4. Doormen given the power to turn people away based upon fickle, largely ridiculous criteria. (That scene in Knocked Up comes to mind.)
5. Expensive cover even when a no-name DJ is “performing.”
7. Hollywood-level fakeness: silicone DD boobs, caked-on makeup, hair extensions, spray-on tans, faux-designer accessories, Rolexes, fat stacks of (mainly) low denomination bills, colored contacts, dental veneers.
8. Nothing really happens: options are limited to douche-watching, screaming over obscenely loud music, stupefying yourself with alcohol, or making half-assed attempts at “dancing.”
12. MMA wannabes: threatening others or fighting over inconsequential things.13. Self-paparazzi: Divas in training constantly photographing themselves and their friend group. On-site attention whoring is a platform for more attention-seeking via social media.
16. Primal behavior is rewarded while meaningful communication is largely impossible. (A journey beyond sight and sound, directly into the hindbrain.)
18. Cocky bartenders so fed up with dealing with drunks that they’re scarcely able to treat anyone with dignity. (Had never thought of this angle.)
22. Bottle (lack of) service is a monumental rip-off: markup ranges from 400 to 1,000%. (Bottle service is the ultimate nightclub beta game.)
23. Women feel entitled to free drinks. Men dumb enough to buy women drinks all night usually leave the club empty-handed and with a near-emptied wallet.
26. Club-culture encourages women to wear as little as possible. Feminism encourages them to act outraged when men notice. (Badger lol’d.)
27. Small, inadequate restrooms and stalls so disgusting you wish what was seen could be unseen. (God only knows how many heroin deals went down in one of those johns.)
28. Men proudly hold bottles of Grey Goose in an attempt to attract parasitic women.
The whole thing is worth a read, but essentially boils down to:
- Capricious waitstaff
- Over-entitled women
- Guys posturing and blowing large amounts of money for no return
- A superficial, unenjoyable environment
I really don’t enjoy nightclubs, am usually bored to death inside, and generally avoid them unless it’s, say, a friend’s birthday or some special event that justifies my presence. (One time I escorted some exchange students I had met that night to a high-end club, and wrote off the cover and coat fee as random fun and introducing visitors to my country.)
Young people in cities feel some kind of collective pressure to hit the nightclub scene as a behavioral marker that they are making an effort to be social, and in particular I find women view “going out” clubbing as a sort of essential lifestyle element to their ouevre – as if to say “see? I’m out in the world trying to meet guys, it’s not my fault I’m single, I’m not a crazy cat lady shut-in!” I frequently overhear women complain they have trouble meeting men, to responses of “OH well you should COME OUT with us this weekend!” so that they can go participate in the hookup culture they say they hate. As for the guys, Dane Cook said it – they go where the girls are.
Clubs are standard game training grounds because although they are difficult to hack it in, there’s constant turnover of prospects and it’s basically low risk: normally the worst that can happen is a drunk chick yells at you (or in Roosh’s case in Baltimore, slugs you once in a lifetime of game). I never went the club-game route to polish my skills, the environment was a total mismatch to my personality and I had little interest in Mystery’s style of befriending groups of clubgoers in batches.
The only kind of club game that produces any results for me is akin to an out-of-body experience – I abandon all expectations of anything happening at all (including having conversations with the guys I arrived with) and adopt a completely detached demeanor, entirely devoid of even the slightest shade of supplication or trying to impress anybody. On occasion this merits me a conversation with an equally-bored and out of place female who is ripe to be isolated outside the establishment. Usually, though, it just gets me a $20 tab for cover and a Manhattan they made wrong – who the F puts an orange in a Manhattan? – and an early exit to preserve my sanity. A late-night blog perusal never felt so good.