“Oh you mean the hipster place?” Corey asked when I expressed my excitement over finding the renowned “Jolene” bar. With a glassy stare and a quivering lip, I pointed to a lone barrel fire at a posh club front. “It’s ironic,” he said.

 

I hadn’t planned on going out this Saturday and had in fact turned down an invitation to an Erasmus karaoke party earlier that day. But as the night drew closer, as the apartment filled up with people and as my hangover gave way to a feelgood-mood, I found myself once again heading out into the ever-so rainy Copenhagen to rock some places, or at least to die in an attempt to do so. A flatmate came up with the plan of going to the “Karriere” club and, unaware of it being situated at the infamous meat-packing district, I unenthusiastically decided to tag along, seems as it was supposedly just on the way to an acid rave in Valby.

 

The acid rave was actually the main reason I decided to go out on Saturday, as a friend of mine encouraged me to join her there. She described it as a “really crazy underground scene party” and I, always up for something new and/or hilarious, accepted the invite. I was undeterred even when she threw me a link with the kind of music one should expect at a psy-dark trance-something rave. I will post the link here but for the love of god, view at your own risk.

 

If you clicked on the previous link, chances are you have just woken up from a coma and it’s actually been several hours since you first started reading this entry. You will probably not remember what the video was about but whatever you do, do not click on it again.

 

As entertaining as it would have been to see a bunch of hippies in tie-dye shirts dancing spastically to two hundred beats per minute tracks, the truth is that we never made it past the meat-packing district. We never made it, not because the party was so good, but because we all felt a sudden urge to escape to the comforting walls of our own homes after witnessing things no mortal men should witness.

 

So, what is this “Karriere” club? For starters, it’s something that’s called a 23+ bar, meaning that you have to be at least twenty three years of age to get in. Then idea behind this set up is that twenty three year old’s can enjoy the company of their contemporaries. The reality of the idea however was that the bar was full of forty-something men awkwardly mingling with forty-something cougars, leaving you stranded in a cesspool of bygone youths, separated from those friends of yours that just didn’t make the bill. The DJ kept rotating the same four songs because apparently “The Hardest Button To Button” and “Jump Around” is exactly what you want to listen to over and over again as you’re ramming your dignity into the dancefloor and watching eternal shame take its place.

 

We actually never set foot inside “Jolene” as the place was completely packed. It’s a little bit sad, because it just might have been a decent place, seems as poking at the guests’ eyes quickly verified that they were indeed wearing their thick rimmed glasses because of their impaired vision, and not at all because they were raging dickheads. That said, I did however spot one wacky sweater and at least two pairs of Converse Allstars.

 

We actually quite liked the third bar in the district, but the unfavorable seat-to-guest ratio and the 50 DKK Tuborg’s quickly chased us back to the shameful, yet cheaper embrace of “Karriere”. I also learned a crucial lesson about the Danish drinking culture – you get smashed before you go out. Unless you’re forty and wealthy and consequently, and somewhat inevitably, doomed to a life of wearing tucked shirts to nightclubs in a fruitless chase of girls who invariably insist on calling you “daddy“.

 

This “getting smashed at home” thing is something I’ve yet to master seems as for me there is a fine line between being intoxicated with joy and being intoxicated to the point of “fuck-you-I’m-not-leaving-this-couch.

 

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