An outsider's guide to Rome

Last night Diana, Arnaldo, Linda, and Stephanie finally managed to drag me “out.” Let me elaborate on “out.” We went to a club called Supperclub.

It was ok.

Actually, I shall dispense with niceties: It was shit.

Sorry mommy.

Going to a club with me is a particularly arduous task. I shall walk you through the requirements necessary to see Adrianna boogie:

1. The people, if the club is a recommended one, have to be A Particular Type
1. The people who recommended us this club were, well, not my type. They are in the program, and they might be fine, fun girls, but they’re not my style. Nothing against the people, I’m just being entirely honest. We’ll most likely go through the program without finding out if the other has a pet or if they prefer boxers or brief.
2. These girls are they type where going to a club is like a conquest. Their sole goal is to see how many guys they can make out with. Each guy is like a souvenir, and they want to go back to the states with a shirt that says something to the effect “I made out with 33 Italian guys in Rome…How about you?” Which is ok. Fine. I was in Spain last summer, where lord knows I already got used to this, since if Spain can do one thing well, it’s the discotecas. And even though I am the most unapproachable person in the entire world, there were those unfortunate souls desperate enough to approach me.

Let’s hold a moment of silence for these people now.

___________

2. I have to be in a certain mood. I have to be in a mood where I don’t really want to go out, where my expectations are low, but I am in a sufficiently perky mood to have the feeling in the back of my mind that if the ambience is good enough, then I might POSSIBLY have a lot of fun.
3. I have to have a certain sort of relationship with the people I go with. Close enough that they’ll still remain friends with me after the party’s over.

So requirements 2 and 3 were fulfilled. 2 out of 3. Pretty good chance of having an O.K. time, right?

WRONG!

The music was absolutely terrible. Here Kris Capello might want to cover his eyes and pretend like he doesn’t know me, but I always though the goal of a DJ was to seamlessly fuse together different styles of music where people will get enough of one song to be happy, and where they will be happy for the change as well because something different is coming on.

At Supperclub, there was about 15 minutes straight of reggaetone. I was introduced to this last summer with Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina” which, after about 25 hours total of listening to it over the course of going to various discotecas, grew on me. I never really liked it, but it was a strong enough presence to have made it onto my itunes list.

However, all reggaetone songs are the same. Face it. Same beat, same whiny voices, same instruments. As Linda puts it, it’s “One fine beat,” but too much of a good things is bad. It’s like the United Colors of Benetton store. It is impossible to mismatch two articles of clothing from that store, because all the different colored clothes have the same tone/intensity. A blind person could go shopping there and still manage to come up with a harmonized outfit. All reggaetone tunes sound like they could be the same song, and it’s pretty hard to mess up DJ-ing with reggaetone, because it ALL SOUNDS THE SAME (in my very humble opinion).

It’s all OK for 3 minutes. Except if they mix in Paris Hilton’s “Stars are Blind.”

That’s when I drew the line.

That’s when my stomach exited my mouth with such force that my eardrums fell onto the floor.

How in God’s green earth Paris Hilton figures into a reggaetone mix is way beyond me.

So in short, Supperclub. Go there if you’re itching for a bad time.