By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
Over at Splash, the signs aren't neon, but they do clearly say "Beware of pickpockets." Yeah, the go-go boys! One of them recently made a point of getting behind me to do some supposedly hilarious erotic dance, and as he did so I felt his hand go so far into my right pocket it almost pinched my low hangers. Fortunately there was nothing in there to takebut next time there'll be a rat trap with a piece of head cheese.
My pockets are empty after spending over $2,500 to order custom-made shoes that took six months to make and didn't fit, and I want to thank everyone who lent support and advice after my column that griped about that situation. The funny thing is, I recently wandered into Kmart and found two pairs of $7.50 bedroom slippers that fit better than the custom-made shit! So bless you, Kmart! I will insanely trudge through blizzards in slippers while making boudoirwear chic if it kills me. (Update: Still hoping for actual shoes, I contacted Nike about their Air Native N7 model, made for big-footed Native Americans. These babies are only offered in tribal wellness centers, but I thought I might be able to cajole a pair out of the publicist if I sounded desperate enough. Alas, the creature never followed up. Maybe she found out I'm not really Native American?)
But let me take off my slippers and leave you with a gift: my annual holiday guide to spotting messy people in nightclubs! See, in my long life spent at boozy boîtes, I've noticed that there's a certain type of person that hangs out there: drug addicts! Oh, not just drug addicts, mind you. Let me not generalize. There are some alcoholics, too! And there are even more people who are on both drugs and alcohol.
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And how do you spot these sweaty, self-medicated dingbats? Well, without fail, they always: Are either manic or comatose, but never anything in between. Point out other drug addicts in the crowd and endlessly tsk-tsk about how sad they are. Are wildly enthusiastic and full of ideas about things you can do together, but when you follow up the next day, act like you're from outer space. Are rabid sexaholics who will hit on their own grandmother's corpse at 3 a.m. Make up dramatic reasons they need to borrow money ("A meteor hit my home town. . . ."). Attach themselves to whoever's got drugs or is willing to spend a few bucks to get some. Interrupt your conversation to scream unfunny things in your face. Lose track of time, though they somehow know exactly when the open bar ends. Spend the whole night fidgeting and texting other messes. Can sit next to me any time!
But wait! Put down that bong! As the strike rages on, it's a good time to soberly think of some classic movie lines that might have come to pass if it weren't for professional writers. One satirical YouTube post came up with "Whatever, Scarlett," among other listless gems, but let me add these verbal turkey trots: "We'll always have Pittsburgh"; "Nobody is dismissive to Baby"; "Encore, Sam"; "Put your seatbelts on really tight, everybody"; "E.T., text home"; and of course the immortal "I'm the king of the front part of this boat!"