It was one of those nights that makes you want to rush right home and shower, a night when you pop vitamins before bed in a vain attempt to stave off a hangover, a night peopled by incredibly tan, round-tittied, ashy-highlighted, shiny-lipped women in skirts so short they need two hairstyles, pursued by incredibly tan, gel-headed, waxed-chested, clear-nail-polish-manicured men in striped button-down shirts. It was a regular ol’ Thursday night at Crobar, and DJ Jordan Zawideh had decided to spend his birthday there.
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Except for last Thursday. On Thursdays Crobar opens up the glass-walled room on the second floor, usually reserved for VIPs, as the “rock room,” and Zawideh persuaded the club to let him commandeer it to celebrate his 27th. He and resident DJ Andrew Vonn split time in the booth about equally; Zawideh favored straight-up beer-guzzling hits from the likes of Journey and Prince while Vonn preferred to zap partygoers into gear with gabber mashups of Depeche Mode or Poison.
By 1 AM two tawny-haired women in tight jeans had climbed up on a table near the booth, turned their backsides to the crowd, and started to grind. Turned out they were pros: Girl 1, who wore a black pin-striped fedora, dances at VIPs, the high-class strip joint down the block; she’s also studying to be a physical therapist. Girl 2, who never removed her tinted shades, does bachelor parties and is studying psychology at DePaul. She screamed at me to interview her, so I asked about her job. “It’s just nipples and whipped cream,” she said. “No fingers, no tongue–I make $800 in a half hour.”
A skinny dude in aviators and a white shirt with one too many buttons undone came up from behind me and caressed my rear with his crotch. “Watch this,” I told my friend. “I’m gonna totally freak him out.” And I proceeded to slam my rear against his crotch so hard I must’ve bruised his balls. In response he merely wrapped his arm around my waist, so I turned around and hissed, “Hey dude, I was joking.” He smiled self-consciously and slithered off to a corner.
Just before headliners Mahjongg played the last song of their groovy dance-rock set, Hideout co-owner Tim Tuten announced that Mouse on Mars would start DJing at Rodan at the exact moment Mahjongg finished. Hoping to be three of the 76 people allowed into the bar, one of our default hangouts, two girlfriends and I hightailed it over there.
That’s when I saw the curvaceous woman and her boyfriend walking by, this time from the other direction, brandishing open bottles of Budweiser. Running after them I yelled, “Hey, this ain’t New Orleans!”
