The Wet Spot: Dance club etiquette - a growing concern

​Hi, Minneapolis club kids? It's me Patrick. We need to talk.

Here's the thing - I used to be a pretty serious club kid myself a few years back. I always had a faded stamp on my hand from the weekend, drank everything mixed with Red Bull and owned a ton of sleeveless shirts (to show off the guns, obviously).

But more importantly, I could dance my ass off.

Thats why last Friday night, when I went down to the VIP Room at First Avenue with my friend Tony Danza (you may remember him from a little incident that happened a few weeks ago) I assumed that I would be able to fit right back in. How wrong I was.

It all started because Tony D. wanted to go meet up with some girls he knew from college, and wanted me to come along so that he wasn't the only guy. Since he already knew these girls (and clearly knew which one he was trying to take home), I assumed that all I had to do was drink a few Coors Lights (the official beer of "Who's the Boss?") and make small talk with all of the ones he wasn't interested in.

We got to the club and made our way to the dance floor. That's when things went downhill.

The serial humper

Tony D. quickly disappeared into the crowd of bodies with the girl he was digging on, leaving me to stand on the outskirts and stare at people in totally non-creepy way.

(Author's note: And by "non-creepy," I mean "sort of creepy.")

(Author's note, part two: Fine - way creepy.)

The first person who caught my eye was a young guy standing in front of the DJ booth in a t-shirt and Adidas running pants. Hang on, let me repeat that last part for effect:


He appeared to be alone (always a ballsy move when it comes to clubbin'), but he was stumbling around drunk, giving him the courage of 10 men (or one Pat Morita. RIP, Miyagi-san). He jumped into a group of three girls dancing and started doing his best Ravishing Rick Rude impression against all three of them. Despite his drunkenness, things seemed to be working just fine for athletic friend, as he smashed his uncomfortably prominent erection into each of the three girls numerous times. While I personally felt violated, I couldn't believe that not one, but two of the girls were totally receptive to his advances, while the other one pulled out a digital camera and started snapping pictures of the debauchery.

All three girls kept exchanging wide-eyed glances at each other, but no one made an attempt to stop my man because, "on ladies night, anything goes!"

Confused and grossed out, I decided to take a walk and see how T. Danza was holding up.

The porno prop-chicks

Before I could track down Tony, the staff started throwing all sorts of props onto the dance floor. Weird stuff like fake beards, inflatable hammers and pirate hats. I have no clue what theme they were going for, but I'm going to guess it had something to do with Super Mario.

Anyways, for some reason these corny props set a bunch of the girls in the club off, and suddenly I was watching a little game I like to call, "see who can make the most sexually explicit scene using an inflatable hammer."

(Author's note: Guess who wins? Horny dudes.)

Seriously though, all dancing stopped. For whatever reason, the props became way more important than anything else happening on the dance floor, meaning that no one was making a love connection, and no one was dancing. Back in my day, we didn't need any props but sleeveless shirts (I don't think you realize how hot I look in those).

I was starting to feel like I might not fit in as a part of the club scene anymore, but still I pressed on.

The failed make-out attempt

After scouring the club for a few more minutes, I finally saw Tony dancing with the girl of his choosing over in the corner. It looked like things were going well, and their faces were about three inches apart.

I assumed that I was about to watch a hot dance floor makeout session (where dreams come true), so I turned my back to give them some privacy (kidding!).

I could see Danza leaning in for the kill, and just a split second before, I realized that it wasn't going to happen.

Here's a tip for drunk club guys everywhere: if she's leaning back while you're dry-humping her, she doesn't want to kiss you. Unfortunately, I didn't have the chance to tell Tony this beforehand, so I had to watch in slow motion as he got murdered when the girl pulled away, walked away, and then went and danced with another dude (I found out later that they had hooked up once before and he never called her back, but that's beside the point).

As our night came to a close, I had to feel bad for my man Danza, but I felt even worse for the club kids of our fair city, who have apparently forgotten what club night is all about.

Except for the dude in the athletic pants, that is. To you, namelessly drunk  kid--I salute you.