Red In The Face

It’s Saturday evening and we’re standing outside a small, pinkish building in Hollywood directly across the street from Paramount Studios. Jessica’s roommate Natalie had managed to get us on the list for some club as part of her friend’s birthday. I’m standing there wearing one of Blake’s shirts after an intervention was held earlier where I was told just how uncool my own clothes were. Fortunately, my “crappy” shoes don’t enter the picture as the bouncer informs us that our names are in fact not on any such list.

Immediately, Natalie calls her friend, who is running late, and hands the phone over to the bouncer, who then hands the phone over to the manager. The circumstances soon begin to unravel: a list of names had been emailed in …… the reservations had been made under a different name …… no list of names was present at the door …… seating had been paid for …… etc. The party entourage soon arrives and shortly thereafter, they work out the problem so that admittance is granted.

From the inside, the club appears much smaller than from the outside and soon it quickly fills up to max capacity. Talking becomes near impossible with music blaring over the speakers and dancing space is very limited, but the potential for fun is apparent. As the night progresses I soon discover what the main draw of the club is to its clientele. No, it isn’t cheap drinks; no it isn’t “hot, fresh beats”; no it’s not the celebs (despite the occasional presence of some from my understanding). No, the main draw of the club is the nightly burlesque show they put on with two dancers and a small instrumental trio.

So around 11:30, we are treated to the first of two burlesque shows, complete with girls shaking tasseled bras and hanging from bars hung from the ceiling as the band plays the Peter Gunn and Hawaii 5-O themes. It’s entertaining to watch the interaction between the dancers and the band, and the dancers with the audience. The flexibility of these girls is amazing, or as one guy next to me put it, “White girls aren’t supposed to shake their ass like that.”

Shortly after the show ends, the club music begins blasting again and for whatever reason I give Jess a hug. As I bring my head back, I notice something red smeared across her cheek and immediately my hand goes up to my nose. Leave it to me to get a bloody nose right after a burlesque show in a Los Angeles nightclub. My timing, as always, is impeccable. In a matter of seconds, the manager is over asking if everything is all right and if I need anything. Worried at first that a fight had broken out in his club he soon realizes that things are under control and shortly returns with a towel. Towel, blood and nose in hand, I’m ushered out the backdoor. The bleeding stops shortly after exiting the club as another, wet towel is handed to me.

I can just imagine what I look like standing outside of a club with my hands covered in blood. Fortunately, the blood didn’t get on Blake’s shirt that I was wearing; however, two drops of blood did manage to land on my jeans and one hit the tip of my shoe. I throw the towels away once finished and make a trip to the bathroom to wash my hands. The rest of the night passes without any further mishap, even after the second burlesque show at 1am. No more blood is shed and the only thing damaged is my ego. You could say that my little incident had temporarily left me a little red in the face. And in the hands.