I had meant to get a jump on this journal entry, and started to write some notes as the weekend progressed. I tried stating this entry Saturday, and then again on Sunday, but the words just didn't flow or convey any sense of reality or meaning. I looked back at my earlier postings, and while they are not great literature, or in many cases even gametically correct literature, they do seem to have some kind of voice. So here I start with a complaint about trying to find my voice in hopes it will return. One other whinny little note, I find I'm struggling with tense a little bit in these weekend documentaries. Past tense would seem to be the obvious choice, but present perfect tense seems to come more naturally, and I think I have flip-flopped a few times inexpertly and incorrectly. Perhaps I should have paid more attention in English class.
Friday
I am suppose to go out Friday night with Attila. She had called me earlier in the day, expressing a desire to get together. I get off work at 6:30 and call her. She is busy with something, and says she should be ready in an hour or so. I call again at 8:00 and she is braiding her hair and says she will be ready to go in about an hour. I call a little after 9:00, and she still isn't quite ready to go. She tells me to tell her where I will be and she will meet me there. I have some errands to run, like dropping off wash, and tell her I will call her once I figure out where that will be. The errands do not take long and I return home. It is still a bit early to be sitting at a club waiting for a dance crowd to arrive, besides Attila had said she wanted to shoot pool when she had first called me. I call her for a last time about 10:00 and tell her we should meet up at OTB (Off Track Betting) for pool, and to just call me when she is ready to hit the door. By 11:30 the call hasn't come. I had already called four times, at times she had chosen to coordinate a date she had suggested. I finally leave for the Masonic. I have my phone with me, but it never rings. I had been tepid about going out with Attila, and actually am thankful for an excuse to beg off in future. I can only assume Attila had been equally tepid about me.
The Masonic is very slow when I arrive and there don't appear to be any interesting faces in sight. I make to leave when a young man of slight build and stature walks up to me to compliment me on my vest. I am unsure if this is genuine praise or mockery disguised as praise. I had become a familiar face at the Masonic, but am on a very small list of white patrons, and perhaps am overly sensitive expecting some kind of racial slight. He seems to have some other questions about my vest, but stops talking suddenly and hurries off without explanation. He turns out to be the D.J., and has to queue up the next song before the current one ends. I make to leave again, but not before a female friend of his informs me her friend the DJ really wants to know where I bought the vest. I had had the vest for several years, vests as accessories where probably more common then. I had bought several, some quite bright and flashy, though this one has a muted maroon pattern , but which I think goes well with my maroon shirt and black dress slacks. I don't recall where I had gotten it exactly, and tell her so, I also tell her it is several years old, and that in any event they probably don't make them anymore.
I spend only about 10 minutes at the Masonic, then take off for The High Dive. It's getting close to midnight. I peer through the window into The High Dive, but the dance floor area is virtually empty. This is almost unheard of at the High Dive, but U of I is between semesters, the college kids back with friends and families in Chicago. Champaign and Urbana townees are probably too busy themselves with pre-Christmas plans and activities to make a showing too. Club Xtreme is also slow for this time of the evening, but it isn't empty, so I go in.
Once inside I start my usual casing, looking for familiar faces, or more hopefully interesting women to meet. The first woman I approach is named Tawanda, which is the same name as another women I have dated recently, but this is my first time meeting this Tawanda.. She is easily the cutest women in the club, and I offer her a drink which she at first makes to turn down, but her hesitation in saying no gives me an opening to cajoling her into taking advantage of my generosity. She follows me to the bar where the bartender focuses on me, but I waive him to her with a whatever-she-wants gesture. They exchange some words which I can't catch over the loud music and he pours a drink that is a mixture of something clear and something red, all I know is that it's pricy, but I don't care. She takes a sip and grimaces, obviously not caring much for whatever it is. I tell her that she doesn't have to drink it, or I can have the bartender fix it more to her liking. She demurs, takes another sip, grimaces again, though maybe not as severely. We walk back to the dance floor, and I find out she is a U of I student studying speech communications. Her real home is Chicago so I ask why she is not back there for the holidays, but can't quite catch the answer over the music, I ask her one more time, but fail to catch her response the second time as well, so let it drop. She had been sitting stiffly before I had come over to talk to her, and she still sits hands on knees, in an almost schoolmarm fashion, though her cloths are quite fetching, and reveal a well rounded bosom. A bosom I must take pains not to stare at. It is not the size, but the tastefully well crafted cleavage that beckons. Her face is round, but her chin sharp, and gives her an innocent angelic look. I have little expectation this woman, most likely half my age will be leaving with me. I long to be in her presence, but I also don't wish to be wearying with my presence, or obnoxious with unwanted attention, so I get a promise of a dance later, and make for further rounds in the club.
The woman who had briefly danced with my friend Apollo the week before is there, and I put her on the short list of women I might ask to dance. I meet a girl named Shanice at the bar, but she turns down a drink, but not the possibility of a dance later. In quick order I meet Patrice, who definitely promises a dance later (though later comes and goes with no dance), Joy who "might" dance later (again a dance later never comes). Camea has arrived, who I had met a week or two ago, but appears to have given me a wrong number. I am now repeating names over and over again my head to keep the women straight. I have never been good with names, and resort to a simple memory trick of associating some object or event with the sound of their names. Tawanda with a wind up toy (to wind a), Shanice with she's-a-niece, Patrice with patting rice. Joy with "Joy and Pain", a DJ EZ Rock and Rob Base tune. Camea sounds similar to the Crimea. It occurs to me, I'm almost making work out of trying to have a night out.
I go back to Tawanda, she is still sipping slowly, ever so slowly on the drink I had gotten her. I had commented on how stiff and uncomfortable she had looked earlier. I'm sure she has things on her mind unrelated to me. She's at the club alone, so possibly a falling out with a boyfriend. She seems to make up her mind about something and takes me by the hand out to the dance floor. I wouldn't say I was in my best groove, but I guess I was dancing OK, and we danced several songs. Towards the end, a taller, younger man comes over to dance with Tawanda at the same time, or more accurately to lure Tawanda away from me. She allows him to dance a few beats behind her, but then shifts, indicating she is dancing with me. I would be lying to say I had never lost a women to another man who had moved in on the dance floor. In fact, in probably the majority of these situations, I am left dancing alone, and feeling a bit humiliated, but not today. I wouldn't say my ego swelled however, instead I just have a weird feeling of appreciation that here is a young women who takes into account the feelings of the person she is dancing with. Then again, maybe I'm just the "safe" dance, and she doesn't want the attention of the younger, bolder bucks. We finish dancing, and perhaps with a little too much sincerity thank her for not dancing off with the other man, as I always find that a bit insulting with it happens. Of course this is an admission that it happens.
I make the rounds a few times and finally decide to ask the women that had approached my friend Apollo the week before, with a sort of half tease dance step, only to danced away from him seconds later. Her name turns out to be Yolonda, she's probably in her mid 30's, and teaches third through fifth grade. We dance a few songs, and before the end of the evening we exchange phone numbers.
The rest of the evening I don't well remember, not because the first part of the evening was so memorable, or because I had gotten drunk, but because it blurs into being like some many other weekend nights before. Most of my charm with women seems to have worn off (if it had ever been there) and I leave a little early.
Saturday
I call Apollo up and suggest we do the town. I don't suggest we go out because Apollo and I are such close friends, and not because I think he is a good luck charm in meeting women, but just to break the rut that going out has turned into recently.
We were to start off at Number Two Main, which use to be my favorite club, but which had closed for remodeling and had just recently reopened. I wasn't expecting it to still be a frequent hang out, and only suggested we start there out of curiosity. I already knew they had abandoned dance on Friday and Saturday nights and gone to an upscale sports bar format. I got there before Apollo, and paced around the entrance way. The place is not crowded, but they have customers. No where near as many people as would have been there normally, but then it is the last weekend before Christmas. The timing of the remodeling always struck me as odd, much better to remodel over summer, when you wouldn't loose as much U of I business. There are several large flat panel wide screen TVs around the bar, most showing ESPN. The booths, tables, carpeting, woodwork all look very nice and upscale, not that the place had been a dive before -- far from it. But the remodeling tab is sure to have been several tens of thousands of dollars at a minimum. If their grand reopening is to fewer customers than they were having before the remodeling, I can't help but think the current owners will take a huge loss, and may never see a profit from the bar. Then again, there is some huge city structure being erected across the street, and perhaps they are making the smart long term bet.
Number two main had had a rather unlikely crowd of regulars Friday and Saturday before the remodeling. At five it was usually filled with business attired people, and the music tended towards jazz and blues, at seven a DJ would begin to play Salsa and an enthusiastic group of Salsa devotees would crowd the small dance floor area, which wasn't even a real dance floor, but just bare asphalt tile. At 10:30 there would be a changing of the guard and the next DJ would play Hip-Hop till closing. By 11:30 the place would be jam packed to capacity, half still business types, the other half urban townees. I am chagrined that I reflexively use code words to describe the crowd, by urban I mean mostly black. It had been the biggest melting pot in the city by far, and despite the fact the business had appeared good, they must have had some fights, and worried what reaction the city would have if things continued as they had. The city can just decide to pull an establishment's liquor licence for failing to control a crowd, and a bar owner has little legal recourse if this happens -- you just have to accept that you are going out of business.
The bar now has a couple of pool tables where the dancing use to take place and I notice the area is carpeted. This is significant because it says there is no going back to dance. The area would have look just as nice or nicer if it had been redone with wood, then the pool tables could have been moved out of the way when needed for a real dance floor.
Apollo shows up and I tell him we probably don't want to stay at Number Two (insert whatever scatological humor you want here), I have seen what I came to see, but we make a quick sweep to see if there are any ladies that might be worth striking up a conversation with. Most everyone is paired up in the club, or in tight little groups of friends, all except for two very passably attractive ladies playing electronic darts. I ask Apollo if I should approach them and strike up a conversation. He is noncommital at first, but finally agrees I should after I press him for a yes or a no. It must be apparent by now that I'm not shy about meeting women, but this isn't a dance club, and I now find myself awkwardly waiting for the right moment to approach and say hi. Apollo seems mildly amused at my indecision as to the best time to approach, as I mumble something over and over about timing to excuse my stalling. Finally there is a break in the dart action and I assume the game is over. I walk briskly over, trying not to look as though I'm rushing and ask "who won?" It turns out I don't know much about electronic darts, or darts in general for that matter. The game is far from over, especially as it turns out these girls are not very good at "cricket" which is the dart game they're playing, a very common one, and one I've never heard of. All I know about darts is that you throw them at a dartboard.
It turns out that Apollo knows "cricket" and several other dart games. The girls agree to play us once they finish their game. Their names are Abbey and Isabel. Isabel is short and Asian, Abbey is average height and blond. Abbey seems the friendly of the two, and seems to enjoy our company, but Isabel is the more talkative and animated. She asks what Apollo and I do for a living, to which we answer we are computer programmers, and to which she opines that she is sorry for us. She quickly realizes she might have given offence, though in all truth Apollo and I don't care. We defend our profession, but perhaps a bit too much. Isabel it turns out is a psyche major at U of I. The girls game goes on for at least fifteen minutes, until one of the girls at last concedes. There is some subtlety in finishing "cricket" with points over or under or something. A subtlety I don't quite get. They surrender the dart machine to us, and scoot off. Its unclear to me whether they are on some kind of schedule to meet other people, or are just ditching the clueless programmers. If the latter, they were tasteful enough not to let it show.
It's now 11:30 and we head over to Club Xtreme. The place is crowded, far more than it had been the night before, but we get in with only a short wait, which is good, because neither of us is bundled well for standing in the cold. Apollo pays his cover, but the hostess refuses my money saying that it's free because I have been to the club three nights in a row. I hadn't come out this last Thursday, but I don't argue with her. I wonder to myself how firm a policy this is. The hostess is cute, but not a kid like most of the club patrons. She could be anywhere in her thirties, and I wonder to myself if she is attracted to me, the free admission a not so subtle hint. I don't want to make an ass of myself, so I don't approach her this night, but make a mental note to flirt with her a little the next time I come out to get a feel for her intentions. As I mentioned in a previous post, I think I've gotten a reputation as a big spender at Club Xtreme, usually dropping anywhere from $30 to $60 in free drinks for ladies I know or am trying to get to know. Perhaps this is the reason for the special treatment at the door. $30 to $60 may seem like a paltry sum for those used to going to bars in the big cities, but for Champaign/Urbana, Illinois, this practically makes me a philanthropist.
Apollo and I quickly head for the sidelines of the dance floor area, and I point out a few women I would like to dance with. Lori and her sister (Shaboz?) are at the club. Lori is 20 years old, with a birthday coming up in February and way too young for me for sure, but then again most of the women I chase are too young for me. I should explain that in the Champaign bars, 19 and 20 year olds may enter though not drink. In Urbana they allow 18, 19, and 20. I usually look for a red stamp on the back of a woman's hand, indicating that she is at least of drinking age before approaching, but I wouldn't call this a hard and fast rule. I have danced with Lori several times in the past, and even had her phone number, though strictly as a friend (I think she suggest we exchange numbers). She claims to really be fascinated by my dancing style, and finds it hard to believe a white man like myself can throw down. I think she just likes to see the faces of her many younger admirers as she dances with the uninhibited older white man who seems to have no shame. She is also not shy in asking me for drinks, which I shouldn't admit to buying, but she'll be 21 soon, and I doubt law enforcement will track me down just based on this posting. When I was 18, the drinking age was 18, but this isn't something I bother rationalizing my largess with. She's cute, she dances with me, it's hard to say no.
My friend Apollo is just 30 (and perhaps looks even younger), and it wouldn't be such a stretch to see he and Lori together. In fact I think he has a strange fascination with Lori and her friends, and perhaps a wistful fantasy they might end up together. Apollo is shier than I am, and perhaps more reserved, but Lori and her friends flock around him now when we run into them, but perhaps this is more like birds flocking to a bird-feeder, as Apollo now plies them with drinks in my stead. Though I like Lori, and it is a real boost to my ego when we dance, I'm glad for a little relief from being their sugar daddy.
When I had first met Lori, I had ended up giving her a ride home a couple of times (I don't remember how this came about) though I remained a complete gentleman, I think I did entertain some fantasy that Lori would be mine someday. I was working the Canopy Club much more often back then, and was the first DJ up on the Hip-Hop nights. I wasn't the main draw or attraction, but unlike the other DJs, I was there every week. Good enough to be a regular, but not the main event. Then again, my format makes me a good warm up for the crowd. I do all music video (so really I'm a VJ). I'm not a scratch mix or beat mix artist, which is what really got the Canopy Club Hip-Hop crowd dancing (I use past tense here, because Hip-Hop night was suspended this summer, after about a year long run). I sometimes felt a little like the man behind the curtain in OZ, because my video both is well back from the main stage area where the other guest DJs perform. A majority of the crowd probably didn't even realize I was DJing the first half of the Hip-Hop nights, maybe they assumed the videos where some kind of canned feed. Lori came by often on these nights and usually said hello, even if I was usually too busy doing my job to pay much attention to her. I never bought her drinks at The Canopy Club, since I could ill afford to be breaking the law where I actually work. I am probably the most straight laced worker the Canopy has, I haven't even tried pot in all my years in this world, and have no intention of starting now. This really makes me a minority in the club scene, especially as a DJ, and I assume most of my co-workers at the Canopy smoke often. The Canopy Club has one of the more notorious reputations as being a refuge for tokers. They have a lot of modern rock bands headlining, and to say many of these acts are pro-pot is an understatement. Many lighting up on stage -- of course one never knows when this is sincere rebellion, or a sham with tobacco.
On one of these Hip-Hop nights Lori made sure to introduce her boyfriend to me. We shook hands, and I doubt Lori was trying to send any kind of message to me, but I couldn't help but note the distracted and amused look on the face of her boyfriend. He seemed to have little interest in meeting me, and all I could see was an arrogant little shit. I don't think I let my disdain show, but I stopped having any fantasies about Lori that day. It wasn't that Lori was now unavailable, she certainly should end up with someone younger than me, but why someone that has the outward appearance of some penny ante player or gang banger? Maybe my assessment is unfair or colored by my desire for Lori, but the man's body language was not that of an upstanding citizen, or someone that respects and treats women well.
I hadn't seen Lori's boyfriend by her side in months, I doubt they are still together, but I don't plan on making a play for her. She's not shy, and I think if she ever wants to get to know me in a more than platonic way that I'll know. Maybe Apollo will have better luck than I.
As I said, I was pointing out women to Apollo. One was in a tight fitting white top which showed just a line of bare midriff. She was very curvy, and very attractive, maybe just a bit on the fleshy side, but in a way which a young busty women can pull off to good effect. Call me cynical, but I see a women like this as almost irresistibly attractive now, but a time bomb waiting to put on fifty pounds over the next ten years. To my utter amazement she waives to me and rushes over saying "How are you Doin'?" I must know her, and she seems familiar, but I can't attach a name at all. I think to myself how is it possible for me to know this strikingly attractive woman, and not only forgotten her name, but the dance or shared drink or long conversation that had probably brought us together as well?
"Are you gonna buy me a drink?"
"Sure," I almost stammer.
"Two cranberry and vodkas?"
"Sure," I say again, though I worry a little about getting her multiple drinks straight out of the starting gate. Cranberry and vodka turns out not to be too expensive, and I get off cheaper than other drinks I usually end up buying for women. She grabs a drink in each hand, and then motions for me to follow. I have a Miller Lite in my hand (no product placement intended, but hey Miller, feel free to send me a check), and she immediately starts in dancing. I don't like dancing with a drink in my hand, but she has one in each hand, and it would look foolish for me to put mine down, so I try to incorporate it into my moves, taking a swig from time to time.
All the time we dance I rack my brain trying to remember her name and it never comes. We finish up after a few songs, and I'm feeling my ego swell a little. I wish I could remember her name. Certainly I would have asked for her number when we last met, so if it wasn't on my phone, she must not have given it to me. There is a vague memory that maybe she told me she didn't have a phone, but I have heard that a few times, and can't say for sure if that was what she had told me the last time we had met, or whether I really have any true memory of her at all. I would like to try for her phone number, but time, circumstance and the crowd keep us separated the remainder of the night. Normally I would not let this stop me, but I just can't remember her name, and figure it would be rather futile to admit this and then ask for her number.
Now it has been the case that I have had many occasions to admit to a woman in a club that I have forgotten their name. In most cases they feign being a little insulted, but in almost all these cases, they can't remember my name either. My rejoinder is almost always "well then I don't feel guilty", which I always follow with a well practiced smile.
I look around but have lost track of Apollo, I wander back to the bar area and finally find him. There are a couple of women by the bar that seem to have captured his interest. I ask him what's up, and he confesses he is thinking about trying to meet the shorter of the two women, a redhead, perhaps just little on the plump side, but certainly not fat, and a very, very pretty face. She is a natural redhead with the pale skin and freckled shoulders to go along with it. Apollo tells me he has a special weakness for redheads. I can understand this, as I have a weakness for redheads too, though I also like exotic women, especially black or Asian. I encourage him to go up and say hi, but he can't seem to bring himself to do it. I ask if he would like for me to make an introduction? Perhaps he finds this a challenge to his manhood, and walks over and offers her a drink, which she accepts. Way to go Apollo I think to myself, then saunter off in search for a woman of my own.
I see a short woman who seems very familiar. I ask her name, which see informs me is Sandy, in a little bit huffy fashion. Another forgotten name. In quick succession I meet Rachel, Merion, and Veronica, but none of these meetings leads to a dance. Perhaps I seem overly transfixed on getting a dance, but when you go out dancing, the point would seem to be to actually dance.
I finally meet a young woman name Tiffany, who is more than willing to start in dancing. She starts off by rubbing her butt up against my crotch. This is a dance move that has become more and more popular over the years, and not one that I shy away from. She is not all that tall, but the motion is just above my nether regions, and therefore not as stimulating as it could be, and I wonder to myself if I should have a hard-on, which I don't. If I were a teenager, this type of dancing would probably have brought me to climax all by itself, now I worry it betrays me as not being viral enough. I can't help but wonder if the whole point of this dance style is to test a man's assets in arousal. We finish up, and I offer her a drink, which she accepts.
Most of the rest of the night is spent pacing the perimeter of the dance floor, but not dancing. I talk and flirt with various of the women I have met during the evening, but little seems to come of it. There's still a half hour to go, and I now take it as a challenge to dance a least one more time, or meet someone new, or get a phone number. Perhaps this is all a little too goal oriented and desperate, but I don't care, and perhaps feel I have to put on a good show for Apollo, though I have scarcely seen him through out the evening. I start to dance with Tiffany again, but there is a surge at the front of the club over by the bar area and the music stops. The DJ gets on the mike and starts the people-people-people-let's-not-fight mantra. I can't really see what's going on up front, but it is clear the evening is over, and the DJ finally announces so. I hang back as the bouncers shoo people towards the door. Tiffany has hurried over to a group of her girlfriends, and at least one of them is being partially restrained by the others, in an obvious attempt to keep her drunk self from getting trouble. I see the group includes the girl in the white top and Camea. So of this group of five woman, I had hit on the majority. I keep looking for an opportunity to ask Tiffany her number, but the problem with their drunk friend keeps me from approaching. This small group of woman and myself are about the only ones left on the dance floor, though the bar area is still crowded with stragglers slowly making their way to the door. Finally the bouncers shoo the girls towards the door as well, I following in their wake and finally ask Tiffany her number which she gives, but which I have to ask for a couple of times over the din of people and I'm not sure I get it right. It still feels like mission accomplished so I catch up with Apollo just outside the door and we exchange a few comments on the night, which by Apollo's lights I think he considered a success.
That was the weekend and it is now Thursday, Christmas day. Three separate women have contacted me out of the blue this week, but you'll just have to wait for my next entry for the details. This entry is more than long enough, and has taken too long to get composed to stretch it out any further.
