Confession 1: The title of this post is a lie.
Confession 2: This post was originally intended to be about a singles event I attended this week but in the absence of actually humorous things occurring, I decided to go in a slightly different direction.
Confession 3: Took a little over a week off after a death in the family. Moving onward.
—–
So, why the hate, you ask? Well, as I said in Confession #2, I went to a singles event this week. Tuesday, I believe. It was at some douchey bar in the meatpacking district, sponsored by Match.com (more on that in a moment). I don’t remember the name and don’t want to embarrass the actual club, so I’ll just make one up… Let’s see, what would sound fake? How about, my favorite number… and my favorite month?
Let’s go with elevenaugust. No, no. That definitely sounds fake. Fine, how about tenjune? Let’s go with that.
There is something a little odd about an online dating site having in-person events, but I think of it like what should have happened with Blockbuster deciding to get into the Netflix game (except not years and years too late). Side note: good call by the executives at ‘Buster (No, just wait this out… This whole to-your-door and instant movie thing will fade, trust me!).
Heading into that night I had hoped for two things:
- Get some phone numbers, meet some gals.
- Remember some funny stories, chronicle them here to benefit off other’s misery.
Neither occurred. Strangely, I forgot about that little part of male-female interaction that you still have to have something to say to them. For all my inability to shut the hell up once I get going, I’ve always seemed to have a faulty starter in my engine when it comes to strangers (male and female alike). Also, the lights were incredibly dim and I don’t have the greatest eyesight, so from the jump I was at a disadvantage.
So instead, I re-focus my energy on this “tenjune” place. The pretentiousness of that whole district is enough to make you want to vomit. Unless of course you’re a hot girl (in which case, you could just puke in the restrooms of these fine establishments to keep up that Meatpacking physique).
Where to start? How about with this insane dress code that exists? I went with two people who were dressed better than I was, one of whom couldn’t stop telling me how under-dressed and out of place I’d look. He wasn’t being obnoxious, simply stating a fact (which on any normal, non-Match.com event night would’ve been true).
Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a particularly sharp dresser all the time… But that night I was wearing corduroys, a button down and dress shoes. It wasn’t like I was wearing an enormous jersey and baseball hat… I’m not bitter.
How about the bouncers at these places? First are the ones who won’t let guys come in unless they have women with them. I honestly don’t have the energy or time or space (and this is practically unlimited, so let that sit) to fully describe how much I fucking hate those guys/that attitude.
Second are the bouncers inside. There was a guy at this Match.com event that was camped out by the area where the bar wrapped around. Any time anyone got close, he’d say something unnecessarily tough like “Over there, my man.” This guy (and others like him) need to get punched in the face. Repeatedly. Is there a less aggressive, less threatening group of folks than the people that attend these events? Is it such a crime to let me stand there while I wait my turn (read that again: while I wait my fucking turn!) for a drink?
Finally, I can’t stand the music (or the lines, or the drink prices, or the drugged out clientele, or the…). What happened to playing music we can all relate to? You’re telling me that place wouldn’t jump if “Juicy” came on or “Sunday Bloody Sunday”? Play the oldies for my/our generation… please. Or at the very least, mix them in.
I apologize if this comes off too much like a rant, but that area of the city is so unbelievably pretentious that I can’t get over it. And yet despite being a reasonably intelligent guy, I can never get over that fact no matter how many times I go.
Maybe I’m the moron.
scott spinelli 