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The discotheque


You, Eddie, good-for-nothing, spoiled fellow that you are. And the city where you live, the one you've chosen, resembles Sodom. It does take after it. What a perverse town! It's true, there's no denying it, you felt great at the discotheque yesterday, it was fun. But if you look at it with another pair of eyes something quite different turns up, doesn't it?

It's as though all the characters came out of Fellini's Satiricon. The in-your-face hairdos of different kinds, the whoreish little faces, brazen, made-up; everyone, of either sex, is elevated by high heels. One black fellow has taken off his pants and is dancing with just a white T-shirt covering his ass it's not clear whether he has any underpants on. The right-hand section of the hall is gay: some are wearing lipstick; boys and men dance embracing each other they gaze at each other lovingly and smooch. One guy has a wide, especially-designed suit, a black shirt, and a white silk scarf; another, with a sweaty, damp-haired chest, is in briefs; a third one

The music is deafening, the air hot and savage is filled with marijuana. Everyone smokes openly. And everyone drinks. It's badly over-crowded.

The females indecent, alluring wear wanton attire, representing every epoch and nation. Many have only stockings on. And you, Eddie, are here as well. And you too frisk around convulsively, morbidly, and have already smoked some grass, and don't feel tired at all. And the woman with you, though she's seven years younger, she's too old for you: it's obvious she's tired. And so, instead of going home at 6:00, when they close, you go at 4:20. For this kind of place people must be real young. No older than twenty, with stamina.

Oh dear, there's no avoiding it our Rome will fall. It's not for nothing that these lesbian cuties, these delicate girls rub against each other's bellies and do not look at the boys. In this multi-colored, pulsating light, the faces appear odd and savage. The only thing lacking here is a good bloody fight.


Even if you're a philosopher, go ahead, visit a discotheque, and don't be standing there as if you're rooted to the ground dance, then you'll learn something.

I saw my ex there that night. Smoking from a long black cigarette-holder, surrounded by a retinue of black guys (one was wearing a scintillating trench coat), she was in a white hat.

And you love it, Eddie, admit it.

I do confess that I wanted to stop the music and make an announcent: Guys, the machine guns will be distributed at the door in ten minutes. Our target is Fifth Avenue. I'll be in charge!

And out they run



* * * | Diary of a Loser | * * *