On Death and dying and Barbies

[WHAT HAVE YOU DONE BLOGGER? I CAN NO LONGER UPLOAD MY OWN PICS! For all of you others - there would have been a cool picture right here, but now there's not. It would have been awesome. Hmph]

One of our friends is a bit of a player. A young, single, intelligent and handsome foreigner in a country seemingly filled with women eager to hook up with such a catch. Or I guess I mean playah if we're being completely accurate. As we always are. Always. Completely accurate. You know me, I would never make insulting generalizations or permeate stereotypes. Nothing of the sort. Nope. Not me.

A Playah he is indeed. Surrounded by an interestingly varying cavalcade of adoring women.

But let's talk about how we - I and El Grande Vikingo also known as the man of my dreams who drives me to shoe stores on a regular basis - fit into the picture. We are not adoring women. We are far from adoring (and even more so from adorable) and although I do admit to being a woman that adoring side of me never really blossomed. Sometimes I'll pretend it's there and not complain about the Viking's weird habit of emptying his pockets of all the weird shit he likes to store daily in in them, right onto the dining room table, immediately upon entering the house. Our house, that is. But it's a shoddy pretense at its best.

We are not entirely women, nor are we adoring - we are simply the Playah's friends. And friends go to places with their friends. Isn't that even on one of the Love is...? posters? Surely.

So we decided for once to not go home after the restaurant bill has been settled, but continue. Move beyond that 'married thing' known as getting home, slipping into something more comfortable and talking about how weird it is that regardless of me very well knowing how badly certain legumes make me fart I'll always be able to find a dish with them in it and without realizing what I've done order it, without fail, followed by brushing our teeth in sickly unison, before turning to the welcoming bed and the next chapter of Gloria Naylor/ The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy/ Bulgakov/ Austen/ some smart shit to show that that Marie Claire by my bed is some sort of an aberration. Seriously.

We decided to prove to ourselves and to the gang of playahs we had dined with (there were three of them and one of them was the original playah's brother, but still) that a couple in their comfortable thirties can totally party the night away. Like, totally.

On Saturday night I and the faithful Hubs (who, I now know, would follow me to the ends of the earth and beyond) decided to take a trip to an alternate universe. To that place where skirts are short, hair is big, men with money are sleazy and old and need help with getting out of their fancy sports cars, orange tans abound, and bling means so much more than just '...oooh shiny....'.

So... The 80s?

No. A club in Sandton, Johannesburg, called Taboo. A club whose webpage tells me that I'm "welcome to the Reivention of Forbidden." I guess I would be elated if I knew what the hell 'reivention' meant and if whatever it was about to do to the Forbidden (a thing I quite like as it is) wouldn't make me all wary. Now, why would anyone want to fok with a very comfortable Forbidden, I ask you? Why? I'm not sure about you but for me screwing with the existing forbidden just brings up ideas of downright ghastly as being passed off as forbidden, and then where are we going to be as a society?

Well. At Taboo, I guess.

Where what the awesome Fug Girls of Go Fug Yourself call crotchtacular is the norm, if not the dress code (I'm pretty sure I only got in in my faded Levi's and leather jacket because of the Playah's female contacts. Apparently, all of a sudden, I was on a 'list'), where having a 'wardrobe malfunction' a la Janet Jackson regularly happens just with the removal of an overcoat, where there are no fans because they would pose a danger of making like Dorothy in the tornado to the sizable heads-on-sticks clientele (although, I think I would perhaps even pay to see that kind of display of wind power), where everyone keeps drinking red bull and vodka out of tall glasses instead of something that was meant to be consumed by humans for enjoyment and not to turn them into drunken duracell-bunnies, where there is no proper seating unless you 'book' one of the cordoned off sofas (Really! This display of wannabe snooty made me laugh so hard that I think I peed my faded levi's a little) where I saw no one sitting while we were there, where the concept of a 'song' has been completely discarded in favor of 'noise that you feel vibrate your breastplate in a way that makes you think it must have some interesting consequences for all those mainly plastic boobies constantly nearly spilling out of flimsy tops' (perhaps the vibration keeps that hard casing around the implant from forming is what I'm talking about. Patent Pending, mind you), and where I could recognize none other than tons of Malibu Barbies, Dolly Forever Barbies, Fab Girl Barbies, Ferrari Barbies, Miss Pearl Barbies, plenty of wannabe Barbies and, I kid you not, a large congregation of My Little Ponies.  

Oh, sorry. I meant a large congregation of girls who should have been playing with their My Little Ponies. Not hobbling around a club with no seating on heels much too steep in light of their still developing growth plates, drinking caffeine high in sugar with vodka, and making drunk-eyes (meant to be flirty, I think) to guys, if not three times, then at least twice their age.

Excepting the playah, of course. Who is young and dapper. Naturally. And likes to date real women. He told me so.

Needless to say we made a hasty retreat, preceded by quite a few loudly yelled (Nevermind, no one could hear shit anyhoo because of the horrible noise music and everyone was thus getting along famously. Grandpas out with their granddaughters, it felt like.) "J fokken H Zeus, did you just see that chick? Was that combined butt and chest cleavage?"

We bolted. Almost taking with us the in-house photographer with pleading eyes and a following of gals with a very skewed leg-boob ratio and eyes too smoky for their own good, nearly tripping over the low Ferrari parked directly outside the door, amidst inane chatter from different cliques of Barbies and their friends, and past the line of wannabe Barbies waiting to be let in.

We made like prisoners on the run. We sped away in our getaway car with tires screeching and smoke rising.

"I'm so glad I don't have to be single ever again," declared the Viking to me.

I take that as a suicide pact, and realize that if it wasn't for Taboo, we wouldn't be going together when it's time.

So... Thanks Taboo for making me want to kill myself?