I Am Roseberry: CRK // The Awkwardness Of Clubbing.

So. Hi.

Friday night, I ended up going to a bar called "Lumskebuksen".

There really is no way to translate this into English. "Lumsk" translates into "insidous". "Buksen" translates into "pants". So I went to a bar called "The Insidious Pants".

You might ask me how I ended up in a place like that. And how it was. And if it really is as sleazy and suspicious as it sounds.

I can assure you going to Lumskebuksen was the best, and most entertaining part of my night. And that, if given the choice, I would gladly choose Lumskebuksen over where we had actually set out to go.

Arctic Monkeys Dancing Shoes

Before going to Lumskebuksen, we, a group of friends from Aurehøj and I, had planned to go to the Meatpacking District of Copenhagen, "Kødbyen", for an event called "Dance For Africa", where a bunch of the clubs were having famous DJ's playing, for free, to promote the cause supporting Africa's famine. We were really hyped about it, and after much ado (fighting our way through the less inviting part of Dybbølsbro station, avoiding the eyes and near-drooling mouthes of gross old men, walking through more interesting, dark-alleyed parts of Vesterbro, and finally avoiding the hooker standing on the street-corner by Kødbyen) we eventually made it to the club.

Let's just say that we left quickly...

I know that clubs are supposed to be packed to the nearly suffocating madness of a human sardine-can, and that dry-humping random strangers while side-stepping your way to the bathroom is what qualifies as an almost agreeable break from the mindless chit-chatting, which has morphed into a shouting contest, due to the pumping bass and unrecognizable dance-tunes, and that after you finally get to the dancefloor where people are surrounding the DJ, you realize that you can't even wiggle your ears without knocking over someone's drink, and that dancing has been reduced to awkwardly shifting your weight from one foot to the other, and wriggling in your too-short dress, until you finally discover the sense to try and fight your way out, and the dry-humping and drink-splashing and foot-trampling of innocent strangers begins anew, as you awkwardly fight your way to the door, where you discover that not only are you drenched in sweat, and wearing far to little clothing for anything but the human sauna you have just exited, you are also the only non-smoker for forty miles, you have dropped all your change, your skirt is crawling up towards your bellybutton and your shirt has chosen the exact opposite route, while your underwear is bundled up in a strange tangle some unmentionable place, and your mascara has chosen to have a heated love-affair with the sweat, that, incidentally, is dripping off your face in a fashion that could remind your of the Niagara Falls.

I'm not saying that clubbing isn't fun. When done right, it is! I love dancing and partying with my friends. It's just that, in clubs, it's not like you always get to actually do these things!

There's always a problem with clubs. First of all, there is the coat and jacket-problem... Oh, and the "Now where the hell is she?"-problem. And let's not forget the "I'm sorry, your name was...?"-problem.

T H E C O A T A N D J A C K E T - P R O B L E M

Let's say you finally get in to the club. It's a Friday night, you're gonna be out all night, and have to make it home at some should-be-unconcious hour. What do you do? You bundle up, of course. If you, like me, live in a near-arctic climate (at least it feels that way when you're unsuccesfully trying to hale a cab in your minidress and high-heeled shoes at 4 in the morning), at least some sort of jacket or sweater is a very good idea.

So when you get to the club, you have two options:

A) Leave your coat etc. in the checkroom, dance around in a slightly less sweaty fashion, and try to avoid the frequent dives outside into the ice-cold air, constantly fearing that your hoo-hoo will freeze off, if not baked in the Sahara Desert for at least 33 days.

B) Stubbornly keep your coat etc. on while in the club, and dance awkwardly in your, hm, let's say leatherjacket, while feeling the fabric sticking to your skin, which is slowly turning into a humid, sticky layer of slippery sweat, and you awkwardly club people in the head, as you try to fan yourself for air. Dive as frequently as possible into the cold air outside, and spend your time avoiding cigarette-buds and flying drinks and dark alleys and whatever comes with standing outside the club.

OBS: Note that whenever you have left your clothing etc. in the checkroom, you will, by some ironic twist of fortune, have to go outside every 5 minutes, for half hours at a time, and since you have incidentally payed for your own growing misery, you will be too stubborn to get your coat every time. And if you have left your coat on in the club, you will be trapped inside the sweltering heat, wondering whether the inside of your oh-so-fash leather jacket will boil you to death.

T H E " N O W W H E R E T H E H E L L I S S H E " - P R O B L E M

Somehow, when I go to clubs, or parties, or dinners, or afternoon swimming classes, or chess matches, or any other big, social gathering for that matter, I always manage to lose my girlfriends to the throngs of people.

The sentence "I will never leave your side tonight!" could easily induce the following exchange the next day.

Friend: "Hey, where did you run off to last night?"

Me: "Oh, nowhere... I was raped in the ally by a scotsman on a horse, I took cocain from the bare butt of your little brother, and I spent the night in another country. What about you?"

I just don't get it. I always end up linking arms whith my friend, desperately trying to hold on to her for the night, and thinking that this simple measure will be enough. We could be having a conversation or ~~dancing~~ awkwardly wriggling together, when I discover that I need God knows what from my bag, and that I have to let go of her arm. As I continue talking to her while searching for this apparently inevitable thing, I'll turn around, to comment on something to my friend, or laugh at my own clumsiness, I will find that I am suddenly standing friend-less and completely alone on the dancefloor, not counting the couple in front of me, who look like two lions trying to devour eachother.

It always seem that, no matter what extent I go to, to stay with my friends, I always end up losing them after and hour max, and spending the rest of the night avoiding Gunnar from I Don't Care-ville, some douchebag with greasy hair, sleazy lines, and an annoying tendency to grab my ass every five minutes (No offense. I hear that I Don't Care-ville is a great place to live, situated right in the state of Go Fuck Yourself).

T H E " I ' M S O R R Y , Y O U R N A M E W A S . . . ? " - P R O B L E M

Ooh. This is one of my favorites. A classic, that, nomatter how many times I have met the person, or that person has met me, always occurs in the course of the evening, in one way of the other. The thing is, I have an issue with names. And there's always one poor soul, whose name I can never remember. I like to think of myself as a human goldfish - I have the memory span for chit-chatting of about 3 seconds.

The most popular situation in the joke that is my life, goes as follows:

Caroline joins group of conversing people. Caroline laughs and converses. The people whom Caroline knows leave the conversation. Caroline is left talking to a complete stranger, who seems nice enough, so she stays. Caroline introduces herself, and inexplicably, forgets to listen to the name of the person standing next to her. Caroline goes an entire conversation, or sometimes even an entire evening, talking to this person, having too good a time, and being too embarrassed to ask the name of the person again. Caroline will get off with calling the person you, sweetie, mate, or other lame names. The next day, Caroline will desperately try to claw for the name of this person, and will realize, that not only has she completely blocked out the name of the person, she has also forgotten how the person looks, and now has no way of ever repeating the conversation with said person. That is, until said person says hello to Caroline in the hallway. Caroline doesn't recognize the person, but says hey anyway, and abides by the rule that it is better to be cool than dumb, and will therefore most probably learn the name of the person 6 months after the conversation occured.

It's also awkward when it's the other person, who forgets my name. That happens a lot too. But, inexplicably, it's much less awkward if you both agree that you have forgotten eachother's names, and therefore can ask the same favor of eachother - which is repeating your names again, and therefore possibly having a chance of actually remembering the names of eachother. At least for the next 3 seconds.

So yes. There are a lot of problems with clubbing and partying. So why do we do it?

Oh right... we're young and stupid, and we want to try new things, feel the rush, tap the unending resource that is our life. But it's more than that, too.

It's feeling like you can let loose for an evening. It's knowing the normality of running to the grubby toilet to pee every five minutes. It's awkwardly wriggling in one spot instead of dancing, and sweating like a pig for doing it, but somehow enjoying in anyway. It's clumsily groping the ass of a stranger, as you trip over the curb outside the club, and starting yet another awkward conversation with some unknown person, who just might be your next best friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, babysitter, dogwalker, pizza-delivery guy, you name it. It's knowing that for the night, nothing is certain.

Except that it just might get awkward. But wonderfully so.

But let me just say this: While clubbing is fun, and I still enjoy doing it, even with all the awkward moments that come along with it... after going to Kødbyen and attempting to go to the club, it was nice to settle down in Lumskebuksen, have a cold beer, sit in the booths and talk loudly with my friends, and listen to hits rolling off the juke-box by the bar.