One night in Korea I found myself at the King Club. While I would be hesitant to subscribe any particular club to a particular crowd or genre of music, it seemed to fit the R&B/Hip-Hop bill... for most of the night. It was on occasion that I would start my evening there with friends. As the atmosphere lent itself to the legitimate club-outing. They had tables, waitresses, and a dance-floor. Now it was often that other places had the very same, but the manner of arrangement was more likened to a bar. So people were drawn to it, and liked it. I wasn't one to argue, as throughout the night it was not uncommon to leave and continue it any one of the other worn-down establishments.
The beer would come to you, via waitress, opened. I swore the beer was substandard stock, weaker alcohol percentage, or that the business took it upon themselves to water down the product. The refreshment always came to my lips with a feeling that it was flat and perhaps watered down. I took to drinking whiskey and water, admittance to the fact that the drink would already be over-iced or lacking in stiffness. But it served its purpose none-the-less on more than one occasion bringing to me the welcome womb of drunkenness. If it hadn't I could easily run up the hill, past the drinky-girls, to grab a kettle. Which was soju mixed with a Kool-Aid of sorts thrown into a 1 Liter bottle with the top sawed off. Plastic cups adjoined the delivery of the makeshift pitcher, making it the perfect present coming in around 6000 WON (~4 USD).
But the point of the story, was that one night I was dancing on the overcrowded dance floor of the King Club. Prodigy playing, informing me to "Smack my bitch up." This slight reprieve into the world of techno pleased me. I danced. I danced hard. A black girl next to me, my momentary muse, danced well and hard near me. It was then, when the floor reached maximum capacity, preventing me from performing my flailing (I'm prone to flailing), she turned to me and yelled that I should in fact not stop, to keep swinging.
I gladly accepted her comment, and relished in the temporary alliance we formed at that moment on the dance floor, pushing all those around us out away from us further. It made my evening and my book of best things said to me on the dance floor.
The beer would come to you, via waitress, opened. I swore the beer was substandard stock, weaker alcohol percentage, or that the business took it upon themselves to water down the product. The refreshment always came to my lips with a feeling that it was flat and perhaps watered down. I took to drinking whiskey and water, admittance to the fact that the drink would already be over-iced or lacking in stiffness. But it served its purpose none-the-less on more than one occasion bringing to me the welcome womb of drunkenness. If it hadn't I could easily run up the hill, past the drinky-girls, to grab a kettle. Which was soju mixed with a Kool-Aid of sorts thrown into a 1 Liter bottle with the top sawed off. Plastic cups adjoined the delivery of the makeshift pitcher, making it the perfect present coming in around 6000 WON (~4 USD).
But the point of the story, was that one night I was dancing on the overcrowded dance floor of the King Club. Prodigy playing, informing me to "Smack my bitch up." This slight reprieve into the world of techno pleased me. I danced. I danced hard. A black girl next to me, my momentary muse, danced well and hard near me. It was then, when the floor reached maximum capacity, preventing me from performing my flailing (I'm prone to flailing), she turned to me and yelled that I should in fact not stop, to keep swinging.
I gladly accepted her comment, and relished in the temporary alliance we formed at that moment on the dance floor, pushing all those around us out away from us further. It made my evening and my book of best things said to me on the dance floor.