“Glucose Nightclub” Part One

I’ve always hated nightclubs. Even in my late teens and early twenties I avoided them like the plague. I hate the clouds of masculine energy that inevitably hover over such places. I hate the traps they set for some of their unwitting female costumers: cheap shots and free entrance used as bait. I hate the theme nights nightclubs often have; even cheaper shots for girls who get dressed up in their pajamas, or as bunnies. I hate nightclubs, man, do I hate nightclubs.

An unfortunate reality for Victorian music lovers is that Glucose Nightclub, the largest venue for shows, doubles as a nightclub during the week, a fact which is painfully evident with a mere glance at their door staff. Patrons of the club are met at the door by five or six mad-dogs. The leader of the pack is about six foot six and weighs roughly 300 lbs. His name is John, though, for reasons unexplained, he insists that the rest the Glucose staff call him “Maximus”.

One is essentially forced to check his/her dignity along with jacket or purse at the coat check coat upstairs. This, the great reward for often being publicly humiliated by doormen who make a point of abusing their power, stooping to every imaginable low. I’ve often seen doormen do things such as using meter stick to measure and later announce the height of shorter patrons. I’ve seen bouncers feel up young women under the guise of a “pat-down”. I’ve seen it all, and kept quiet about it until that night.

The interior of Glucose Nightclub is almost as disgusting as the mugs of their door staff. Chandeliers look absurdly out of place swaying side to side, threatening to fall upon the heads of those stuck to the dirty dance floor like flies on tape.

Glucose Nightclub is the only music venue in town to hire beer tub girls who do their damnedest to writhe seductively to the off-kilter rhythms of some of Canada’s best musical talent. It is hilarious to watch, though most patrons choose to by a pint at the bar instead.

But even more out of place than the chandeliers and the beer tub girl combined, is the ever-present maitre-dis in the men’s washroom. Yes, male patrons are welcomed to the appallingly stank washroom by a clean shaven dude who has obviously over-indulged in every Axe Body Spray he so kindly offers to his “clients”. Confused, we try to avoid the stranger in our midst. We walk quickly to a trough-style urinal and urinate with incredible force.

But when faced by the prospect of hand washing, a courtesy that has been handed down from a tender age, patrons encounter an aggressive, makeshift entrepreneur who never asks if said patron would like some help at the sink; I’ve heard many awkward “ummm, thanks, I guess'” come from the hand wash station of the washroom as I rapidly pee.

I make a point of never taking up the maitre-dee’s offer of tap turning, regardless of whether or not I accidentally splatter myself with urine while forcing my stream against the trough’s polished steel. I’ve grown most accustomed to the soap jockey’s dirty looks; I smile regardless.

Needless to say, I’ve never been excited to see a show at Glucose, regardless of how “big” the un-witting booked band. But work often takes me there, so I go.

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