In the club

I never, ever go to clubs in Boston.  The last time I went (to Avalon, if that tells you anything), I was surrounded by bug-eyed ravers who were fascinated only by the manic fluttering of their own hands, and by rubbing ice up and down each others' arms.  I'm too old for that shit. 

For some ungodly reason, I agreed to tag along to a nightclub in Beijing last night, called The Beach.  Had I known it was one of three clubs I'd be whisked to over the course of several hours, I may have chosen to stay in my room, with a cup of tea, downloading episodes of Matlock off iTunes. 

The Beach was in something called the Block 8 Apartment Complex, atop the roof of an unassuming building.  We took an elevator to the entrance, and stepped out into...sand.  The rooftop had been recreated into a seaside beach bar, complete with couches shaded (from the...night?) with white cabanas.  Catwalks zigzagged through the sand, so prissy little bitches didn't have to sink the heels of their Jimmy Choos. 

We hung with a bunch of ex-pats who I assumed would be self-important bitches but actually were fairly grounded and cool.  They're all nightclub hags, all obsessed with China, all afflicted with yellow fever.  I chatted with one cynical bastard for awhile about how bullshit the whole experience was, which of course made me feel right at home.  Judging angrily?  It's what I do best.

Club hopping is something I haven't done since I was an eager exchange student in the UK, but despite my crotchety old lady protestings, I got dragged along to two more clubs, called Angel and China Doll.  Seriously?  Both were the absolute embodiment of every Asian pop culture stereotype you can imagine, right down the the dude sporting a Snoopy T-shirt and gold plastic 80s slit sunglasses, bopping his lanky body to "Groove is in the Heart."  Everywhere I looked, Chinese girls were listening to white dudes with bored smiles on their faces, letting the poor smitten bastards buy them drinks, but pretending not to speak English.  "No English!"  I heard one of them coo, "Gin and tonic?"

Apparently, at many clubs in China, bartenders won't take your drink orders.  You have to flag down a peppy little girl/boy waiter, give them your money, and hope for the best.  I discovered this after bitching at a confounded bartender for being a racist and refusing my money, and he responded by holding a lighter in the air.  I was especially confused because a techno remix of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was playing at the time. Stop memorializing Kurt Cobain, shithead, and make me a cocktail.  Turns out, he was simply trying to get the attention of a waiter, probably to avoid being further cursed at by the pudgy white girl.  

I got my drink, he burned himself with the lighter.  Score one for the fat American.