Cheap Cologne and the Teenage Wasteland

Yesterday was a momentous day in my life as Dita, the Hound and I decided to go to Webster Hall, and for all of you who don’t know what Webster Hall is I am glad to inform you that it is indeed a night club as I found out yesterday. I don’t know how I could possibly screw up a grand entrance to a nightclub that’s crawling with 18 year old boys wearing cheap cologne, and teenage girls looking for ecstasy and along with that their bras and panties, but I managed to do exactly that as we were all going through the security check. My two friends waited for me quite patiently if one ignores the part of the hound rolling his eyes very often and very far back while screaming ‘ COME OOOOOOON’…… COOOOOME OOOOON…….Just pick a line ALREAAAAADY’. My plan of constantly switching lines in order for me to chose the quickest and most efficient way of going through a security check obviously was falling apart with my two friends and a swarm of teenage blood witnessing that failure. When all three of us finally went through the golden gates I discovered that there was yet another line for the coat check-and it was on this line that I discovered how original and inventive a teenage boy becomes when he hits on someone that could obviously take upon the role of his cougar. For an experience that I would otherwise consider to be an actual achievement (getting hit by someone 10 years younger that is) it left me quite confused. As the boy turned to me, we locked eyes and than he muttered the magical words ‘Hey, I like your coat’ to which I answered ‘thank you’ and than was just left staring into the blank space while the hound was hyperventilating from laughter which I think was caused by yet another failure of mine. Than after all that came the actual dancing, which Dita and I have got down to a science since from simply observing the dance floor we have realized that nowadays it consists of grinding, lots of it, back and forth, left to right consistently and adamantly. And there were boys more of them throughout the night, boys that have blown into pieces centuries of courtship rules, and have adapted the ‘less is more’ motto. They come, they grind, they leave or you leave or you have a friend like the hound observing our facial expressions in order to save us from young boys who would think of shaking our breast before they would shake our hand. And that was the night.