Too Glam to Function
I’m barely holding on lately when it comes to clubs and, more specifically, themed nights. Do not get me wrong. I like clubs. I like shopping. I like all the things that come with a night out. Stimulants, whether they come in tiny pills you place carefully on your tongue or men with whom you do roughly the same thing. I enjoy excess in moderation, which is admittedly a complicated philosophy to maintain when half of the grid seems determined to host three major events on the same evening.
It just needs to remain manageable and lately, it really hasn’t been. Clubs open, reopen, relocate, reinvent themselves, suddenly extend their schedules and every single morning, or more accurately early afternoon, I wake up to a phone filled with messages. “We need to go here.” “Did you see this lineup?” “Oh my god, get dressed, we’re going.”
And as some of you may know, and if not let me confess this now before it becomes courtroom evidence somewhere later, I’m a pleaser. Usually that works out wonderfully for everyone involved. People seem to genuinely enjoy watching me bend over backwards for them. Sometimes over tables too, depending on the venue and the amount of estrogen involved.
Still, even I have limits. Contrary to popular belief. I’m only sharing this because we’re friends and this feels like a safe space.
Anyway. Focus, Doreen.
This is why I’m grateful for people like Opie and Marcus, who reliably keep me supplied with whatever is necessary to remain upright and socially operational through the night, the week, maybe even the fiscal quarter at this point. Emotionally grounding influences, really, which helped tremendously when an invite appeared on my screen last week for a glam rock party.
Now, I had to Google that. You may have guessed that glam rock was not exactly my era. I mean… look at me. I look like I was assembled in a luxury genetics lab sometime next year. So I started researching.
Bowie… who? The Who? A fox on the run? At one point I genuinely checked whether I had accidentally swapped my morning vitamins for something significantly more experimental because absolutely none of this sounded real to me. But of course I went. Walking into questionable situations is hardly new behavior for me. Thankfully this one at least seemed unlikely to require medical testing afterwards.
The whole thing came together once again at the Snake Pit, which is rapidly becoming the capital of wonderfully strange parties. And it showed immediately. The outfits were outrageous in the best possible way. Glitter, leather, impossible hair, dramatic sunglasses indoors. Everyone looked like they had either just left a stadium tour in 1974 or a very expensive breakdown.
DJ Lili matched the mood perfectly with a set that swung wildly between extravagant, chaotic and strangely seductive. One moment I felt like I should be posing on the hood of a convertible in platform boots and the next like I had accidentally joined a cult with an excellent stylist. Looking back, I probably should have grabbed an old Polaroid camera to capture the atmosphere properly. It would have fit the mood better than my usual polished approach. But of course, everything eventually runs into my personal philosophy: If you can make it beautiful, you should.
The Snake Pit made that part easy this time.
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This post is not sponsored or paid for in any way. I was also not blackmailed or tortured to write it.
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