I had a realization during a recent night out Uptown. Irony is the new black, Charlotte. Get with it or prepare to feel left out.
The first act in the cirque d'ironie began when we decided to enter a BAR named Prohibition. Cue up that awful Alanis Morissette song where, in the video, her 7th alter ego has special needs and forgot to brush her hair. It IS ironic, I DO think. Eh hem, call me a history geek, but in order to be called Prohibition, shouldn’t we refrain from the excessive sale of alcoholic beverages?
Unleeesssss, (detective voice) the premise is that the bar is an insurgency against the concept behind 1920s prohibition and general mainstream moral and cultural impositions? In that case, it’s a whole new brand of insincerity because I saw a LOT of bowties and bandage dresses. No one in a state of rebellion or principal would wear either of those things. Not ever.
It was like I had entered an alternative dimension ruled by stylish mockery. Grown men wearing My Little Pony T-shirts and closeted gay men making awkward passes at confused girls. Couples shag dancing to Neyo and too many neon colored shirts and accessories to count. People irrationally self-deprecating on the dance floor and then being overly confident in their pickup lines. At point, circa 1 a.m., I looked at my cousin and asked, “What the heck is going on?” To which she had no response other than a shoulder shrug.
Then I did the only thing there is to do when life stops making sense. It is, ironically, what I do best. I promptly inserted myself into a group of total strangers and wobbled my by and large uncoordinated (except for when I’m wobbling) white ass off.
Megan Henshall is a project coordinator by day, favorite child, rollerskating enthusiast, blogger, and lover of all things social and under appreciated. For more writing/ramblings/rants visit www.dearsuchandso-keyboardventing.blogspot.com.