You shouldn’t charge a cover if your bar smells like feces.
I’m sure we would have gone in anyway, because we were in the mood to party, but it would have been nice if the bouncer informed us of the sewage issues inside before asking us to pay ten bucks each to get in.
Once inside, the sound system kept cutting out, so I was alternately screaming over early-nineties hip-hop or looking around awkwardly because sudden stone-cold silence alerted the entire bar to my opinions about how “rad” the new Transformers movie was going to be.
Whenever the sound would come back on, it was at full volume and somewhere in the middle of whatever track was lined up next, so my ears where ringing and my brain was disoriented, trying to figure out what song was playing so I could pretend I knew the words.
I could handle the music thing, but the smell from the backed up toilet stalls really started getting to me after a few hours, and no amount of liquor would dull my senses enough. Believe me, I tried.
The old adage used to be if it’s too loud, you’re too old. By the time I stumbled out of that place on Friday night, I felt about ninety and couldn’t believe how many happy twenty-somethings there were twittering about as if there hadn’t been the distinct smell of wet cat wrapped in rotten bacon permeating our skin all night.
I guess if I can’t stand the smell, then I’m past my prime.