So Saturday night, because we had nothing better to do, Loc and I went to a bar called Kickers to meet up with Loc’s friend Joy and her friends. I’ve driven by the place 1,000 times but I never knew it was such a huge dance club. The clientele consisted mostly of the typical younger crowd of chachs and girls in their mini-tops and party pants.

The saving grace for this place, in my mind, however, was the older working-class crowd. There were a ton of guys with mullets and women with mall bangs, but I think the woman who took the prize was the blonde we saw with the permed, long blonde hair. We noticed her because she was wearing a leather jacket with Garfield stretched across the back. The jacket was black, so the bright, orange cat really stuck out. Down the sleeves, in big, green, block letters was his name “GARFIELD”. As if that wasn’t good enough, when she turned around we got a real laugh. Under the jacket she was wearing a white belly shirt with the playboy logo on the front and dark blue, stonewashed, tapered jeans that rode super high. She completed the outfit with her white Reeboks.

Seeing that woman and the abundance of old people getting down on the dance floor was enough to make it a successful night in my eyes, but there was one more incident that would top it off. As Beaker, Loc and I were walking around the bar to get a beer, a group of women squeezed in behind us. One woman, who was obviously far beyond drunk, shouted in my ear “Are you guys going to the dance floor?” Well, since the bar and the dance floor are in the same general direction, I replied “We’re headed that way.” She responded by smacking me in the ass and saying “All right! Let’s go boogie!” Somehow, much to my disappointment, we ended up losing that woman and her friends in the crowd.