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You’ve done it. I know you have. Leaning against the bar at a club, people
watching and noticing those who stand out for whatever reason—good or
bad—and coin a nickname for them. You don’t bother with what their
real name is. Who cares? You’ve made up a little identity for them and
that’s how they’ll be referred to for the rest of the night.
It’s fun. It’s harmless. And really, it’s inevitable, because
you come across the most interesting people nearly every night you venture out
to the bars on Queen.
There are two different categories of
nicknames—the ones you only see on one night, and then the recurring kind.
This month I am focusing on the recurring:
Pajama Boy:
As
the name suggests, this dude wears his pajamas to the club. White flannel
pajamas with little green squares on them. I see him at the Funhaus almost
every week. And he wears the same pajamas each time. This has been going on for
at least four months. He comes in normal clothes, goes into the corner, sheds
his outer layer of clothing like a snake sheds his skin, and emerges in his
bright, blinding white pajamas. Obviously it’s a gimmick. It’s a way
to get attention. Perhaps even a way to pick up girls. I see him circling
around a number of females throughout the club, myself included, with this odd
swagger. (As much as one can swagger in night attire.) I can just imagine the
pick-up line. “I’m ready for bed baby. What about you?” Ick.
Well, after seeing him look so cocky in his jammies for so many weeks my
girlfriend and I decided to test him out. We approached him at the same time
and started up a little conversation. We started off right away with a
reference to his outfit. He froze like a dear in the headlights. My girlfriend
put his arm around him, caressing his flannel. I began fiddling with the
buttons on his shirt. He could barely string a sentence together. He was
stammering like a little schoolboy. It was quite the sight to see that this
once swaggering mass of flannel virtually melt into a pool of drool. The poor
little lamb. In my opinion, if you have the audacity to wear your white
flannels to a club, have the balls to carry it off with some dignity.
The Kung-Fu Fighter:
A goth bar isn’t complete without
a dance floor full of people enjoying some of the best and most original music
ever created. Nary a night at the bar goes by when I’m not seen thrashing
to some PWEI. But along with the one-of-a-kind music comes the one-of-a-kind
dancers. And some of them are not easy to dance next to. You know the ones
I’m talking about. They quickly create a three-foot radius around
themselves because their limbs are flying everywhere. Now this isn’t
necessarily a bad thing. It’s good to enjoy the music. But you get some
real live ones out there. For instance, the Kung-Fu Fighter. This guy is
mesmerizing. You can’t look away. It looks like he is doing a combination
of Karate moves and Tai Chi at some crazy-ass speed. I find this both strange
yet fascinating. However, if you must watch, do it from a safe distance. His
kung-fu hand knocked me on the back of the head at the Reverb one night. But
most importantly, protect your beer. You may find it karate-chopped across the
dance floor.
The Frat Boy:
These guys are hilarious. Now
there is not one specific person I am thinking of in this category. I see a
number of them enter the dark recesses of Velvet and Savage on the odd night.
You know the type—tight white shirt tucked into khaki pants, looking ever
so prim and proper. These guys are ogling the beautiful dark girls that inhabit
the scene. Ordinarily they’re the type that go to G-Spot on Richmond
Street, hair slicked back, grinding on the dance floor to some terrible music.
But they’ve taken a break from their normal habitat to come here. And they
stand out like Satan at Sunday mass. They immediately think Goth Girl = Kinky
Sex. And they do one of two things: they either have the balls to approach you
with some lame pick-up line, or they are too intimidated to approach you.
Instead, they stare at a safe distance, a strand of drool forming at the corner
of their mouth. This is worth a column all its own. Look out for it next month.
Update:
Last month’s column focused on the theft of my
purse. And I just wanted to update you with a positive piece of news. While at
a club last week, the car key fell out of the coat pocket of my dear man, Dr.
Sinister. Because we drive a car that’s rather unique, whoever found the
key could easily have driven off with our precious vehicle. Instead, our key
was handed over to the DJ booth. Thank you to the kind soul who returned it.
It’s nice to know there are such wonderful people in our community. I owe
you a drink.
posted April 12th 2004 |
Darq Angel has been living in
Toronto for 15 years. An avid reader, writer, club-goer, and music lover, she
has been a lurker in Toronto's gothic scene, floating around quietly, casting
her dark shadow over various clubs and events in the city. 
