Some say Minneapolis doesn’t have a nightlife, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, the people saying that are probably North Dakotan spies bent on subverting our proud Minnesotan way of life.
Minneapolis after dark’s a riot, and in order to prove that assertion to you I exhumed myself from my quiet, comfortable apartment to go wade into the frenetic riot that becomes our city after bedtime. All this in the name of research for my readers!
I hadn’t been to a dance club since college. Time has made memories of those days fuzzy. They probably didn’t solidify correctly because of drinks. I do remember the clubs being hot, and all the stimulating conversation I had over music that sounded like jet engines going through a wood chipper: “Blazataxit formanaona plip!” “What?!”WHAT?!” “WHAT?!” Ad infinitum.
On this recent quest, the first joint I went to boasted a real live DJ. I confess that I’m not really “with it,” or “cool,” or “not cheating on my taxes,” so I admit that I never saw a DJ perform live before. What she seemed to do on stage is more or less what I’m doing now, which is sweating while pecking at a laptop, but in addition to that she was delicately manipulating knobs on metal computer things shaped like butcher blocks. The effect of all her minutia was very loud music, some of which I recognized, some of which I didn’t, and some of which only half because they had bits of Michael Jackson songs in them.
I finished my martini and, smelling of pine tar and olives, oozed onto the dance floor with my hapless wife in tow. I’m not that old, but I felt like Wilford Brimley at a One Direction concert while looking at all the young, convulsing bodies pimpling that dance floor. My five-step waltz came right back to me, but there was no room to do it in.
Ever one to embrace fads, I did make a heroic attempt at modeling the others’ more current moves, but when I caught myself in a mirror I saw that I was moving like an advanced syphilitic standing barefoot on a sidewalk in high August.
We went to another club after that, where we writhed to the sounds made by a different person on a different laptop.
“Are there any places in town open after 2:00?” some visitors from New York City asked me.
“After 2:00?” I exclaimed, “Why in heaven would you want to be awake after 2:00?”
And then they said “BLARGALRHARGL,” sensibly drowned out by the blare of the giant speakers.
And so we went home and made hot dogs and went to bed.
Doesn’t that sound nice? Maybe you too, reader, should go be hip at any of our so many nightlife spots, so that when those detractors try to disparage our fair city’s party scene you can snappily retort “Says you!”
By: David Scheller