So last night i went to lotus with my dear rosario. what a loverly haterfest! there were so many gross people, old people, gross old people, and tourists (which deserve a centemptuous category of their own). I thought Lotus was supposed to be exclusive, meaning there would be attractive people there! wtf!

Last night exhibited many examples of typical mistakes made that prevent the non-whorish, non-desperate, not too drunk to process information girl from having a really good time. So, some tips for the would-be club-goers:

If you are over the age of 45, and you look over the age of 45, do not try to grind up on me. It’s disturbing and I might vomit.

If you are of an appropriate age and hygeine, don’t just grab me. I don’t appreciate random guys just dancing on or near me or grabbing my waist or just bumping into me. Whatever happened to asking a lady to dance? If a guy asks politely I will almost never say no, because that’s just as bad manners as rubbing your pelvis against a stranger’s behind without his or her consent.

And If I do agree to dance with you, don’t hold my hands or start putting your face against my face or neck, or try to get me to hold on to you tight, or start heavy jackrabbit thrusting right away. I’m here to dance with you, but I still don’t know you, I’m not trying to find neither an emotional connection with you nor have vertical sex. If i’m feeling you, there’s always the chance that some of that might happen: eventually. So read my signals and don’t force it. I’m not your girlfriend.

And even if I dance with you for a couple songs, please do not start spitting lines like “I miss you” “I love you” “I want to marry you” “I’m going to call you candy because you’re so sweet” “I really want to know you” et cetera, et cetera. It’s just weird. If you wanna talk to me, hang out, talk, but please, casually! Chances are just because we danced for 2 songs we’re still not soul mates.

And unless you are ridiculously attractive, I mean, ridiculously (and even then it’s still iffy), the first words outta your mouth when you approach a girl should not be “Can I have your phone number?” There are a plethora of other first lines that could potentially work: “What’s your name? Nice to meet you, I’m ____” “Can I buy you a drink?” “Would you like to dance?” “You have nice hair” Whatever, but the key is to establish some sort of familiarity that could get me to the point where I’d still be willing to talk to you tomorrow. Unless you’re feeling reciprocated love at first sight (key word: reciprocated), chances are just looking at you is not gonna make me interested in you blowing up my celly at 2AM when you’re drunk and horny.

And if you are a tourist visiting new york, it’s really not cool to roll up in a club 10 deep all wearing matching I
All of this, the crowd, the lask of room to dance, the ugly people, all of it may have been bearable if only the DJ wasn’t utter trash. He played, except for perhaps 3 or 4 positive outliers, bad music. A lot of medium tempo-southern shit basically no hit songs or danceable beats. The DJ was basically on the “I’m gonna play a lot of underground shit so I can prove how hard I am” tip. I saw a girl go up to him, presumably to request reggae. After talking to her he played 1 dancehall song and then followed it up with slow chill reggae, great if you’re drinking a beer on the beach, bad if you wanna wind. Not only that, but he didn’t cut. This upsets me more than anything. The whole purpose of dj-ing is to play the parts of the song that people like. The roots of hip-hop djing come from DJ Kool Herc – by many accounts the inventor of turn tableism and hip hop as a music form – who would loop the break beat. You don’t play the intro and outro to a song. You don’t even play all the damn verses – the way to keep a party hype is to keep changing shit up so it stays exciting. What this dude was doing – what he was getting paid to do was to basically put on a cd (or mp3’s on his fancy little mac – what happened to skill with vinyl? that’s how I learned back in the day) and put on the cross fader. I could do that shit my damn self.

yo….let’s go back to hempstead.