420 Mason Street
San Francisco, CA 94102
LAX to SFO, no. 4
The first rule of Night Club is...you do not talk about Night Club.
The second rule of Night Club is...you do not talk about Night Club.
Everyone remembers the first two rules because they are easy, since they are the same rule. However, it seems that about 80% of the nightclub population at Ruby Skye when Carl Cox was the headlining DJ did not remember the rest of the rules of Night Clubbing, because, well, the rest of the rules are just not as easy, popular, and fun to quote as the first two.
So, given the first two rules, I can’t say much about the experience, but the least I can do is jog our memories with respect to the rest of the rules of Night Club.
You must wear shoes. However, whether you want to a) teeter-totter on ridiculously high, stiletto-heeled strappy gold sandals that will give you callouses in the immediate future and poor posture in the long-term future, or b) wear real dancing shoes like running shoes, is up to you. The only stipulation to this rule is that you are, under no circumstances, allowed to “whine” about a) pain, or b) not looking “hot” in running shoes, even though technically, they match your shiny gold puffy parka with faux fir trim on the hood. There are consequences with either decision.
Do not sashay past everyone else in line then insist to the girl with the clipboard that you are VIP and that you know someone. Everyone is VIP. Everyone knows someone. You are not special, no matter what your “special” teachers at the “special” school told you when you were little. Get in line and wait patiently.
The dancefloor must remain empty for any opening DJ aliased as “Frenchy Le Freak,” no matter how electro-groovy the house music is. That is simply the rule. So do not attempt to do your aerobicized verion of the Electric Slide by yourself on the empty dancefloor. It is supposed to be empty until 11:30 PM. Join the others on the sideline who are sufficiently lubricating themselves with liquid shamelessness before they start robotically gyrating, contorting their bodies and w00t!-ing during techno time.
Do not, under any circumstances, pass natural gases into the atmosphere from the balcony of the gorgeous, converted theatre that is Ruby Skye. Hot air rises, which means if you are already in the balcony, it’s going to smell like the drive on the I-5, and will remain so, since the ceiling is slightly domed and will trap the fragrance there for the majority of the night, affecting the clubbing experience for everyone who tries to escape the bedlam on the dancefloor by going to the balcony. There is a bathroom on the balcony. Use it.
The only drinks you are allowed to order at a club are: beer, bottled water (or tap water, Ghetto Girl), and any cocktail that does not require equipment. Such banned bar equipment include blenders and muddlers. Daiquiris and mojitos are for the cabana, not a club.
Wear earplugs. Since this is a rule, many people will be wearing earplugs. I am wearing earplugs, which means I can’t hear you. Stop talking to me.
No glowsticks. Not inside a club. Twinkling, lighted accessories are okay, as long as they are fully attached to your person.
Just because the male:female ratio is so ridiculously in your favor, do not think you can push and shove and get away with it “because I’m a girl and I’m cute and you’re lucky I’m actually touching you.” This includes using your breasts as battering rams to get to the bar, as well as shoving people out of the way to get to the front of the dancefloor when Carl Cox starts spinning.
Girls, you may wear your hair in a ponytail under two circumstances: 1) your hair is short, in which case you don’t need to pull it back into a ponytail anyway, or 2) you plan to move only your lower body, without whipping your cheaply home-bleached AquaNet heifer tail into my face multiple times.
Using Dial is optional, but showering after your 90 minute workout of bench pressing blue cheese on a dung heap before clubbing is absolutely required. Especially for you, guy, if you plan to take off your shirt.
Never take off your shirt. Never. No matter how hot and humid it gets inside the club, never take your shirt off. That’s just arrogant, inconsiderate, and well, arrogant. The only exception to this rule is when the “night club” is actually a day party that takes place next to a body of water like a swimming pool or an ocean. Maybe a lake, but I have never heard of “dance parties” near lakes. If you can’t figure this out, this will make it easy: If you are the only guy with your shirt off, put it back on.
There is no such thing as “reserved” on the dancefloor. You may have paid $300 for VIP bottle service in a roped off booth, Bourgie, but the dancefloor is EOE. You are not entitled to the front. Even if you were dancing there before. There is no such thing as “I was dancing there ten minutes ago before my girlfriends and I went
, in a herd, to a Meeting in the Ladies’ Room to group apply lip gloss.” You move, you lose.
Do not talk to the professional dancers. They can’t hear you. You may look at them, since that is what they are there for. You can even take pictures. With a flash. They are smiling at you because that is their job, but they definitely don’t want your number. And don’t think taking off your shirt will get their attention.
Carl Cox’s brand of techno requires jumping up and down. You should expect that, so it is rude to take up space on the dancefloor if you are not dancing. If you are there to trainspot tracks or simply enjoy the music with your ears, do it from the sidelines. Leave the dncefloor to the people who enjoy the music with their bodies. Also, whether you are dancing or being a prick and just standing there, don’t get pissed when someone accidentally bumps into you. It's techno. It's dance music. It’s natural, geez. Lighten up. Go sniff something, feel better, and come back, ‘k?
The night will go on as long as it has to, or at least until either the bar or Sarah runs out of energy.
And the final rule, if this is your first night at Night Club, you have to dance.
** a year ago today, fassica ethiopian swept me off my feet **