Oh. my. god. Now, I was never really a club kid, but back in the day I spent my fair share of nights on Lansdowne Street wearing ridiculous clothes and copious amounts of glitter, listening to house music, and dancing next to kids waving glow sticks. I was totally unprepared, however, to encounter this cast of characters on a Thursday night. My mind was blogging before we even got inside.
First of all, there was an over-abundance of Mohawks. What kind of day job can you hold down with that hair? Does asking that question show my age?
Then there were the girls. I couldn't figure out of Tila Tequila was looking for another shot at love or if the Pussycat Dolls were presenting their search for yet another Pussycat Doll. This girl looked like an avatar (and I use that description primarily because it was a key aspect of the plot in CSI: New York last Wednesday night):
I felt positively prudish that my vagina wasn't showing. The guys weren't much better. It was hard to tell where the graphic tee's ended and the bicep wrapping tribal tattoos began.
Finally, we had this poor girl who just looked like she'd been caught in a tuna net:
I can't even comment on her tattoo. Fortunately yesterday I saw that Filene's Basement sells Ed Hardy tee-shirts, which many, many people were sporting, so I'm going to pick up some for the next time I hit the clubs. Who's got my glow sticks?
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