Soup Nazi Meets Bouncer

Yesterday afternoon I had my first, and perhaps my only, worthwhile class at the University of Glasgow.  It's a creative writing class, consisting of middle-aged persons in the 30+ age bracket, plus me.  I think I get along well with the group, and having been in a small creative writing class before at Beloit, I didn't have much trouble participating in the group discussion.  It's been frustrating getting used to the impersonal lecture-based classes, so being in a seminar was like a breath of fresh air.  Had a cup of coffee during our break with a woman who had plans of being a doctor before her epilepsy worsened when she was in her twenties.  She is significantly shorter than me with wild gray hair and when she talks sometimes it sounds like she's crying.  We had a good conversation.

After class, I went out in the rain to get some groceries with my roommate, forgot hummus, kicked self.

Before I knew it, it was night time and I was watching the presidential debate online over a cup of tea.  Had to leave the computer after about an hour because McCain, with his hollow laughter and transparent, "simpleton" talk made me want to punch in the screen.

Megan came over and she and Sarah and I set out to go clubbing at ABC.  We left early so we could arrive before 11:30 in time for free entry.  We waited patiently in line for about 20 minutes before making it to the burly bouncers at the front.  "Not tonight, guys," they said, and directed us out of the line.  We were confused.  We asked why we had been so swiftly rejected.  "My colleague has the right to refuse anyone requesting entry into the club."  Okay...

"It is because we're American?"

"No."

"Is it because we're ugly?"

"Not at all."

"Is it because we're not ugly enough?"

Silence.

So, for apparently no reason at all, we were denied access to the same club Sarah and I were able to enter Thursday night.  Of course, that was the same night all the manorexic hipsters threw up in every corner of the club and the club owners had to sprinkle the floors with kitty litter, but that wasn't our fault.  Hipsters just can't hold their liquor.

We decided to try again.  We got in line and waited in the cold only to be given the same treatment.  It was Grade A BS, and I could smell it.  "Yo, in America we call that DISCRIMINATION," I retorted, giving the building the bird as I walked away.  I've never had a more patriotic moment in my life.

We eventually made it to a bar called Nice 'N Sleazy.  More hipsters.  Mean hipsters with dark-stained lips, painted eyebrows and malnourished buttcheeks hanging out of skinny jeans.  It got old, fast, and all our cocktails tasted like jolly ranchers.  We left the place after about an hour.  I had a mission to get a picture with the burly security guard who rejected us, and succeeded.  Picture below.

Oh Neil.  Neither the bluest eyes nor the dewiest cheeks can hide the tyrant within you.

Now Sarah and I are getting ready to make fools of ourselves at Mono again and participate in some sort of French farmers market in the City Centre.  The plan is to stock up on good brie.

Much Love,

Caitlin