I used to read Word Up magazine, Salt N’ Peppa & Heavy D up in the limousine… As the voice of the late Notorious B.I.G floated throughout the pulsating room, whose thick velvet drapes have seen more interesting things in under two years than many of those entering those doors will see in a lifetime, I couldn’t help but smile.
It’s a rare night indeed if Parker’s MacBook Pro doesn’t find its way to this classic song… and it’s always my bass-intensive signal that it’s about time to put the drink down and get the hell out. But of course, I stay… and watch in amazement as many of those bleach blondes & token light-blue striped, un-tucked buttondowns in attendance only know this song, that was likely released when they were pre-teens, because they have heard it here, amidst the smoke and lights and core-shaking bass. Amidst a world perfectly and specifically manufactured for us.
And this is typically the point in the evening when I realize where I am, and who I have become. A sell out.
Many years ago, I was called the same. On a college campus, joining a left-wing group of satirical-writing individuals in their crusade… I sat in the haze and in the lights back then, just as I was now, taking tequila shots while wearing the uniform. Back then it was thrift-store t-shirts and punk attire that were the antithesis of what my private-preppy school’s MO so emphatically was. These days it was high heels, dark eyeliner, tan legs and, of course, my gold clutch purse. The antithesis of who I really am. But the drug… the drug will get you every time.
And instead of the Crack Music Kanye so geniusly pontificated, this is a crack lifestyle. A crack state-of-being. A theoretical drug I have tried to wean myself off of this year… I tried to accept that as I continue to climb the corporate ladder, I will conversely continue to step down from the list of people you expect to see out until 2am every time, and even sooner my body will no longer be able to handle these kinds of weekends preceding and following 60 hour work weeks.
Yet this weekend, as I sat perched in observation, sipping my vodka tonic with a lemon, not a lime, I realized I had taken another hit of the drug. And my dealer, Mr. Giese, sat nearby, likely checking his bank account’s growing sum via iPhone throughout the evening.
As I glanced over, I had to mentally applaud. He has found a way to strategically manufacture a business filled with smooches on the cheek, name-dropping, bill-slipping and effervescent tonic bubbles that go on for almost as long as my hangover. A hell-centric heaven of sorts where sex in a bathroom is a little more acceptable, where connections to your drug of choice are a little more easily accessible, where local celebrities come to feed their egos. ‘Tis a crack lifestyle, my friends. A crack state-of-being.
Yet over time, as more and more get addicted and capacity remains the same, as the matches get cheaper and the drinks slightly weaker, as the guy:girl ratio rule continues to be one of the smarter myths the doormen perpetuate, there is a method to the madness, and I can’t help but respect that.
And as Biggie & Parker let us all know every weekend around 1:40am, it really is all a dream, just not our own... One created for us. One we pay for. One we love. One we crave. One we are retarded for not thinking of first.
See you next weekend, Mr. Giese. And happy early birthday. I’ll be the one in pink.