In addition to the much-maligned yet brilliantly evocative The
Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald has penned other remarkable tributes to
the Roaring Twenties, an era that sends an appreciative chill down the spine of
every aesthetically oriented, fashion-conscious student of history. What our
generation largely appears to have taken from Fitzgerald’s body of work is not
the harsh dichotomy between excess and economic disaster, however, nor is it
the melancholy of a generation that would live through two World Wars—it is the fact
that, even almost a hundred years ago, twentysomethings loved to party. With
the recent release of yet another Gatsby film, the Jazz Age has returned
to the collective subconscious to remind us that, much like the millenials of
today, Jay Gatsby raged all night, every night. (He dressed much better and had
nicer worldly possessions than we do, though, probably because he was not
burdened by six-figure student loan debt.)
Perhaps
this is a reflection of my rapid psychological aging, but the concept of
“partying” has begun to lose its meaning for me. As a young teenager, the idea
of a party seemed more or less synonymous with “fun” and at least conceptually
related to “relaxation”, “celebration”, and possibly “stress relief” or
“letting loose”. Yet I’ve begun to observe that, behind the veneer of
obviousness, partying is just something for twentysomethings to do, because
they can. For those who are firmly entrenched in the 9-to-5, weekends are
expected to be jam-packed with “partying” and “fun”. Never mind that every
person is an individual with an individual opinion on what is fun and what
isn’t. We seem to think that “fun” can be defined by a specific recipe or
conglomeration of circumstances, i.e. alcohol plus electronic dance music plus more
alcohol plus Instagram equals fun. Is one antisocial or pessimistic if this
formula fails to provide enjoyment?
It may come
as a shock, but in the glamorous life of a full-time medical student with no
income, luxury getaways are few and far between, unless said student is
fortunate enough to have a significant other who is kind-hearted, generous, and
filled with compassion for the sorry state of said student’s general
circumstances. My own significant other took me to South Beach in Miami last
week for four days of beach lounging, sampling delicious Cuban food, and
timidly wading into the terrifyingly beautiful tides of the Atlantic Ocean.
(Now see, all that sounds fun to me!)
True to form, I planned a detailed itinerary for our trip. In the spirit of
vacation, I decided that we ought to visit some of the famed Miami night-clubs,
where the women are evidently so stunning that men’s wallets simply abandon
their pockets and empty their contents into the women’s Chanel baguettes. While
this doesn’t sound like the most “fun” thing in the universe to me, I figured
that my man-friend and I are young, hip, and good-looking, and don’t young,
hip, good-looking people generally go to clubs to have “fun”? (My inner voice
responded that, although I have indeed had my fair share of rollicking good
times at clubs, I am now older, poorer, and perpetually more exhausted than I
once was.)
After a
sumptuous dinner at an unspeakably chic restaurant, where all the waiters had
pleasingly European accents and every item on the menu was virtually
unpronounceable, all I wanted was to release myself from the restrictive prison
of the push-up bra built in to my dress and don my most comfortable yoga pants
in order to bask uninhibited in the aftermath of the gustatory extravaganza.
But I sternly reminded myself that we were on vacation, and we would have
“fun”, even if it meant several hours of sleepily standing in five-inch heels
while nursing a $25 cocktail and being audibly reminded of the ongoing
peristalsis of a delectable four-course meal.
In a
run-of-the-mill drinking establishment in most major cities, one must simply
present oneself to a disgruntled-looking doorman with a government-issued ID
proving that one is of legal drinking age, and be reasonably dressed (that is to
say, not in the nude or wearing Crocs) in order to gain admission and spend
one’s hard-earned money on pathetically watered-down alcoholic beverages. In
cities where the night-life is not so tantalizing (such as the District of
Columbia), one might be expected to also surrender $10-$15 to this doorman
before even setting foot in the drinking establishment, which always puts one
in an evil mood and leads to much muttered cursing under one’s breath. In Miami,
however, the criteria for entering a club is more stringent. An ordinary person
with average or below-average aesthetic appeal and/or a sense of frugality has
not a prayer of entering a drinking establishment in Miami. Not one to be
underprepared for any situation, I had done my research and was well aware of
the gauntlet that would-be revelers must face if they wish to party in Miami
and pretend they’re in a Pitbull music video. Holding my man-friend by the
hand, I teetered warily in my stilettos towards a bald man in a dark suit with
a Bluetooth affixed importantly to one ear. He stood behind an extensive
network of velvet ropes. On the other side of the ropes was a mass of
well-dressed twentysomethings (mostly female), shouting over the throbbing
music, evidently trying to get the bald man’s attention. They reminded me of
the prostitutes from Les Mis.
I observed
the scene in silence for a few minutes. While the dialogue was inaudible,
thanks to the pounding dance music, I noticed that every so often, the
important-looking bald man would seem to carefully consider a proposal before
removing a velvet rope and allowing a group (generally one comprised of slender
women in tight dresses) to pass. This brief observation period also gave me an
opportunity to take in my surroundings. Indubitably, it was a lovely venue. We
were outdoors, behind a posh hotel, near a vast swimming pool softly lit in
shades of blue and purple. Elegant cabanas and plush sofas surrounded the pool.
I caught a glimpse of tall, broad mirrors in gilded frames, leaning against
tremendous vases filled with tropical plants. Pockets of stunning women with
endlessly long and tanned legs seemed to have been perched strategically along
the pool, and it occurred to me that they were as much a part of the functional
décor as the cabanas.
The clamoring
hordes thinned momentarily and there was no one standing between us and the
bald doorman, who would inexplicably be charged with the task of either
granting or denying us permission to patronize the establishment. Smoothly, my
man-friend (whom I had not bothered to notify of my research on the bizarre
social rituals of Miami, since I knew that the years he spent in New York City
had already rendered him keenly aware of such practices) asked the doorman what “the
deal” was. I heard the doorman reply, in an unctuous voice over the continuous
pounding of music and shouted conversation, that guests could either buy a
table for the night (which would cost a cool $3,000), or open up a bar tab with
a minimum of $150 per person. Or we could walk right in with no monetary
restrictions if we were “on the list”. I rolled my eyes and stood by, aloof,
not bothering to conceal my disdain. Not to be rebuffed, my man-friend asked conversationally,
“for future reference”: what do people do to get on the list? The bald man
seemed charmed. I heard him give a detailed response about club promoters or
knowing somebody who knew somebody, and I lost interest. I was not at all
averse to the notion of abandoning the project altogether and going back to the
hotel, where we could watch The Golden
Girls on TV (and where I could finally, deliciously rip the excruciating
hair extensions out of my scalp). The bald man gave my man-friend a calculating
look and asked, “Where are you guys from?” The response (“New York City”) must
have triggered something in his cold soul, because he then said, “Tell you
what. Be my guest,” and cast aside the velvet ropes, thus opening the golden
gates to Paradise to the genuflecting peasants.
Truthfully,
sarcasm aside, I was indifferent to this outcome. While I wanted to maximize
our experience in Miami and take it all in, I could tell that this particular
venue was simply not my style. First and foremost, the music was unbearable.
Electronic music must be an acquired taste, one that I have yet to cultivate,
but remixes of popular Top 40 hits have always filled me with sheer horror. If
I’m in a sufficiently sporting mood and happen to get caught up in the moment,
I will dance and sing along with reckless abandon to some dreadful remix at a
party or a club, but numerous stars have to align for that to occur. Generally
speaking, that genre of music makes me want to cover my ears and sob. Jay
Gatsby, for all his flaws, at least had a full orchestra playing live music at
his parties.
Despite the
assault in my ears, I had to admit that, visually speaking, it was all opulence
and splendor. Yet the “fun” was conspicuous only by its absence. The rail-thin,
beautiful women standing in their clusters along the edge of the pool or
perched gracefully on sofas all seemed to be staring blankly at their phones.
Some were talking to each other, and some were taking photos (bright flashes
illuminating frozen smiles and tan arms perched carefully on slender hips).
There wasn’t much laughter and the laughter that did occasionally tinkle high
above the pounding beats sounded forced and manufactured. My consort ordered a
glass of wine for himself and a gin-and-tonic for me. A group of blonde women
with vaguely European accents hovered by the bar, talking loudly and drinking
champagne. They checked their phones after each sip.
With all
the luxurious fixings, I hadn’t expected it to feel so common. But it was. It was dreadfully, depressingly common, like a
college bar where nineteen-year-olds clamor to get in with their fake ID’s and
fraternity pledges vomit all over the sticky tiled floor--only more expensive
and less fun. There was no gentility, no elegance, and certainly none of the
irreverence and silliness that had made my previous clubbing experiences
enjoyable.
We made our
way to a semi-indoor area, where, at first glance, the chances of dancing appeared
to be somewhat higher. At least dancing would allow me to enjoy myself and
expend some calories, and my man-friend is a marvelous dancer. I may no longer
enjoy “partying” in the traditional, formulaic sense of the word, but I
strongly suspect that I will always adore dancing, even to the grating sounds
of loathsome pop music remixes. Unfortunately, the only dancing taking place in
this area of the club was the choreiform gyrations of a wan blonde in a crop
top and cutoff denim shorts. She would alternate between wildly thrusting her
bony limbs in the air and suggestively rubbing against several paunchy men who
had gathered around her. I detachedly noted that she seemed to be high on
Ecstasy. To her credit, she did seem to be one of the few people in this club
who was having genuine fun.
With my
hopes for dancing temporarily dashed, I turned my attention to a line of
interchangeable young women with perfectly shaped bodies who erupted from a
back door, holding large, illuminated bottles of expensive-looking liquor high
above their sleek manes and cheering with rehearsed enthusiasm. These were the
fabled bottle service girls, paradigms of female commodification, living
testaments to the futility of feminism.
They wore identical, skin-tight, turquoise Herve Leger dresses with hems
so short that an ill-timed squat would leave nothing to the imagination. They
cheered and pumped the huge bottles high in the air, making a concerted effort
to appear carefree and effortlessly sexy. Had there been more men in the club,
I have no doubt that hundred dollar bills would have been flying in their direction. In a different crowd, the appearance of such women would have surely been invigorating. It was a performance, and I wondered if everyone was falling for it, or if it
was just me who could see that one of the bottle service girls had bags under
her eyes and another had put a black cotton cardigan over her minuscule dress
and was sniffling as if she had a cold. I
could see that these were just ordinary(albeit very attractive) girls doing
a job—not some fantasy sex kittens who lived in a perpetual party—but could
anyone else see that? Or did no one else even want to see it?
A dance
remix of Lana Del Rey’s “Summertime Sadness” came on, and I knew it was time to
go. I had had enough. We danced with some restraint where we stood (so as not
to interfere with the flailing blonde), finished our drinks, and made our way
towards the exit. Endless crowds of beautiful women continued to recline in
their cabanas and stare at their phones. I wondered if they couldn’t have just
stayed at home and stared at their phones all night instead. The whole place, for
all its glitz and clinical revelry, stunk of ennui. Were all these people here
simply because they had nothing else to do that night? Did they all want to be
able to say that they had been there, that they hadn’t missed out—much like the
New Yorkers of Gatsby’s era, who had swarmed his famous parties with no
invitation, because it was the thing
to do?
While I
understand that debauchery and privilege tend to go hand-in-hand, I fail to see
the allure of a prepackaged “party” with the promise of generic “fun” in the
form of a prettily illuminated pool, expensive cocktails, overproduced “music”,
and scantily clad women. On an
individual level, what is actually going on that can be classified as “fun”?
For my part, it was somewhat enjoyable to engage in people-watching—to observe
the stunning women posing and displaying their glamorously trendy outfits—but
it didn’t take long for me to grow bored with that activity. Attempts at
conversation with my man-friend were resounding failures, given how
skull-shatteringly loud the music was, so we virtually stood in silence,
drinking our $25 beverages, watching hordes of beautiful strangers stare at
their phones. To me, it was a loud, expensive, depressing bore.
I have no
doubt that an astute reader may wonder if I was simply jealous, and that was
why I didn’t enjoy myself at this glossy night club. And to that, I will readily
concur: I am jealous. I envy people
who can glean simple enjoyment out of a neatly assembled, formulaic “party” ,
and I say that with no judgment or aspersions cast on the character or
intelligence of such people. It’s just not my thing. I would have probably
appreciated Jay Gatsby’s parties, if only for the live music and the fabulous
attire, but likely not more than once or twice. Perhaps I simply have a lower
threshold for boredom. (After all, I generally don’t enjoy a movie unless
there’s at least one massive battle sequence and/or car chase.) Or perhaps I
lack the ability to turn off the overly analytical region of my brain. I ask
myself, why is a certain activity
considered fun? Am I truly having fun, or is this an illusion of fun as defined
by purveyors of a product?
Later that
night, after removing my high heels, tasteful mini-dress, ankle bracelets, and
hair extensions (as well as a hank of my own hair that was painfully extracted
in the process), I downloaded The Great Gatsby on my Kindle and settled
into the cool, sterile-looking white hotel bed.
And I reminded myself that it’s perfectly acceptable to be a lot of different
things at once. It’s okay to be outgoing, friendly, and sociable while also
enjoying the solitude of an evening on the couch with an excellent book and a
plate of Nutella-slathered toast. It’s okay to dress like a glamorous diva with
a penchant for haute couture while nursing a supremely geeky obsession for The
Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. It’s okay to want to be a part
of something while also seeing its weaknesses, as Nick Carraway saw the
internal ugliness of Gatsby’s seemingly charmed life—and it’s also okay to be
repulsed by insincerity and emptiness. In the end, I was so unimpressed by the
depressingly empty social scene that we experienced that night that I wasn’t at
all disappointed when we didn’t get around to hitting any more clubs for the
remainder of our vacation. Instead, we lounged on the beach. We talked, we
laughed, we swam, we ate amazing food. We had fun. Authentic, individualized
fun, with no illusions.
