The Marley Warning

I left this file on my desktop last night around 4:30 AM, named "The Marley Warning, Post me in the morning if I don't suck."

Well, it isn't very good writing. . . but what the heck, here it is anyway:

It's really two things. The first is a rant about clubs, and feeling comfortable in them. The second is the Marley Warning itself, which is based on a specific example but applies in general.

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Ok, so the following is about clubs. I realize that my readership is probably divided into three categories.

1) People who frequent and enjoy clubs, and don't really connect with me as a writer or citizen of reality.

2) People who think they are too mature to find clubs interesting, and are proud to point out that they have never set foot in one except under duress. Several years ago I would have claimed that I was such a person, and would stay such a person. I would have been wrong.

3) People who, like me, kindof wish they enjoyed the club scene, but usually wind up going along with friends, dancing for a while, then leaning against a wall or sitting in a corner watching those friends cavort, laugh and drink, and feeling more alienated than ever.

To all you Category 3s out there: you are not alone. I know it feels that way, but there are lots of other people like you. I should know, I'm one of them. When I go to a club, I can't help but feel like everybody else has gotten some mysterious memo that explains why the damn things are awesome and fun, and I'm left trying to deduce the same information from my smoke-filled and usually brightly-colored but dimly-lit surroundings, and usually draw the conclusion that the reason is too well hidden for my simple mind to discover. [sarcasm weight=heavy]My suspicion is that they hide the answer inside the shots of Rumpleminz and Vodka, but I'm always driving, so I've never gotten to test that theory[/sarcasm].

It just makes me feel more out-of-the-loop than ever. And heaven help me if I do something I regret later (like dance badly, insult a friend, or make a move on someone else's girl), because I'll be kicking myself for it long after all of the people I was with have completely forgotten the entire evening in a haze of Jagermeister and Coors Light.

And speaking of other people's girls. . .Kim: You're a great and fantastically lavicious dancer, and if you were single, even though you are at least 10 years older than me, I'd probably have danced with you for much longer. But your husband John seems like a really cool guy, and you should probably show a little more consideration for him than dragging a random young male into your circle of friends and dancing nasty with him just because you've had a few drinks and you want to dance.

Don't get me wrong. I love a good dance session as well as the next guy, especially a hot one, but I try and keep the feelings of others in mind, and I got the impression that John felt, well, ignored (probably because you were ignoring him, and dancing with me). Relationships are built on trust and mutual respect, and it's hard to respect someone who you suspect might not care for you as much as they care for random passer-by. . .y'know what I mean? If you need a refresher in relational-ethics and respect from an earlier time, you might check out that roadside scene from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. It's more insightful than you probably realized when you saw it as a teenager in the theatres (I was 3 years old).

Not that I expect this message to ever reach to people to whom it was written, but perhaps it will still help one of the myriad people for whom it could have been written. Call it a Marley Warning for your love life: Don't be as much of a dumbass as I was.