there really is (or should be) an age when you realize that you are too old for clubbing. now i’m not talking about going to a lounge or a show that happens to be in a club with a few friends or grabbing a drink after work. that is timeless social behaviour, especially for unemployed artists who don’t really have any other pasttimes, but i digress. what i’m referring to is the tarting up with your barely legal friends to allow for alchohol consumption to the point of excess as your excuse to dance badly and make stupid decisions (like hanging out in a miniskirt and a transparent tanktop on the corner when it’s -25 degrees outside, dangit woman, the liquor is not to blame for your pneumonia!)
saturday night, i decided to bite my tongue and go along with the plan to tag along a bday party and venture to “Q” in old montreal. this is the supper club formerly known as “Quartier”, but i suppose they shortened the name to join up with the neighboring “W” hotel (where Raf Katigbak spins on friday nites). since both of them are a block away from the Palais de Congres, one could argue for the conspiracy theory of the sesame street-ization of the neighborhood.
the ladies are free, though the gents have to pay $12. the line actually moves pretty fast, unlike that at Rouge, which these days seems more privy to letting in dirty guys and making cute girls stand outside in the cold. perhaps they want to change the ratio in the club. the should really think of changing the dj or at least giving him a talking to, because one should know not to make bad transitions from New Kids on the Block to Nirvana. anyways, i digress again.
so, the youngish crowd at Q (19-21ish) is a bit obnoxious, especially those in the back who make a big production about how they’re ballin’ out of control, ordering expensive bottles served to them with sparklers (by folks who are at least twice their age, how degrading is that?) and put their grubby little feet all over the booths that i presume are for dining (makes you reconsider actually eating at this supper club).
i also witnessed a particularly despicable new phenomenon (and i’m not talking about the cowboy shirt that seems to have become the club uniform for all boys aged 19-21) of gnashing into brand new packages of table napkins just to have ammunition to make “snowstorms” between drunken, gropey friends. i’m a bleeding heart recycler so i almost punched one of these punks in the face because of the abject waste that is involved in such a ridiculous practice. seriously. i can’t even think about how many napkins on a nightly then weekly basis have to be sacrificed to this end without increasing my blood pressure.
the music is electronic (with dance mix versions of justin timberlake and nelly furtado faves thrown in), the boys are fresh, and the pointless debauchery (tearing animals from limb to limb as a tribute to dionysus is an example of pointed debauchery, sorry, i couldn’t resist after reading froosh’s post about expensive yet forgettable fish) is rampant. the only thing that really made me smile was the immaculately clad “martini boys” in their pinstriped pants, crisp white shirts and suspenders…mmm suspenders. they’re all so metrosexually sexy.
moral of this story? if someone suggests to go to such a place to celebrate their 30th bday, maybe you should ask yourself why exactly you are friends….