERSON THERE?” I ask.

“THAT’S PRETTY MUCH HOW I FEEL RIGHT NOW!” Clyde says.

“WHERE IS DJ SKRIBBLE? I THOUGHT HE WAS GOING TO BE HERE!”

“I DUNNO MAN, BUT DOES IT MATTER?”

“OF COURSE NOT!”

The dance floor starts to fill up. I go back up to the bar. I am about to order a second amaretto and Coke, but then I remember my resolution. Therefore, I utter a sentence that I never thought I’d use.

“I’ll have a Jack and Coke.”

The bartender serves me my first real drink. I look at it for a few seconds, and think of how proud Monica would be if she were here. She’d be wiping away tears of joy. After a few proud thoughts, I take a sip.

Christ! This stuff is terrible. It’s like drinking motor oil. Monica and Clyde drink it straight! I feel like a complete wuss at this moment, so I decide to suck it up and finish it. I return to the table and take another sip. I make a face, and Clyde asks me what I ordered. I tell him.

“What the fuck were you thinking, ordering a Jack and Coke?!”

“I wanted to try it.”

“John, you don’t ‘try’ Jack and Coke. That’s a real fucking drink right there. I mean, it’s quite a leap from amaretto and Coke to Jack and Coke. It’s a man’s drink.

“I guess I’m not a man then, because this is awful.”

“No, you are just a different kind of man.”

Clyde can be quite kind in certain situations. He finishes my Jack and Coke, complaining because there is apparently too much Coke.

We scope out the dance floor, which is now completely full. A group of 40-year old women are dancing in a group. Christ, they’ve spotted me. One of them dances over and starts petting my hair. Another one grabs my chin. This is awkward. I am now thoroughly creeped out, so I retreat. I see them talking to Clyde and I feel guilty. I look like an asshole. I sheepishly apologize to the cougars. They are very nice and I dance with them, but my stock has significantly gone down. I’d rather be dancing with that hot blonde over there.

By now its 11:30 and the techno is getting to me. Clyde agrees, and we call for a ride home. I’m bummed out they didn’t play my jam. While we wait in the lobby, I hear the first few bars.

“It was all a dream, I used to read Word Up! magazine”

Goddamn it!