Bela Lugosi is dead. Really.

Hubby and I had a date on Saturday night and for the first time in a long while, we decided to go "clubbing." I'm using that term loosely because--for all of you who know my darling life partner, he's Mr. Preppy and owns maybe two or three black articles of clothing: one of which is the sweater he wore on our date. I think after five years of marriage, his preppiness has rubbed off on me, too, as I don't own much "club wear" anymore either.

Quite a contrast given that my previous husband was Mr. "New Romantic" or whatever you want to call it (I can't really call him a Goth since he wasn't into the undead, nor did he invest in white pancake makeup), but he wore his hair much like Robert Smith when we were in college and had more eyeliner in his makeup collection than many of his feminist roommates.

I never really played the part, you know, of Siouxsie to my first husband's Robert Smith--but I loved going out to clubs with him and dancing until all hours and never really thought twice about the weirdos around me. To me, they were actors in a play and dance was their form of expression--even if it was just swaying back and forth while making hand gestures to various lyrics. Besides, I went to high school in Southern California--where we had Goths, Mods and Punks in addition to Burnouts, Surfers and Preppies. It came with the territory.

After feasting on nummy Italian fare at Machiavelli including several glasses of wine, we ventured to The Bad Juju Lounge, passing some friends of hubby's who were also trolling clubs in the vicinity. They looked at us quizzically as if to say "what are you doing here?" (I actually wore khakis on Saturday because clubbing was not premeditated--more like planned after the wine)--to which I replied, "Well, if anyone gives us any shit, we'll just smile and start speaking German." Feigning tourists always throws people off.

We were bored at Bad Juju. The DJ--a small Mexican woman who looked to be about 50--was playing some good stuff--some Jesus and Mary Chain and The Damned; but then she started playing "Fox on the Run" by Sweet and I was ready to bail. That song invokes way too many emotions in me as it was Hubby #1's most favorite as he was going through his Glam phase. Just as the Jack and Coke began to kick-in, I grabbed hubby and we pushed on to The Vogue.

Now, the Vogue has always held a special place in my heart, since it's one of the first clubs I went to when I moved to Seattle. At the time, though, it was Downtown in a much nicer space than it's current address. But after we paid our cover charge and made our way to the bar in the back, I couldn't stop laughing. It wasn't just the cross dresser pole dancing in a skirt and a G-string; nor was it the overweight, middle aged Goths donned in lace-up latex and black lipstick. It was that this place hadn't changed at all, but I had. I suddenly found myself repulsed with everything around me--except maybe the music. UNTIL they played "Pure Energy" from Information Society. I almost spit out the contents of my drink and yelled "WHAT THE FUCK?" when I looked over at my barmate--a guy with a shaved head wearing a Bauhaus t-shirt who was just ROCKIN out to the synth beat and electric drums and I said, "AW, COME ON. ARE YOU FOR REAL? DID YOU ACTUALLY LIKE THIS SONG IN 1988?" To which he replied, "I ACTUALLY SAW THEM IN CONCERT AT DV8--OR WHATEVER IT WAS BACK THEN."

I couldn't believe it. A Goth gone soft? I was shocked. I was appalled.

The DJ then played "She Sells Sanctuary" by the Cult and my ever-so-witty husband turned to me and said, "You know, it's ok to loathe these people." (editor's note: if you haven't seen the movie Singles, please watch it. You'll get the joke, I promise!)

After a few more drinks, I made my way upstairs where people were writing down their song requests for the DJ. I perused the list which looked all too benign for the crowd below: Duran Duran, Portishead, etc. I wasn't really thinking too much (or, too clearly) so I wrote Propaganda (anything...) and left a smiley face on the end of the ellipses. Suddenly, I heard this "YEAH! YEAH!" coming from behind me and when I turned I saw the DJ giving a "Whoop Whoop" and making a mad dash for the record. I guess I made him happy.

As soon as the current song was over, I heard the familiar start of Propaganda's "P-Machinery" and laughed at hubby who stood there with a perpetual smirk on his face as he took in the scenery. I made my way out onto the dance floor and began my sway/hand gesture dance. All I needed was a clove cigarette and I would have been in heaven.

We left right after "P-Machinery" so we could end the night on a good note. The long walk back to the car (parked on Melrose) did us some good. We marveled at the pole dancers (some who brought their own liquid wax with them!) and the others who looked as though they had been regulars since the club began. Me--I'm too old for this shit and I mean that not because I'm 36. Hell, everyone there looked like they were in their mid-thirties. But I just feel as though my life is more enriched than it was when I spent my weekends dancing.

Besides, getting Mr. Na up after an evening of drinking really, really SUCKS!