Nightlife: Sex!

I still love you Aiden...You can see these fresh every week at or in the Thursday’s Currents.

No, I don’t think I’m going to see Sex and the City.  I thought it was Sex IN the City for the last five years.  Finding out that it is really “AND” and not “IN” sort of puts a damper on what I expected of the story.  It does answer the question of why there was never the reverse, the inevitable Abstinence Out In the Country.  I guess that isn’t as marketable as a bunch of women running around in thousand dollar outfits looking for love.

Sex And the City is pretty much everything I hate about the world.  There are four characters that represent the four different sort of women that exist:  Carrie (the average-everybody, money-obsessed, girl-next-door), Miranda (the strong-willed, independent nerd), Samantha (The 80’s left-over sexual dinosaur), and Charlotte (Red-state potential house mom).  And, of course, Carrie is in love with Big, a man that treated her like next week’s recycling deposit for years.  God forbid she falls in love with pour Aiden, a guy that can hold a job and a conversation. Before you say anything, I had a girlfriend at one time.  That mistake forced me to watch every episode of the series.  I’ve had root-canals more thought provoking.
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NightLife: Top Ten Things I’d Change.

You can read these at or in the Thursday’s currents.

By whose authority can I judge and critique our nightlife scene?  My bar tab last weekend was sixty-five dollars over the course of three hours. That’s my authority.  If I bought you a beer when I was drunk, you’re welcome.

Ten.  Bars would aim specifically for specific cliental.  This isn’t segregation and it isn’t a form of economic racism.  It is good business sense.  Bars are loosing money by not catering to a certain segment of the population, mostly older people.  I’m tired of hitting on twenty-one year olds, and I’m sick of fifty-five year olds hitting on me.  The idea of “Latino” or “Black” clubs disgust me.  But there aren’t many places for single professionals.  There are too many for trendy post-teens.  Continue reading

Nightlife: Hillarie Burton Edition

You can see the original of this article at or in the Thursday’s paper.

Thursday Night: I was late to the Grey Gardens Spring Fashion Show and fundraiser organized by my colleague Jess James. Tickets were $25 dollars a head. I got a free ticket by nefarious means. The irony of getting a free ticket to a fund raiser wasn’t lost on me. I’m a horrible person. The fashion show at Odessa is a yearly “must-do” and I felt like an ass for missing it. I over extend myself, promising fifty things but only delivering on half. I did manage to sneak my way in, later, after all the fashion was gone and the show was over. There were still tons of people in Odessa, many and multiple people garbed in ties and dresses and talking about, I’m sure, interesting subject matter. Then I fell in love. There was this girl talking to some friends of me. Why would someone like her be talking to friends like mine? My friends don’t speak in complete sentences. Some of them even exist without a cell-phone. Most times, when my friends talk, I end up text messaging someone more important. Who was this girl? It was sunshine beaming through storm clouds. A slight moment of hope.

“What are you about?” she asked me.

“I’m no big deal. What do you do?”

“I act,” she said.

“Do you like 30 Rock?” It’s the only television show I watch. That and Man v. Wild.

“Its my favorite!” she said. “Tracy Jordan is my celebrity crush!”

We talked, about television and Tina Fey and other cultural hot points. I suddenly had an epiphany. Like global warming, this whole dating thing could be possible. The girl walked off to get another drink and I leaned over to one of my homeboys.

“What’s that girl’s name?” I asked.

“That’s Hillarie Burton, you moron.”

“She famous?” Continue reading

Nightlife: Stop n’ Pop Stores

This week’s column is special.  The original column, appearing in today’s Currents, has been edited.  Some of the things I wrote in the column was not safe, and the Star-News could have been sued because of it.  However, I don’t give a fuck, so here is the column in all its glory.  The Star-News takes no responsiblity for this column on this site, my words, or what I’m saying.  And, in reality, what I’m saying really isn’t that bad.  Lighten up, guys.
I’m afraid that is it starting to wear me down.  You try it.  Go out two or three times a week and see if you are the same person.  I don’t even think my day has started until after eight pm.  And when I do leave the house, all the streetlights look dimmer.  And everyone walking to and fro at midnight look like zombies, that tittering step, that awkward head bob.  I question why they are even out the house so late, but then I notice that, yeah, I’m right there with them, aren’t I?
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Nightlife: Girls Gone Lame…

Here is one of my older columns. You can see them fresh at or in the Thursday issue of Currents.

I was hugging the walls of Olive or Twist and all around me were men. Hungry men. Curious men. They had gathered. The call had been sent out. They saw it on the news or they saw the bus or they received a text message. Girls Gone Wild had arrived in Wilmington. Was this a dream? Girls Gone Wild was probably the pinnacle of their adolescent hopes and wonderment, and now they were here! In their town! Some men go their whole lives without ever coming close to achieving a goal like that. And just like most dreams, most of those men in the crowd would leave unsatisfied and disappointed. A bouncer that was at least two hundred and fifty pounds of Planet Fitness-toned muscle stood with his arms crossed on the stair well. This stair well lead to the upper-floor. This upper floor was where all the Girls Gone Wild girls were located. The only way he was letting anyone past him was if you were part of the staff, were from Girls Gone Wild, or if you were a girl wanting to, you know, go up there and go wild. I lightly fantasized about running up to him and giving him an Indiana Jones uppercut and busting into the second floor yelling, “Freedom of the Press!” But I hadn’t hit a guy since grade school. And the guy I hit was two years younger than me.

“Hey, you want to go up there?” a guy next to me asked. I nodded.

“I know that bouncer! Give me a second and I’ll take you with me!”

The guy walked towards the bathroom, and it quickly occurred to me that this dude could be lying. Continue reading