Suede: Don’t go here unless you are a D*ck
Twice in the past month, I’ve had the displeasure of being dragged here. The nightclub’s line is headed by a bouncer in a cheap black suit, doing what douchbag bouncers do: judge your jacket, the coif of your hair, the perkiness of your boobs, your skirt, your shirt, your designer threads, your foot wear, if your ass is taut enough to pick a dollar up off the floor with. Your status elite measured against the house code of dress. And he lets you in if he feels like you’ve got the right stuff.
He sent some Desi’s ahead of me packing, ignoring pleas that the foot wear in question were not really sneakers, but ken coles. Then he turned to me, checked me out my best Justin Timberlake outfit head to toe, before tilting my ID in the light. Without looking me in the eye once, he opened the velvet rope, and I was in, another unit of cattle rounded up. I crossed the thresh hold, glancing a spotlight. That