Saturday, December 2, 12:20 a.m. Porkpie hat count: two; bowler hat count: three; tambourine count: one.
It's a reassuring feeling, cold plastic cup in hand, a stranger's elbow in your sternum as they inch forward to order, or in the case of the girls, to ogle an endangered species—the hot male bartender. I'm almost as drawn to them as I am to the one vacant stool tucked under the bar, ignored. I pounce, grateful for a place to perch while I take in the scene.
Immediately following First Friday—Vegas' once-monthly culture pill—the beloved Get Back at Beauty Bar road-tests local capacity laws by absorbing every manner of hip, edgy, retro-sexual, rockabilly, pinup, punk, post-punk, freestyle and lifestyle representative it can possibly accommodate, like some sort of countercultural Noah's Ark. There is diversity and room for all under the big umbrella of emo. One can only assume from my Intermix tunic, my Guess clutch and my Mariah Carey-circa-1993 hair that I'll be holding it down for the Westchester, New York peeps solo tonight (or is that sola?).
So, which came first: the piercing or the tat? Don't ask me—I haven't the slightest idea. Thanks in part to Jewish law, an inability to commit fully to a design scheme, an innate fear of pain and a father's wrath, I have no ink and no piercing that doesn't involve one or more of my ear lobes. And those are just four of the many reasons that no matter how badly I may want it, I will never be a hipster.
"I'm trying to be more edgy," a friend of mine said recently, proudly displaying the evidence of her rebellion in the form of a matching patent-leather belt and heels. Though she is far more Audrey Hepburn or Jackie O. than Bettie Page or Suicide Girl, I have to award points for effort. I, however, dwell in the gray-flannel area located somewhere between my friend the classic beauty and the Get Back.
As one who in the past has proudly sported an "Emo Sucks" T-shirt, I realize I am living a lie and therefore must here and now come out of the closet. I have emo-envy! I secretly love the irreverent, sensitive, Twiggy-hipped crowd with their skinny jeans, product-stiffened, side-parted, Joan Jett-ish hair and black kohl-lined eyes. And that's just the guys. All throughout the bar, the ladies have a kaleidoscopic palette of iconic beauty to choose from, and all of it is appealing in its own way.
But, alas, emo is something I shall never be. I can neither pop nor lock in the break-dance circle. I could never date a guy wearing more eye makeup than I was, no matter how smoking hot he might, in fact, look. I don't much cry in public, nor do I write angry poetry or weepy ranting songs about my misunderstood nature. (At least, not anymore.) The only vinyl I own is of Fleetwood Mac and The Bee Gees, and I don't bring my own percussion instruments to parties. I just have to think of the Cox high-speed internet "Emo-Shawn" commercial to start laughing so hard Ketel One shoots out of my nose. Besides, bangs don't look good on anyone with curly hair except Julia Roberts.
Though the bitter cold has succeeded in keeping a few souls from braving the chill to chill with their doe-eyed emo associates at the last Get Back of 2006, the hipper-than-thou majority is present and accounted for, as it will be a month before the next meeting is called. Hopefully, when Emo's Las Vegas opens just down the street early next year, I can join the black parade as it marches back and forth between the venues. As I say my goodbyes and see-ya-next-months, the bartender slaps me five so hard I nearly do cry a little.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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