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Thursday, July 10, 2003

By Joe Donatelli

I have lived on both coasts and have visited plenty of cities in between. If there's one constant in this country of ours, it is that dance clubs everywhere are exactly the same.

	Ted Crow, Post-Gazette illustration

When my friend Holly recently came to visit Los Angeles, I did what all L.A. people do. I took my guest to an overpriced, small-tabled, schizophrenically DJ'd dance club on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood.

Outside we were greeted by a bouncer dressed head to toe in -- you guessed it -- chartreuse. OK, black. Like all bouncers, he looked like a special operations commando who should be stationed on a hill in Afghanistan but instead checks IDs to see if Professor Algernon D. Cornwallis, age 21, has a fake.

The bouncer told us there was a private party inside, but because he liked us (I believe he was looking in Holly's direction) he would let us in.

Inside, I saw all my old dance club friends.

Girl Who Just Turned 21 was standing on the dance floor in a circle of friends, doing shots.

I knew she was Girl Who Just Turned 21 because her Blutarsky-like intake of alcohol was not consistent with her 5-foot-1, 110-pound frame. Any time you look at someone and your first thought is, "Soon we shall witness the consequences," you're probably looking at Girl Who Just Turned 21.

Hovering near Girl Who Just Turned 21 was Vulture Boy. Vulture Boy dances alone, waiting to pick off stragglers from the birthday party.

As soon as Vulture Boy senses the slightest loss of motor control in one of the female revelers, he swoops in with the classic Vulture Boy maneuver -- the grind. Nothing says, "Salutations, gentlewoman! Dost thou care to waltz?" like aiming your crotch at unsuspecting buttocks.

At the bar we encountered another classic character -- High Roller.

High Roller is in his mid-40s. Jeans. Sport coat. Hair plugs. You know the type. Every time High Roller buys a $6 Heineken -- High Roller loves Heineken! -- he leaves a $4 tip. He's High Roller. This is his scene. Seven nights a week.

Right next to High Roller is Free Drink Girl. Free Drink Girl hasn't paid for an adult beverage since 1995. She'll let anyone hit on her for the price of a white zinfandel.

When she opens her Grand Canyon-sized purse, Free Drink Girl pulls out a half-smoked Marlboro. This is totally gross to everyone but High Roller, who sees this and immediately wants to make out with her.

After grabbing a beverage, we hit the dance floor. There we boogied down next to Girl With No Sense of Space, who inexplicably hits me in the neck and ankle at the same time. Ironically, she is later seen leaving with Guy Who Looks Real Tough and Never Moves.

Hair teased to ceiling height, Group of Girls Who Think It's Still 1988 emit a deafening roar when DJ I Don't Know What Decade It Is plays "Safety Dance." The girls are being watched closely by Creepy Guy Who Stares at Women While Drinking Amaretto Sours.

In the middle of it all is Gay Guy We're All Copying Dance Moves From. This used to be Black Guy We're All Copying Dance Moves From's job, but he goes only to black clubs now. Looking around, who can blame him?

Joe Donatelli writes about his travels on the Gen-X landscape. Contact him at www.joedonatelli.com