How I Really Feel about Neptune Beach Club

When you’re a misanthrope who does not drink and has anxiety about new social situations, you should not volunteer to review nightlife because you’re not a person who ever has a good time, period. Your objectivity never existed in the first place. That is number one. It is the second thing I have come to know for sure in this life. The first is don’t go to the prom with your ex-boyfriend. Even a non-boyfriend ex-boyfriend. He’ll suck some bitch’s nipple in the limo.

So Scott and I go to Neptune Beach Club on Sunday afternoon, and once I realize there are actual people there I do not want to get out of the car. I promised some guy this column, though, so I soldier on. Thankfully there was no cover, and a couple of hulking bouncers let us in without issue.  They don’t even try to make jokes about the fact that my hair is long and straight in my license picture, but it isn’t anymore!  The bouncers take their job seriously, and that’s about the only nice thing I can say about the place.

But the crowd is old. And by “old” I mean they all seem to be in their 30s. Their clothes are unattractive. They dance in unrhythmic ways. The song playing is some 80’s pop-rock piece of garbage that might as well be Journey, without the hipster irony. A large woman writhes in a skin-tight polyester floral tube dress.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

Tiki bars. Blow-up palm trees. Oh look, the ocean!

The DJ plays a hip-hop song! Saved?

…He’s mixing it into “Paradise City.”

We go up to the bar and I try to talk to the bartenders to get the basic lowdown on the club. They’ve never heard of the magazine I’m writing for, and they’re cold and unresponsive. Should I talk to the clubgoers? No, no. 400 words isn’t that many. Get me the hell out of here.

400 words is that many.

I’m fucked.



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