Last night, I ventured from The Sanctuary to partake in the 'Shanghai nightlife'. This is not something I do in Shanghistan since I do not enjoy passively sucking down the equivalent of 2 boxes of Marlboros, looking around a room and wondering who isn't a hooker (either by the hour or BIBHooks i.e. Buy-in-Bulk-Hookers a.k.a. mistresses), gazing at all manner of male and female skanks, or watching too many machismo wankers as they struggle through life with small-shlong syndrome.
But, Armin Van Buuren was gracing Shanghistan with his presence. It had to be done. I had to give Shangistan the benefit of doubt and hope it would be a decent event, or that Scooterboy and I would at least have a good prance no matter what else happened.
Alas, Shanghistan rarely fails to disappoint. The Boy and I waded into the crowd which was a mass of shoulder-to-shoulder sweaty slime pretty much as soon as we entered the premises. We proceeded to look for the dance floor, repeatedly bumping into long couches and tables among the crowd, even as we moved closer to what we assumed to be the dance floor. It gradually dawned upon us that we were having difficulty finding the point where the couches and tables ended and the dance floor began, because the dance floor was about half the size of my living room (which is by no means expansive).
I was aghast at the assholism and dumbfuckedness in the decision making process in selecting M2 for the event. I imagine the dealings went something to this effect:
Promoter: M2 would be the perfect venue for the gig.
AVB rep: erm... looks rather small and what's with all these couches and tables all over the place?
Promoter: oh no no, it's perfect coz M2 is giving me a huge cut to push their club (Alternatively, "I have a stake in the club" or "It's my cousin's/uncle's/brother's/sister's club and I'm a sycophantic asshole").
AVB rep: No go. Too small.
Promoter: Ok I give you a cut.
AVB rep: I see. It's perfect!
There was no room whatsoever to dance. All the crowd on the 'dance floor' could manage was a vague bend-knees-sporadically-and-jiggle-up-and-down-a-little movement. Crowds away from the dance floor could manage a slightly more vigorous jiggle. Scooterboy and I managed to find a small spot near an exit on the second level (also stuffed to the rafters with couches and tables) where we could manage an occasional prance, even if we had to constantly move around the crowds trying to get past us. We gave up pretty quickly.
It was such a damn shame because the music was sensational. I imagined how different things could have been.
It could have been a night of euphoric dancing but instead, it was a usual night of abysmal crowd watching in Shanghistan. But I guess that is part of the problem over here. So many in the crowd were there just to be seen rather than to actually dance to Van Buuren's music, hence the culture of couches and tables instead of dance floors, the fat old cigar-brandishing men with by-the-hour/BIBHooks hanging off their arms, and the inordinate number of chicks in stab-through-eyeballs-and-kill-you stilettos (what kind of ho shows up to a dance party in stilettos??! Oh hang on... I guess the kind of ho who's trying to land a john).