conversations with doormen at the local discotech

four dollars to get in here? i asked the doorman
what's the draw?
i mean if im paying to get into a place that im going to be spending money at then dazzle me. wax me some allure, paint me a picture with words, make me want to pay you the price of a drink so i can go in and buy a drink.
he looked at me like i was nuts and spewed forth this glistening pearl of elocution-
well, its five dollars across the street.
oh well in that case then. do you have a live band? i wondered aloud.
no, but we have a dj. he replied
so you want me to pay to hear someone spin his i-pod, an i-pod which is almost certainly inferior to mine in musical quality?
look...are you going in or not?!? i could smell frustration welling up from within him
so you want me to pay four dollars to go into this place that i can hear someone play their Mtv tunes so that girls can dance while their low cut shirts and push up bras do their fabrical best to disguise the fact that theyve got bigger beer bellies than all the men in my extended family? i dont think so dude. thanks anyway though.
-and i walked with my posse of anxious a-listers to the next watering hole feeling satisfied that i didnt get my ass beat by the cro-mag majoring in i.d checking at the door of the shittiest bar in salem. god o'neals is an embarrassment to all the irish named pubs in the world, those places called murphy's, or mcgleashes, or paddy o'sheas, or the dirty limerick, or erin go bra-less. ya know those spots, theres one in every college town, its usually the first place your overly developed female friend first got served a drink well before she was 21, having no idea what to order she probably got a beer, then realized she hates the taste so she drank four of em to wash away the flavor in her mouth, then vomited all over her fuck me pumps. anyway- that girl grew up to be that young woman who now drinks captain morgans like the company is having a fire sale, her overly developed frame never stopped developing in all those wrong female places, and she sometimes sits on the corner of the street at last call afraid that her best years are like those fuck me pumps she tossed into the trash so many years ago. well behind her and forgotten. i think about her as we walk to that next watering hole for an instant, then put her out of my mind as a stiff game of foosball is soon to begin.