It’s Friday night. I’m invited to see some group called Eiffel 65. My Italian friend described it as a “throwback to the 90’s”. I feel like my 90’s throwback, was different from his 90’s throwback. American 90’s was the real deal. It had soul. It had low rise jeans. It had synchronized dance routines. I cannot confirm Italy’s 90s-era, nor do I want to.
I’m curious, though. So, I give my armpits a rinse and go.
My friend, a former male club dancer, suggested we all meet up before to pre-drink. I’m not sure who uses the term “pre-drink” anymore, hence, this starts my suspicion of how the night will go. We meet at a bar called Biberon. It’s in the center of the entertainment district, we take a table on the patio where there’s no music, I go inside to get a drink.
The bartender’s a tall, Persian guy wearing a plain gray t-shirt that’s exposing his semi- muscular arms. He’s doing those cup throwing tricks which is supposed to make you believe he’s more than just a bartender. I don’t need tricks. I just need a glass of ice which I can anxiously chew on. As I wait in line at the bar, he’s pouring vodka into a glass and staring at me. I continue to stand there, trying to focus on random spaces in the room without doing my series of uncomfortable defensive facial expressions. I make eye contact. He continues to stare at me while taking a slice of lemon and sensually squeezing it into the glass. I’m not sure how to react, so I casually turn my head and stare at the fern that’s sitting on the shelf in the corner. It needs to be watered.
I make it to the front of the bar. I open my mouth to shout my order – it’s too late, the bartender hands me a shot. I accept the shot and say, in Italian, “thank you”. He then looks at me with a mischievous smile and says, “you can eat the shot glass”. I look at the shot glass and poke the glass with my tongue. Tastes like chocolate. I say, “Aha, great”, take the shot, eat the glass, and walk away.
I go sit with my group of party goers. The group is an odd mix of girls who either look like they can or cannot dance. The guys, aside from the former male dancer, look like they just came from watching a rugby game. I decide to investigate about the club we’re going to, so I ask the former male dancer. It was a safe bet.
“What does Eiffel 65 play”
“Well, they have a couple of hits you probably know”
“Which ones”
“You know the song – I’m blue ba da dee ba da dah”
“The music video with the blue frogs?”
“Yeah, they’re great.”
I feel like I’m in a perplexing situation. When that song came out, I was 9 years-old. I wouldn’t call this the peak of my chubbiness, but at that time, I was certainly on a steady rise. When my parents had their date nights, they would leave me with my grandma who had OCD and would spend the whole night trimming our plants with a butterknife. I would spend the night watching MTV. Their music video tormented my adolescent years. The video covered many controversial topics such as extraterrestrials, animation, depression and frosted tips- topics that I could not handle emotionally or mentally at the time. I’m not saying this song is responsible for my emotional eating, however, it didn’t fucking help.
“Right. See, I didn’t really go through that 90’s period. I was heavy into the American backstreet boys scene.”
“Oh come on, it’ll be fun,” The former male dancer says as he gets up from his seat,” Let’s get going.”
We’re walking to the club. With every step, my emotions about seeing this performance are dwindling into a depression.
The line-up to the club is filled with fresh 20 year-olds, mostly guys, who are wearing button-down shirts, matching their slick back hair. It’s tragic. The bouncer looks like he’s about to suffer a major heart attack, however, is preventing so by wearing a neon yellow, puffy jacket.
I’m given a ticket by one of the other bouncers. He’s a bald, stalky Romanian guy. I walk inside the club, look around and then walk back to the entrance.
“Hi, I just came in and I want to leave. So, here’s your ticket.” As I hold the ticket in front of the Romanian bouncer’s chest.
“You must pay 10 euros”
“But I just came one minute ago.”
“Go pay 10 euros”
“I don’t want to, I just came and I want to go home”
“Pay or we call police”
I’m in a fucking 90’s musical prison.
I decide to stay and as a “fuck you” I keep my coat on and refuse to pay for coat check.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing in line for coat check.
The club is packed and I end up in front of the stage. Eiffel 65 comes on. There are many tragic things about this. I’m a head taller than everyone in this club. I look like a fucking ferret popping out of a burrow. The girls on the stage are in booty shorts and crop tops, swaying sadly. One’s squatting in the corner trying to hide her cigarette as she takes a couple quick puffs and stands back up to continue her danc– I mean, standing.
The lead singer comes on stage – he’s about 30 pounds overweight, wearing the same outfit he was sporting in the original music video. The keyboardist has aged surprisingly well, but plays the keyboard in an overly enthusiastic half squat, with his baseball hat flipped backward matched with a head bob.
They start the show with some euro-trash dance song, where the phrase, “put your hands up” is inserted after every line. I choose to keep my hands down. My choice to keep my hands down also arises from the fact that I’m trying to contain my flatulence. I had hummus for dinner, which I knew was a mistake but I figured that the gas would have passed by the time I had to be in a room, sandwiched between a bunch of semi-legal Italians. The lead singer comes to my side of the stage, looks at me and winks suggestively. I contemplate very quickly about that wink and wonder if I follow up on it, would I be able to get my 10 euros back.
My thought is cut short as my hand is grabbed by some moist looking Turkish guy. His chest hair is a giant jerry curl, poking through his white shirt and I can see his hair gel melting down his forehead. I politely smile, release my hand from his grasp and pull the it’s-so-hot-in-here-I-have-to-go-to-the-washroom-goodbye-forever routine. I let out a fart as a repercussion for his actions.
Eiffel 65 finally finishes their poor sound quality show and the club DJ starts playing some contemporary house music. Now, I’m dancing on a table. The former male dancer also gets on a table and starts his fucking perfected dance routine. I feel outshined but I continue on with my repetitive dance moves in hope that he gets off of the table.
It’s now 5 am. The club closes. The others have gone chasing the mythical pussy and that’s left is me and my Spaniard, Natalia.
Natalia is a Spanish girl who likes to loudly express her opinions of people who are standing right beside us. She also likes to wear platform shoes to give her extra height.
We get on the tram. We make it to the border, a crack den, which marks the entrance into the ghetto. We get off the tram, she walks home and I get on another bus which takes me to the heart of the forgotten civilization. My bus arrives at its stop. I have eight blocks to walk before I reach my apartment. I pass a round-a-bout, a couple appears to be either arguing or practicing the waltz. The woman is pressed up against the fence, her aggressive moves slow down into a sensual grind, she starts to take off her pants. I keep walking. I turn the corner and pass two men playing football in the middle of the street. In front of the church by my apartment, a hooker is waiting for her bus home. This whole time, Eiffel 65’s song, Blue, is playing in my head.
thelonelyserb 