We should have taken the sudden downpour that began at 10 pm as an omen. But, having been separated from each other for nearly three months now, we were determined to have one night out together again, and I was excited to experience DC … Continue reading
Last summer, Baggage and I decided to make the drive and spend the week in my parent’s beach condo in Naples, FL.
Naples is a lovely place, if you’re from the Midwest, over the age of 65, and don’t mind everything closing at 6 pm.
Baggage and I are none of those things.
Still, it’ll be relaxing, we thought. It’s good to drop off the grid for a couple days, we thought. Worst case, we’ll find something to do at night if the going gets tough, we thought.
So, with bikinis, wine, and a hookah in tow, we made the journey up Alligator Alley to Gulfshore Blvd.
At first, it was nice. We spent the days languishing in the sun and acquiring tan lines. At night, we sparked up the hookah, popped open a bottle of Barefoot Moscato and ordered movies on demand. By the third night, we were itching to go out.
I scoured Yelp for bars and lounges in the area. We found one hookah lounge and one nightclub. “It’ll have to do,” said B. So we planned our night.
It was a total disaster.
Our first stop was Kazbar, the city’s only hookah lounge and business open past 11 pm. We walked in around 9:30 and the general manager promptly informed us that cover was $10. We looked around at the completely empty venue. “Really?” I asked. He hung his head, shrugged, and waived us in.
B ordered a hookah, sweet red melon + mint. Something must’ve been off because 30 minutes later I was inhaling ash. The manager said we must’ve burned through all the shisha. “That’s impossible,” said B. “We’ve been here less than an hour.”
“You want head change, you pay for new hookah,” he replied.
Since the nightclub supposedly didn’t open until 11 pm, we pouted and wheezed our way through another 30 minutes.
Around 10:30, we grudgingly paid the manager and set off to find ‘Vision Nightclub.’ The club’s website had boasted a surprising repertoire of artists, from the Martinez Bros to Hilary Warner. Given that it was Naples, we didn’t quite know what to expect, to say the least.
We certainly didn’t expect to drive up to an abandoned rinky-dink hole in the wall with a peeling sign that said “Vision” and a giant poster in the window with the words “FOR RENT.”
Dejected, we decided to call it a night.
And that’s when Georgiaboy Weever called me.
I’d met Georgiaboy a couple summers ago in Naples. He was a student at Gulf Coast and the fishing buddy of a a good friend of mine that lived in the same condo and he used to come to our beach to fish. I hadn’t heard from him in over a year, but he said he’d seen on Facebook that B and I were in town and he wanted to invite us to a “kegger” his fraternity was throwing.
If there’s anything I learned during my time at UF its that I hate frat parties. But according to B, “desperate times call for desperate measures.” We set off for Ft. Meyers.
The “kegger” was in the ‘Beaver Dungeon,’ the fraternity’s off-campus party house. As if that wasn’t sketchy enough, we pulled in to find a crumbling converted townhouse at the edge of a forest with a legion of cars scattered around the lawn. We stepped out of B’s little coupe and carefully picked our way across the lawn and up the gravel path to the porch, where Georgiaboy welcomed us into the ‘Beaver Dungeon.’
Once inside, B and I realized its not always the time nor place for Louboutins and little black dresses. Georgiaboy led us through the throng of flip-flop clad, frat-tank and Daisy-duke sporting masses to the kitchen and offered us Red-Solo cups filled with a substance otherwise known as Hunch Punch.
For those of you who never had the luxury of attending a traditional Florida frat-party, Hunch Punch is usually a mysterious concoction of $7 Costco vodka, various kinds of juice, and the sweetest, most sugary rum the frat boys can get their hands on. On some extreme occasions in the case of some of my past room-mates, its been known to contain a roofie or two.
We thanked Georgiaboy and relocated to the backyard, where we surreptitiously dumped the punch into the bushes. In traditional frat-party fashion, there were several tables set up for beer-pong and flip-cup. Off to one side, a couple guys had joined forces to lift one of the brothers for a keg stand.
One of the guys noticed B and I watching and waved us over. We shook our heads politely, but he walked over anyway, took our hands, and brought us to the congregation of keg-stand candidates. Despite my protests, he clamped my hands over the nozzle and instructed me to hold while the poor pledge was hoisted up over the keg. He began to chug. There was Bud Light spraying in my face, running all over my hands, splashing onto my shoes. I wondered how many disgusting people had put their mouths on this nozzle and I wanted to vomit. I turned my head to B, standing helplessly with a look of horror on her face. It was time to go.
Holding my arms out away from myself we went back inside and fought our way to the front door. There was some stupid looking thug outside guarding the entrance. He told us we couldn’t leave.
“Come again?” said B.
“The cops are circling, nobody can leave. If you get pulled over its on the frat.”
“We haven’t been drinking,” I said. He shook his head and told me he was under “strict orders” to make sure nobody leaves the house.
The fuck he was.
We went back inside to look for Georgiaboy. We found him passed out on a couch snoring. B said she had an idea. We moved back out to the backyard and discreetly disappeared into the line of foliage that surrounded the house. Crouching down in the bushes, we made our way around until we had a clear view of the front of the house. The thug guarding the door had been joined by three other guys. Rocco, B’s coupe, looked to be roughly 100 yards away.
“Remove the Loubi’s,” ordered B.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Take them off!”
I grudgingly complied and we prepared to make the dash. She counted to three, and we took off.
Thug #1 noticed us shooting across the lawn and began to shout at us. He and his friends took off after us and I began to panic. The distance between us and the car wasn’t closing fast enough.
Baggage extended one of her ultra-long arms and hit the unlock button; Rocco beeped twice.
Sweet hallelujah, we’d made it. B thrust the key in the ignition, floored the accelerator, and Rocco roared off just as the thugs of Theta Gamma Whatever slammed their hands on the windows. I realized I’d been holding my breath and released a slow exhalation.
That’s when Baggage let out a cry of alarm.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I dropped one of my shoes!” she exclaimed.
“Too bad, so sad,” I said.
“We need to go back!”
“They were Steve Madden. You need to relax.”
She threw me a dirty look and told me maybe I needed to re-evaluate the kinds of people I acceptted invitations from.
I suppose she’s right.
Due to popular demand after our last .GIF post, we’ve decided to bring you another animated-picture piece. To the reader who was disappointed in our last post because it listed real accomplished human beings rather than “club personality stereotypes,” we hope this one makes up for it. Kink and Baggage present the always-funny (albeit irritatingly overdone) list of people you meet in clubs.
1) Mr. VIP
2) Mr. VIP’s flavor-of-the-month
3) The Wannabe VIPs.
4) The Promoters. Always on the hunt.
5) The Bathroom Divas.
6) The Socialite
7) The Bottle Rat
8) The Bachelorette Gone Wild
9) The Angry Drunk
10) The Angry Drunken Break-Up
11) Mr. Thirsty
12) Mr. Sketch
13) Mr. Perfect
14) The PLUR Kids
15) These bitches
16) The Way-Too-Drunk Friend
17) The Clubbing Mom
19) Oh yeah, and the DJs.