Now That's A Party

I was Wandering through Sacramento's downtown club scene in the shadow of the state capitol where on a previous visit years ago, I remember a few nicely laid out clubs filled with high-spirited, energetic party-goers; obnoxious, muscular security guards, police, but no fights.
Other clubs were similar for the most part.

This trip was about the same, but the club that was literally across the street from Arnold's House is just a restaurant. The clubs now were about the same too, except for one club that was receiving considerable attention.

As I strolled home through the night on clean sidewalks, bathed in yellow light, I had to ask myself which club I wanted to go to.

Was it the one where the patrons quietly strolled out, looked up and down the deserted streets but for other revelers, and chatted inaudibly on their cell phones or did I want to be in the club where some young lady got her hair done for about $70 dollars, has sweat the perm out and isn't too happy about it. (I could tell she had a good time through - there's a look.)

It's the club where there was a chick fight inside and the angered women continued to boil outside the club. There's a guy fight outside and there's five cop cars; their red, white and blue flashing lights illuminating the night. At the curb, about 10 officers, hands in defensive ready positions on their gun's butts and billy clubs, stand ready to mix it up like imperial storm troopers.

It's the witching hour in Sacramento.
The party people leave the club slowly, reluctantly, shrouded by a testosterone and pheromone-driven electricity wafting through the air.
The lively talk, the loud laughter and shouting for friends and their rides makes a normal phone conversation near impossible; people press one ear to cell speakers while pressing a finger into the other.

It's a near chaos, but focused on a shared disappointment the night is over a little too soon. Security guards and police shout their need for the street to be cleared and for the party-goers to go home. It seems their protestations are ignored but for the reveler's slow, short steps.

Around several adjacent corners, bathed in bright light, drivers are stopped at curbside while the police inspect them and their car's paperwork - a few colorfully clad young men stand or sit hand cuffed. The one they missed was a faded, young woman driving down the wrong side of a two way street.

As I turned to take it all in one more time, I couldn't help but feel that there was a party going on in there.
Hmmmmm....
Maybe next week...