“I don’t want to get stranded in the mission. Let’s go somewhere close.”
We decided to hit Mayes on Polk (don’t be confused by the link; they pretend to be a restaurant during the day or something), and I have to admit I had forgotten how much fun this place could be. Why had we been club rattin’ in Soma for months when Mayes was right here?
The place is tiny, but the music was tight; the crowd was happy and wild, and though we didn’t partake of the drank ourselves, I take the fact that the little ladies were gigging with no hands to mean that they were doing the job. That aside, I’m a sucker for some loud ‘Peas and Usher, and with four screens of the accompanying music videos playing above my head, I was a pig in slop.
My good time could only be tempered by a problem that presents itself in every club, especially with the advent of lightweight rap/hip-hop/dance music. There seems to be some confusion as to when guys and girls should get together to dance. Allow me to clarify your life:
By all means, when “Which one of yall going home with Trigga?” comes through the speakers, guys, make your approach- and quickly.
Please, PLEASE, though, don’t make me dance with you when “Whip My Hair,” “Black and Yellow,” or “No Hands” come on. Those songs are for ME AND MY GIRLS, and we are finna wile on the floor. Unfortunately, zSwag can attest that I have a real problem with refusing a dance, even from a person I find unsavory or frightening (admittedly, the latter is an almost non-issue in hipster central SF). Having said that, I will #ThrowBows if you try to rope me in during “Teach me How to Dougie,” (yes, Cali is still on that song). And if (by some miracle of God and a DJ’s throwback session) “Peanut Butter Jelly Time” comes on and you try to make a move, the fault that I strong-armed you into weeping submission is only your own.
Even the meek have their limit.