taken from www.theglobeandmail.com

ANTHONY JENKINS

April 19, 2008

It's 11 p.m., cold, dark and drizzly in an alleyway off Duncan Street in the beating heart of Toronto's entertainment district.

A stunning, leggy blonde in stilettos, micro-mini and barely there raincoat presses so close to share my umbrella I can smell the alcohol on her breath and hear her teeth chattering. She's young enough to be my daughter.

Younger, in fact; my actual daughter is a day past 22 and she, her pals and I are queued up outside The Fifth, one of perhaps 50 nightspots making up Clubland, or the District, the blocks between King and Queen, Spadina and University. They're taking me clubbing. It has been a long, long, long time (read a decade per each "long") since I've done anything like this. It will prove a revelation.

For those from 19 (legal drinking age) to their mid-20s (when maturity/job/committed partner cramp one's style), clubs are about dancing, music and friendship, but mostly they're about "hooking up": connecting - primarily physically - with the opposite sex.

It begins by booking onto a club's guest list online, where rules, dress code and cover charge (from nil to $15, according to the club, the evening, the hour, the gender - guys pay more - and, seemingly, whim ) are posted.

Many (hell, seemingly all) club kids "pre-drink" - get semi-buzzed on alcohol at home, in a friend's basement or on a TTC subway car from vodka in water bottles to cut costs (a typical night would cost $60 for girls, more than $100 for a guys if they spring for drinks or a cab). Hard drugs are frowned upon. "It's all about the hookup. Looking good. Dancing ... well ... touching. Drugs distance that vibe. It's socially unacceptable," my daughter's "pre-drunk" pals primly instruct me.

Richmond Street clubs are chosen for their cover price, the type of people drawn or music played or dress code worn. For guys, dress demands are more stringent. In the higher-class joints, headgear, torn attire or athletic wear are discouraged. The code is appreciated and validated by the women. "We expect more; a dysfunctional chivalry," my daughter tells me. "The guys are sleazebags, but you expect them to be done up proper." Chicks appreciate "killer denim, nice jewellery [earrings, watch, chains], man makeup [hair gel], popped dress shirts [collar up] and sharp shoes."

The dress code for women is "anything except naked." When in doubt, go small and skin-tight. I've known my daughter's pal Felicia since they were in kindergarten. She has grown. "You dress like a hooch, like a skank, walk a fine line between club girl and streetwalker. Boobs as high as they will go and shirt as low."

In the drizzle outside The Fifth, government-issue ID is carefully scrutinized. Some clubs frisk. Some have metal detectors. I'm told this place caters to an older (22 to 25!), more sophisticated crowd. Cover is $10. Coat check $3.

BRING ON THE JÄGER BOMBS

The evening begins with a round of Jäger Bombs (sweet German aperitif Jägermeister mixed with Red Bull - ghastly!) and no small talk. The white-painted and mirror-balled former industrial space is filled with hundreds of drinking, gyrating sophisticates in groups and resembles a really happening house party without parents (except me) or furniture. The first of many, many group cheesecake/beefcake cellphone-camera photos are taken. You post how good a time you had on YouTube or Facebook the next morning.

The scene is crowded, loud, hot and hormone-drenched. At mid-50, you hate this. At 22, it's what you come for. It's designed for the hookup: too loud for real conversation, nowhere to sit (save a few make-out couches in raised VIP lounges), cheap booze and dark enough that everyone looks good. A mating-season herd-mentality prevails: Girls dance in groups of girlfriends, guys try to cut one from the herd. Toronto clubbing etiquette frowns on poaching established couples. "You don't flag a cab that has its light off. It's taken," my daughter says.

At the slightest connection - one of your group knows someone in their group - groups intermingle. While the actual dancing is frenetic and sensuous, the psychological dance is quite subtle and not for the faint of heart or sober.

As time, drink and testosterone take hold, interested male strangers move from the margins (where guys wriggle against the walls like grizzlies with hemorrhoids) onto the perimeter of girl groups. They take up the rear - almost literally. They move in, dancing behind a woman. The length of time they dance back there is determined by how good they look, how well they dance and the impression they make on her girlfriends who face him.

Has he "got game?" Some don't, go unacknowledged and dance off elsewhere. Some do and are allowed closer.

"It's purely aesthetic," one of our group says. "You can't hear anything. ... Attraction has to be obvious and instant."

Johnny from Islington, an acquaintance, is 23, a stubbly handsome pipefitter well versed in clubland codes. "You hope to get 'a read' from a woman," he says. "You dance for maybe 20 minutes. Smile. You have to build an attraction before you seal the deal. The girls like the fight. They want to be pursued."
Next step is "spooning." The guy moves in, puts his hands on the woman's gyrating hips and they dance and writhe as one. Sometimes if her girlfriends have acquired partners, they all will press in and a raunchy "sandwich" forms. Dancing in front of a woman seems as odd to them as dancing behind one does to me. "They know you're there," Johnny says. "It's like cuddling in bed."

Women watch out for one another. Every group has a "mommy," or "mother hen." If Mr. In Behind is "sketchy," a girlfriend or mother hen will employ "the swing," and deftly but decisively shift their dance to position an unworthy sort at a tangent - and on, into loser limbo.

There is no guy group equivalent, no "daddy."

"Men's loyalty is to poon and poon only," Felicia states.

If a connection is made, a pairing might move from the group to a side lounge or bar. Then a rotation system that would do their GTA parents proud kicks in. Clear communication is mandatory. "I'm going for a smoke with this guy," a woman will tell her group. They stay put until she returns. She has 15 or 20 minutes' grace before the text messages fly - "Where R U?" - and they send out searchers.

When she does return, another of the group is freed to go off or the herd moves as one. No one is left alone and the code is rarely broken, even by the drunk and horny.

We did two more clubs. Westward on Richmond at Spadina, Cantina Charlie's had a younger, downscale crowd firmly frisked before takeoff. Bouncers found my notepad and sketchbook. I was shown the door and cruelly denied the opportunity to sup beer slushies from purple plastic beakers to the strains of Jay-Z.

Metro nightclub, a block east on Richmond, was bigger, darker, louder, strobe-ier, sleazier, dirtier (the floor was a pâté of spilled drinks and cocktail napkins) and edgier, with more rap ("Move, bitch! Get out th' way! Get out th' way!"). It was more popular. Its focal point was a raised stage network of "stripper poles" and overhead rails from which hung approximations of writhing streetcar patrons.

TWO O'CLOCK SCRAMBLE

After final frenzied attempts at last-minute hookups or cell numbers (the "Two O'clock Scramble"), the clubs puked out the drunks - everybody but me - onto the streets. There were school buses waiting for the Townies (derided rubes hauled in from the hinterland beyond 905), cabs and street-meat vendors galore.

Newly found couples necked in doorways, drunks guzzled hot dogs, howled at the moon, and clubbers fell, often literally, into cabs. A few fell into the arms of the Toronto police. There were horse cops, bike cops, foot cops, car cops and brutally no-nonsense cops, the sort who give a belligerent drunk a two-handed blast in the chest and the command "Leave!" Then, when he begs to differ, they swarm him to the sidewalk and frog-march him away in handcuffs to aderisive chorus of "Ta-ser! Ta-ser!" from onlookers.

I enjoyed the club scene after a fashion. A little goes a long way, but there never is a little (unless it's a skirt). It's not what I did as a youth, or expected from today's. But it looked like good, not-quite-clean fun with its own updated codes and morals.

"History repeats itself," my girl group told me. "This is our Moulin Rouge. This is our speakeasy, our hippies dancing naked in a muddy field.

"When you are 19, this is your time, this is your place."









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It is time