It's official: We're all dogs looking for a bone

I went clubbing last night. This was at the invitation of a friend, a construction worker from the Bahamas. Laffy's swankiest (ahem) nightspot is a lounge on the edge of downtown called KaBoom or KaBamBa or some such thing. The cover was six bucks- more than the five that others charge because it's swanky, right?

I had on a white dress shirt and black pants (had to sit through a hemorrhoid-inducing presentation that day on how people should actually talk to other people and how we can help them do this: only in America can someone parlay that advice into a career) so I was, yanno, swanky. My hair was at its Jewfroiest. And yes, that's an asiatown word. Anyhoo, after entering, I got a text that my friend was upstairs. He was sitting in the corner, drinking. Then he wandered to another corner and drank some more. A lass came by with vials of stuff and asked if I wanted any which inspired my wittiest line of the night "No, but I'll have you if you'd like." My comic material exhausted, I caught up with Bahamarama and his friends who were trying to talk to four black girls. Trying to talk to someone is of course no easy task. I had seen warmer ice cubes. (Can ice cubes be described as hot?) Gamely, I tried my sweet-innocent thingie but these ladies were not the sort I imagined who would like clever lines. They were the sort who were hot, knew they were hot and wanted to spend the night rejecting others as a way of flaunting the power of their hotness. Prince could have pulled up in a little red corvette and they would have ignored him on principle. Eventually, after much sighing and eye rolling, they left in a stream of ice water. As we speak, they are likely complaining that all men are dogs.

Which is sort of true. As a rule, I never go out to a club or bar or whatever with women on my mind. The more you push for something the less likely you are to get it so I try to go out dreaming of swanky tiles and flashy lights. Still, the theory goes, you got some boys, you got some girls, you got a recipe for a good time.

Uhhh....no. What you got, at least in this town, is a bunch of girls dancing with each other and comparing purses as boys sullenly stand by and drink. i decided to jump into the fray and join maybe three other guys on the dancefloor. Asiatown on the dancefloor is NOT a pretty sight. Nevertheless, i had a nice enough time until I tried my "game" (I don't actually have one- how about being myself? Is that a game?) and a lass, whom I have known for 45 seconds, asked me how I would like to go shoe shopping with her.

Yuckarama.

After about an hour and a half, I decided that the marathon non communication was enough for the night. As I texted Bahama this he dropped the following wisdom:

"Why so early"
"Tired of rejection"
"Me too but its part of the game"

Asiatown don't play. Afterwards, I went home and called my godfather who reacted to the shoe shopping offer by saying that she was worse than a hooker. True. At least with a hooker you know what you're getting into. Not that I would know mind you. So anyway, Asiatown went. Asiatown saw. Asiatown learned again about something for something. Asiatown took his marbles and went home. Asiatown is darned proud.

Asiatown has enough shoes.