It’s Valentine’s Day, and I think I should go out and do something.
Sure, long ago I gave up on finding love in this lifetime, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be a billion women feeling just as lonely as I am, and I would like to meet them.
My homies tell me Fusion is having a dance party. I haven’t been there since it was Swig and I figure it could be fun. Having heard there’s a dress code, I take off my gangster wear and put on a nice shirt—the kind with a collar. The kind that says, “Hey guys, you can let me in here. I will totally be good, until I drink enough and then you’re all screwed.”
But seriously, my shirt is nice. I grab my homies—they are top-40 rap fans indeed—and we get ready to rule that bitch.
It’s a little early and not a lot of people have shown up yet. Not a problem; we are ready to drink. The room is shaded in pleasing blues. I feel calm, which is great as the bartender has decided that my friends and I have taken a vow of thirst. Sure, we’re not comely young lasses or anything but usually, when you’re holding a fistful of cash, people take notice. We place our orders and the bartender proceeds to pour one of the weakest drinks of all time. I understand that bars have a markup, but I’ve been elsewhere and gotten my money’s worth.
We discover one of the other bars. Postmodern light fixtures and furniture make it seem quite comfortable and appealing. I don’t know if it’s still too early, but there is no bartender. No matter. We have come for the jams and they have just opened the dance floor downstairs.
DJ Pebbles is on hand spinning top 40 jams and people are going for it! The red hues perfectly complement the holiday and the lighting makes even a forest troll like me look sexy, so you can imagine how the ladies look. It’s a little creepy though, as there are a ton of women dancing and a ton of dudes salivating. I realize then and there that my ability to make snap judgments is finely tuned indeed. I need another drink. Any idea I have of the downstairs bartender making a stronger one is quickly gone. Good thing we pre-gamed it earlier.
The DJ puts on that one Beyonce song I like—the one about being a naughty girl—and I decide it’s time to start talking to people. I am curious if this is the kind of place that people come to often. Some have never been and are lured by the club’s reputation and the call of jams. Others frequent the club for its atmosphere and to be seen.
Who can blame them? Fusion is comfortable and accommodating, the staff is genuinely friendly, the music is killer and three bars in one club is sweet! I imagine that I can sit and drink in a different one depending on my mood.
Fusion brings Santa Fe something we need. Someplace hip. It seems that a few years back, everyone decided that dive bars were the only ones worth our time and money. I like dives as much as the next guy, but it feels good to dress nice and dance like crazy once in awhile. Even if there is a wall of sweaty weirdos staring.
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