club fight (or) how to not get your dance on (or) if we go down, at least we're going down dancing. at the request of the multitudes of people who need to hear this story, for the one or two of you out there really really bored, i will document the events of friday night as clearly and as concisely (yeah right) as i can. i will try to keep all embellishments and extraneous observations out of the following post. and then for my next act i will sprout wings and fly and pigeon shit on all the villains featured in the following story.



on friday night we headed out with joy in our hearts and a hip hop step to our feet. with immaculate coordination and organization, we people-moved to a favorite san diego jaunt, bar dynamite. everything was running as smooth as could be and after paying our five dollar cover we entered the den of dance. bar dynamite used to be a thursday night favorite -- they spin some of the better hip hop around -- but it's a tiny spot, so really, too crowded to be an ideal weekend place. this once however, we were willing to brave the onslaught of strangers and the tall yet seemingly mild mannered and friendly crowd. flash forward fifteen minutes in, one half a beer for me in. susan, who had run off to the bathroom, comes back and screams/tells me "that guy just pulled my hair, twice!" i looked to where she was pointing.



oh look, a huge mammoth man, a hairless bald yeti who was taller than both of us combined, with his girth creating his own personal "dance circle". this was the guy who pulled her hair? i mean, i'm all for defending a female friend's honor but c'mon now, i'm too young to die. "i'm sure it was an accident! your hair looks beautiful, you look beautiful. what is hair but a superficial thing used by magazines to promote shampoos and other expensive products? hats are all the rage anyway. and if he did happen to grab a few strands here or there, i'll personally buy you some weaves, let it go...."



"jon, he PULLED my hair."



with a desperate sigh and a prayer to every god i'd ever read about, i rolled up my sleeves, flexed (i mean, stretched), and prepared to start some shit. and then i wondered how much life insurance i had and who would be the beneficiary.



as i turned to face goliath, i saw that the he had "bouncer" written across his chest and he was otherwise engaged in holding back a much smaller ratty looking weasel of a man. relief flooded my nervous system, perhaps puddling onto my pants. it wasn't the big guy, it was the little guy susan was pointing at! oh thank god. i mean, sure the little guy looks like he's carrying a shank but who cares, stab wounds heal faster than outright bludgeoning right? besides, i have neosporin in my manpurse. and hello kitty band-aids stored in my wallet. it'll be okay.



"i kicked him. twice." what? really? good job susan, there's my feisty friend for you. oh wait, why are you escorting us outside mr security man, wait wait, i'm just a pawn in this political game, let my people go free. push push, shove shove, fresh air. so we get outside and susan is still heated (rightfully) and the security guys are keeping *him* away (i love big huge security guys, so strong). weasel boy is yelling stuff at us like "if you want to get into it, let your man handle it." her man? oh, you mean me? well actually, i'm not her man sir, i mean, we're just friends. i really do think boys and girls can just be platonic friends, don't you scary weasel guy? not all opposite sex friends are romantically interested or interwined right? before he can respond to my philosophical query susan goes, "fuck you! i don't need a man! i'll kick your ass myself!" yeah! she can kick your ass herself, without me! take that! as a catchy song came on, i prepared to go inside and let susan handle her biz.



the flood of our friends exiting dynamite prevented me from following through on that plan however, and we summarily engaged in a spirited talk with the security men about why they were kicking out both the hair puller and the crotch kicker (susan got him twice). "what kind of establishment is this? girls need to protect themselves? what are you security doing in there then?" may was telling the bouncer "it was self defense! there's nothing wrong with what she did! she's a lawyer (motioning to lilly), she's a lawyer!" lilly smiled meekly and thought to herself "oh no no, i'm a lawyer sure but i'm really more of a book agent now..." after some discussion, we came to terms with the boot in our asses and went in search of a better place to plant our dancing shoes.



"let's go to pirate's den, it's right down the street and it's free." "i heard it's gay night." "well, um, okay, whatever, let's just go." pirate's den (identifiable only by the red neon "x" hanging outside) turned out to be empty. if it was gay night, it wasn't a particularly festive one. now we might never know just how attractive hong really is. after a few minutes of examining susan's bruise -- she was pushed down to the floor by the guy on kick attempt one and hurt her elbow -- we decided to go elsewhere. from here our heroes split up, one car back home and the other downtown in search of a safer dancing venue. susan had risked her life and the least we could do was get her some more alchohol and dancing right? right.



so on to rock bottom brewery, the scene of many a fabulous san diego night. the last few times we've been to rock bottom have been very successful and i felt like it was a safe bet. so in we went and right towards another round of drinks. i set my beer down on the side in order to capitalize on our waning dancing time. we got comfy. james was tearing up the wooden dance floor, i tried to avoid the two freaky girls prostituting themselves next to us, we laughed as a genie in a bottle imitator tried to seduce some guy -- very poorly i might add. we were finally getting into the grooving mode. whoosh. five minutes in, a mass of bodies go flying past the bar and another fight breaks out. at first it looked to be under control but then it got rowdier. me and james immediately closed ranks to form a protective picket fence, shielding our ladies from potential harm. if you want to get to them, you'll have to go through us, and our one hundred fifty pound bodies -- he's one sixty, i'm one forty, give or take twenty pounds.



oh my, is that blood i spy with my little eye? indeed it was. case closed, club closed, everybody out. as we walk outside, small puddles and big trails of blood direct us to the exit. outside, a guy is holding a bloody rag to his head and his girlfriend is yelling at the bouncer. bouncers must get yelled at a lot, which seems foolhardy since they are so big, but i'm sure they have much restraint, thus the bouncing. we cross the street in undramatic fashion and take stock of our night. three clubs, no more than seven minutes of dancing at each stop, two unfinished drinks left behind by me. yeah, i'm a dead beat drinker okay? i was under some duress, cut me some slack. i'll send drink support money later. sheesh.



we couldn't end the night like this. there had to be some dancing that lasted over seven minutes. so we walked up the street to red circle and greased the doorman to get in. a note on greasing. i don't know how to grease. my specialties lie elsewhere. don't ask where. the doorman had to pretty much take my hand, shake it with his hand before i got the "oh, this is an under the table thing?" message. i just thought he wanted to touch my hands because he had heard they were super soft. again, i plead temporary duress.



we got to dance at red circle for thirty minutes, celebrating at the record setting eight minute mark, watching out at all times for signs of other possible fights. it was one of those nights. one of those nights where even the sight of scantily clad and gyrating dancers up on stage couldn't make up for the craziness that was a friday in san diego. and you people say san diego is boring. please. it may be unsatisfactory but it's certainly not boring.



anyway, the moral of the story? jon needs to go work out and bulk up so he can defend the honor of his female companions. actually, jon needs to just work out period. but that might lead to the forty five pound bench press bar falling on my head and thus, premature death. so i'll take a rain check on the gym. and invest in more dance classes so i can get the hell out of group three -- the worst group to belong to, in the intermediate hip hop class we take.



postscript: the next night, saturday, lilly cunningly used the events of friday to embarass the rock bottom bouncer into getting in for free. "we couldn't even finish our drinks last night before we got kicked out, are you gonna make us pay to get in again? really?" ah lawyers, always working the angles. next time she can defend susan.