SURFER'S PARADISE

We left Coolangatta at 6:00 pm.

Surfer’s Paradise is a very grey in the twilight. It’s bigger than I expected—a miniature Miami with teal and pink accents, and ocean-blue.  Our Greyhound dumps us off amid the tall glass buildings and we start to walk.

Three hours later we’re on a party bus headed to the first of four nightclubs. The free-entry wristband is too tight—I feel sick, this isn’t my scene. I’m not much of a partier. I guess I’d rather talk about art and make love, instead.

The first club is a second story affair, glass-walls overlooking an empty courtyard. They shoot lasers and play the usual, bored music. I have a beer, I loosen up, I start to dance—I slap an ass, to applause, as I exit.

The second club is more of a rock and pool kind of place. I have a Vodka Tonic, I dance, and all of the sudden they’ve cleared a circle for me—an audience surrounds me and people are filming me. Some girl is grinding on me, groping me, grinning. Her abandoned boyfriend stands at the edge of the dance-floor. I’m all the rage—if the scene can be rocked, I rocked it—hi-fives and hugs and kisses and applause. I took a bow—completely sober.

The third club is an underground mess, with bass so loud and blaring that you can feel it in your feet from the sidewalk. A few people recognize me from the last place and bait me onto the dance floor.

I back out.

I’m done.

The outside air feels good, although it’s a hot and humid and I’m sweating like a pig. Bands of neon are wrapped around the palm trees, lining the street, blinking, white and blue.

The fourth bar is dressed in shades of winter, air conditioned and foggy. I swallow down another Vodka. Everybody at this point is wasted. All the women look the same in their black shirts and open blouses and high-heels.

Where is the substance?

We leave.