So it was my 25th birthday, my first birthday being single, first grown ass birthday (and so I thought, 25 ain’t grown… Little nigglets) and so I was like fuck it, Ima throw a party. Reached out to those party promoter friends who you all have but never acknowledge until you need something and set it up. What was also notable is that my license had expired on my birthday. I probably should’ve took care of it before then, but one thing you gotta know I’ma be a nigga for life *Sisqo yell* and I didn’t want to spend my birthday at the DMV. I just wanted to chill at the crib reading tweets and wall posts from strangers and friends I’ve been promising to link up with for the past few years. So I renewed it online. Shoutout to technology. Or so I thought… While renewing a license online is convenient, you don’t get a temporary one, hell not even a sticker like a new one is on the way. But what’s a few days? Fast forward to me arriving at the party, and dude is like… Nope, expired. Never mind that he can see that a) I’m clearly over 21 b) it’s clearly my birthday and this is a complete dick move. But it was clearly c) it was me and a bunch of other black men and they almost always have some reason or another to not let one or all of us in.
That randomly crossed my mind when I saw this article about how millennials don’t really go out anymore. One of the reasons I typically avoid most spots, is stories like that birthday one where it feels like the primary incentive is to keep people like *me* out. Where dad hats are accepted but snapbacks and fitteds are not. Spencer has a polo with a wrinkled collar on but you can’t get in with a black v neck. Shorts in the middle of June not allowed, women can show up looking like who did it and why. You need a valid license or passport with a photo taken within the last 6 months meanwhile a 5’3 freshman just walked by with her sisters ID that says she’s 5’7. Then you get in the spot, the music is trash, women don’t want to dance with you, it takes 15 minutes for the bartender to acknowledge you and then on top of that the drinks are weak, and half the people there are just snapchatting the 6 people who are actually there having a good time. I rather take it to the crib. (Not really. I’m an introvert but not necessarily a homebody, I’m weird like that.) I actually don’t hate going out, I just hate everything around going out. When I do go, I have a good time. My Mint app might judge the hell out of me Monday morning but memories don’t live like people do.
But as more bars and clubs shut down (imagine if they simply tried to appeal to more diverse crowds) and the more apps that ensure you don’t have to leave your house (like every time I open Instagram there’s a new monthly service of here’s a box of stuff, food, clothes, accessories, toiletries… Like we really are lazy af, no wonder aliens won’t pull up). The game done changed; more often than not I’m talking to friends about what they been watching on Netflix than weekend adventures. People feel more left out on Monday morning having a missed Game of Thrones than they do not coming out to [Random Adjective Saturdays] at [club]. Just last week in lieu of a Super Bowl party, just watched the game home alone cracking jokes on Twitter and group chats (and given the results I ain’t wanna be around nobody no way). Clubbing has become more of an special occasion deal, basically if it’s not your birthday or your last day in town, I’m RSVPing “yeah, I’ma see” which is black for, “nah”. I’ll catch the highlights on Snapchat tomorrow morning. Turn up for what.