I used to work security at a night club downtown called the Masquerade. A lot of things happened in the two years or so that I worked there. Some of them were funny, some were not. I remember some more clearly than I remember others, for various reasons, most of which involve alcohol or another, less liquid substance that makes you hungry. Hopefully committing these memories to print will stimulate the 'ol hat rack enough to recall more.
The first memory that came up when I started down this questionable path actually occurred before I worked there. There was a band playing at the club one night called the Dance Hall Crashers that got fairly popular during the ska craze in the mid/late 90's. The band featured two female vocalists of varying degrees of hotness. My buddy Dan D. and I arrived early for the show and were just kind of hanging around the back of Heaven (where the bands played – I'll explain the setup of the club some other time) talking and scouting the talent. I say that ironically, since neither Dan D. nor I had any game whatsoever. This will be a recurring theme throughout my life.
As Dan D. and I were talking, I noticed a particularly cute girl standing near the merchandise table. She was nice to look at, but what I noticed more were her shoes. I promise that is not as gay as it sounds. She was wearing purple Pumas with a green stripe. To this day, I would love to have shoes like that. At the time, Puma was my preferred brand and I had been looking for that color combo for a while (this was before you could jump on the internet and just order up whatever you wanted – now I feel old). So not only did I want to talk to this girl, I wanted to know where she got her shoes, too. I pointed my find out to Dan D. and asked his advice. "Dude, just go talk to her," was the best he could come up with. I don't know what else I was looking for. After several more minutes of astute and insightful commentary, Dan D. finally convinced me to "Just go over there", so go over there I did. And like a complete fucking retard stuck my hand out and said "Hi! I'm Dave and I like your shoes! Where did you get them?" That isn't exactly what I said, but from the look this young lady gave me, I might as well have said "Hi! I'm Nibbly the Peanut from planet Poop! I'd like to eat your hair!" What I did not know was that this chick was from California, where various pick up lines involving shoes had already come into and out of use - the old "nice shoes (wanna fuck?)" and it's many variations. We didn't get them here in the South until later on. She was nice enough to thank me without spitting on me or calling security, so I said "Um," and watched her facial expression soften into mild disdain, then perhaps pity. "I don't remember where they came from," she said, and then walked out of my life forever. Or not.
You see, what I also did not know (the things I did not know at that time in my life could have filled a large stadium – now they would only fill the seating and most of the infield) was that this girl was in fact Karina Denike, the several degrees hotter Dance Hall Crasher. I discovered this fact when she came out onto the stage with the rest of the Dance Hall Crashers and Dan D. elbowed me in the side and said "HEY! That's the GIRL you were HITTING on!" loud enough for the entire room to hear. Not really, but it sure seemed that way. It is very difficult to hang your head and watch a musical performance on an elevated stage at the same time. I managed, though.
Until next time, stay creepy