I went to “Party Like It’s 1999” at the Bell House, a Brooklyn nightclub. It’s true that I don’t go clubbing often (or EVER, for that matter, what with me being sober and not really into dancing or dance music) but I LOVE the 1990s and ’90s alt/rock music. So I took myself a disco nap, showered, dressed in black (because it’s slimming, and also, it covers a lot of bases…it’s goth, it’s punk, it’s sexy) I took myself to the bell house. Now, my driver’s license (which the guy at the door, who was younger than me only gave a perfunctory glance) says I’m 38, and with me was my sister (who is 33 and was wearing jeans, a white tank top, and a flannel button down) and we went because we remember the ’90s, we like the music of that era.
And I had this crazy idea that there would be other people there who could remember the ’90s. That’s where I went wrong, and when I was putting on the black jeans I’ve owned since sometime in the ’90s, the black floaty tank top that shows off the top of my boobs, and the little shrug that hides my upper arm fat, I had no idea how wrong I was. See, many of the people there last night weren’t born until the ’90s. That’s right, the young fucking whippersnappers (whippersnappers as in goddamn it if I had a whip, I’d snap it at those lil bastards). So there I was, sweating off a full face of Revlon and singing along to You Oughta Know, when some young dude barreled right into my ass, almost knocked me off balance, all to get to the bar…he barreled into my ass WHILE I WAS SINGING!!!!!!! He could have said “Excuse me”. He could have not barreled into me. And it wasn’t just him. Apparently the younger generation has a problem with the phrase “excuse me”…they’d rather knock someone over. My sister and I, as we tried to twerk to the late Notorious B.I.G.’s Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems, almost got taken down by three tiny Asian girls towering on platform heels (don’t they know it’s rude to run crotch-first into someone else’s twerking behind?)
But the saddest part of all was the music. You’d think at a “’90s” event, they’d play the great ’90s music. And no Nirvana, no Hole, no Apocalyptica, no The Rasmus, no Rammstein. One song by Alanis (the one everybody knows all the words to), a couple of No Doubt songs, some U2, and the rest of it was all that “two turntables and a microphone” crud, and really, how many hours of THAT can I endure? I’d much rather they play Lindemann’s greatest hits and we get a mosh pit going. Now THAT’s a party.