The Cool Crowd 

Sunday, January 30, 2005

Thursday night was Brit Pop Night. It was supposed to be 80s night; luckily it was British 80s night. I had been prepared to leave early in protest if some Jichael Mackson came on. The fact that it wasn't and that it was pretty good music and that everyone kept buying me drinks made me stay until they kicked us out.

My other group of friends invited me to another 80s night in another part of town. Turns out that that 80s night featured stuff that would have sent me packing. Plus, my friends told me, there were young'uns who asked my friends why they knew so much about 80s music. They nearly snorted in laughter. The answer was of course "'Cause I lived it, baby!"

Our 80s night had no one. The bartender kept giving us discounted drinks though she warned us to remember for next time that they weren't on special. Or something like that. I ruined my hearing a long time ago. We were saddened that they ended their failure of a night early. Truthfully, though, it's been about two years since I was that drunk and I probably wouldn't have lasted much longer.

So we decided to take over the Plaza. All of us were entrusted with a mission: to prosletyze and convert our friends and acquaintances so that they join us next time. We will fill that empty dance floor with more of us.


Next up: a confession. I was never cool enough to go to Luvafair. My friends never took me to this alternative music club when it was around (it closed two years ago without me ever being cool enough to make it there).

I don't know how it happened. I thought I was part of the cool crowd.

In high school, while other morons were in suburban malls, my friends and I would hang out in Gastown, shopping at Cabbages & Kinx, the place we of "darker" persuasion shopped.

We thought we were so different from everyone else. We listened to Depeche Mode and Nirvana, read tarot cards, gossiped about Renaissance witch hunts, wrote epic poetry (read my selected crap here), grew herbs, wore velvet, and drew skeletons everywhere. Well, I was the artist of the group. For some reason, my grade eleven art teacher only gave me A's in art if I drew bones and skulls. She failed all my still lives.

So I was part of the cool crowd. Right? Right? Yet as soon as my friends secretly got fake IDs, they were going out without me. Then they started coming back with stories about all the guys they snogged and how kissing random strangers was.

And this is what it all came down to: "If you kiss a guy," said Cathy with the fatigued air of a woman who'd seen and done it all, "Make sure he hasn't eaten liver and onions beforehand."

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