Last year at around this time, I dressed up as a dead geisha for a Halloween party. Perhaps I had some intuitive sense that my illustriously embarrassing Tokyo nightlife would be coming to a close in the months to come. Mostly though, I just thought it would be funny. I even persuaded T to dress up as a dead samurai to complete the ensemble.
I told myself that I wasn't going to drink anything alcoholic on the night of the event last year, because I was already feeling immensely hungover from my own very private drinking party the evening prior (it was just me and the bottles). Then however, I realized that the costume party I was attending had an open bar. I don't have to tell you the rest of the story.
This year, I didn't let my non-drunkenness stop me from going out for Halloween. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to let it stop me, but it just so happened that my best friend's birthday fell on the same night as a big Halloween party at a Tokyo nightclub. For the sake of being there for my friend, I had to go out to a nightclub for the first time since I've quit drinking, in costume no less.
We spent quite some time in the nearest train station around midnight, waiting for her group of friends to gather and depart for the nightclub.
Waiting there, we ran into some interesting characters who were presumably on the way to the same party.
This giant penis should have been my first indication that the night was going to suck. (Did I really just write that? Yes I did.)
Halloween 2007 has made me realize that nightclubs are truly intolerable places when you are not too drunk to notice your surroundings. If it is a "good" party, you should first have to nearly freeze to death in a slow moving line outside the venue for nearly an hour. And once you get inside, it is hard not to pass out from all the body heat emanated by gross sweaty people who are as tightly packed together as the ingredients in a roll of makisushi.
At the entrance, my friends and I ran into a guy who had an uncanny resemblance to a young Michael J. Fox, dressed as Marty McFly from back to the future. He insisted we call him Marty, and offered to buy us a round of drinks. When I told him that I wanted a coke, Marty asked me if I was a Mormon then told me to "Go back to Utah!"
Shortly after the above incident, Marty McFly slipped and fell down a short flight of stairs. At the bottom, he got up just as quickly and pretended as if nothing had happened.
Soon I noticed the signs that strictly prohibited photography inside of the club, so I began to start taking as many pictures as I could in a futile attempt to get kicked out of the club, thus having an excuse to leave the birthday party early.
My newfound hatred of nightclubs makes me feel old, and yet I also get the feeling that I'm regressing. I was a pretty shy kid, and since I haven't been drinking I can't help but feel like I'm crawling back into an old protective shell because I've stopped talking to strangers and I no longer try to be everyone's friend.
But this is not necessarily a bad thing. And when given the choice between that and falling down a flight of stairs, well, shyness can't be all that bad.