Colorado - Part 6

After scouting the town for a watering hole, Snow's was packed, Ryno's (in spite of the lower prices) was not my kind of crowd—a pizza parlor meets an arcade meets a bar meets a frat party meets me and then I excuse myself and go somewhere else. Not that the service wasn't good. Just the ambiance was off. Eric's Bar has an edge of danger, and not in the fun, exciting way, just the dangerous one. The Cigar Bar looks expensive, but covered in a patina of scum, frequented by the kind of well-to-do aging degenerate would go to smoke cigars, drink pearls-before-swine Scotch, and get away from the Missus. The sort of place that you'd expect to keep a list of callgirls on hand, a curious intersection of the classy and the seedy. Escobar seems too hip for me—not enough people to constitute critical mass, and too loud and flashy to pass the time. The place drips with the 1970's charm/sleaze that I know only too well, but my mood is wrong.
I settle on Finnbarr's, another underground joint where I get a Speckled Hen in a can. The town is electric tonight, and I can't tell if it's alternating current or direct. As I look around me, I see most people as lonely as I am, just with conversation partners, where I am only writing to you, faithful readers, until these friendly people and I exchange words for a bit before they have to leave. Empty pleasantries. I hear murmurs that there's excitement to be had at The Regal (nightclub, not a movie theater), and further murmurs that the coked-up atmosphere there is a black-out rail-yard of train-wreck yuppies.
...
I return, in spite of myself, to Escobar. It's the passenger compartment of a 1970's airplane with a teevee in every window. The DJ is good, and the joint is hopping, lots of 40-something, but a couple of 30s and 20s as well, including the girls asking the bouncer if it was actually fun in there, and then ask if he's lying. They leave quickly, paying attention to nobody, absorbed in some odd club ritual, possibly bound for the Regal. 70's sleaze for all. Perhaps my seminal nightclub experience, I have begun to pen:

The RULES of the "Club"
1. If you enter The Club alone, you will leave alone. You will also be alone in the middle, but that's incidental.
2. If you don't dance with your wife, I will. Or at least I'll try, even if I'm 20 years younger than you, and 3 years younger than she.
As I leave, I see a man, a newcomer, small only in stature, busting the sweetest moves of anyone in this muthafuckin' plane, and enjoying the attention he so richly deserves. Mentally, I wish him success where I have failed. The world needs him.