1986 is Alive and Well!
Imagine if you will, you are at your favorite Dance club on a Saturday night. It could be Space, Crobar, Sound Factory, Ruby Skye, Avalon, Opium, whatever. Beautiful people are dancing and smiling and acting like complete idiots because they are drunk or high on whatever the drug of the hour happens to be. Now you decide to take a break and go to the bathroom or have a cigarette or whatever it is you do, but when you come out, everyone has instantly aged 20 years. Same clothes, same club, same décor and same activities, but magically, everyone who was young and tight and beautiful is now middle aged and wrinkled and sagging. But still dressed like they were 20 years ago. The ridiculously smoking hot blonde with the breast implants that you were eyeing now looks like a career stripper at the end of her line, and that cute Asian girl you were dancing with now somewhat resembles your drycleaner. It’s like the last 20 years of partying caught up with them in the five minutes it took you to smoke that Marlboro. Kind of like “Cocoon” but backwards and gone horribly, horribly wrong.
Such was the scene Saturday night at Christopher's in Ft. Lauderdale. Christopher’s ("Never a Cover!") is one of those clubs where you have to be 27 to get in, so me and the Hag busted out our old Fake ID’s from college and decided to take the trip north. Always a good idea to be the youngest guy in the place when the average female is in her late thirties. Christopher’s looks a little like the Babylon Club form Scarface, with lines of Corvettes, Mercedes, Porches and the like lining the front entrance. I self-parked the Saturn in the dirt lot next door. The interior was completely lined with mirrors, which is great for looking at yourself, or the international drug lord you are trying to assassinate.
Our first indication that this was not going to be a normal evening was the man in the all white suit standing just after the entrance. If you can imagine a mid-80's John Oates wearing Sonny Crockett's clothes, you have our greeter at Christopher's. I immediately told the Hag he should alert the owners of Planet Hollywood, as it appeared that the wardrobe they had been so proudly displaying at their South Beach location had obviously been stolen.
As we listened to a pounding techno remix of “If You Want my Body” (yes, the music was also as updated ’86 as the people) and waded through the sea of receding hairlines and drooping facelifts we began to notice a disturbing trend: women with stomachs that screamed “I’ve had multiple c-sections” wearing belly shirts. With pierced navels. And mini skirts. The ones not sporting the girl mullet had hair teased out so far it hit you in the face before you could say hello. It was dark, so it was tough to get a good wrinkle-count, but suffice to say the good people at Kiehl’s could have set up a booth and made a killing. I shuddered to think what would happen if I left with one of these beauties and saw her in the floodlights that illuminated the parking lot.
This dance club filled with shady old men and women in their sexual prime seemed the perfect opportunity to just sit back and let the older ladies get me liquored up in an attempt to take me back to whatever house they got in their first divorce. But not so fast, White Dade! Because the ratio at Christopher’s was roughly 8:1 male to female, and the ladies didn’t have to work for anything. Apparently middle aged men are even more desperate than middle aged women. So everyone in the place with a clitoris was drinking for free. So much for turning the tables.
More white suits. Even more tight black t-shirts with protruding guts form the tucked-in waistline. Memo to middle aged men: Tight black t-shirts are designed for people who can see their feet. And even then, they went out about four years ago. Although I suppose if you are already wearing a white suit, this is somewhat irrelevant to you, isn’t it?
I about reached the end of my rope when I spotted a tall man sporting, and I swear to God this is true, a CRIMPED MULLET. Now, first off, do people with mullets know that their hairstyle has, in fact, been a running joke amongst everybody in the country for, oh, about the last five years? And even if you didn't know, why are you crimping it?! Was he getting ready back at his apartment in Davie and thought to himself, “Yeah, this three foot mullet is pretty rockin’, but you know what would make this thing really fucking rock? Some little artificial waves that make it look like I got my hair caught in a waffle iron! Yes! I am definitely getting laid tonight!” Where on earth did you even find a hair crimper?! Did you pull it out of that box marked “1987” in your attic when you were looking for those Kim Wilde tapes?
There are some upsides to Christopher’s though. I only saw two guys wearing striped shirts and jeans, a welcomed change form the sea of “Uniforms” that I see at every club in Miami. And the drink prices were definitely aimed at the fixed-income set. I suppose when you are spending your alimony payment/social security check at a fully-mirrored nightclub, it would be tough to shell out more than four and a quarter for an Albertson’s Charcoal Filtered, plastic bottle vodka tonic. But $17 for four drinks ain’t bad no matter how much they may taste like fingernail polish remover. And while the Hag and I had a lot of good laughs at the expense of the crowd at Christopher’s, who says old people shouldn’t be allowed to drink and drug it up like the pretty twentysomethings in South Beach? It was just watching them make out and dry hump on the dance floor that was rather disturbing.