Nights on the Circuit: A Night Called ‘Sloth’

The trouble with rum is …

Xania Woodman

Friday, February 23, 12:44 a.m.

You going to Ice Saturday night?" My house-head friend Justin is, of course, referring to the second of Ice's going-away parties. This time, sadly, it's for good. "It's kind of like Michael Jordan's retirement," he says, drawing a perky parallel. "You gotta take the jersey down ... then put it back up ..."

I laugh a little into my Rumjungle Juice, a dizzying fountain of rum attractively layering Malibu, Midori and pineapple juice into a rainbow, and topping it off with a float of Stroh 80. That 160-proof Austrian rum treat will shortly inspire me to dance with a gaggle of Midwestern spa conventionettes. But not just yet; it must first seep into my bloodstream to cause that much damage. 'Til then I'm a ticking time bomb.

Tonight is the official kickoff of Skin & Sin Thursdays, Rumjungle's eight-week homage to the seven deadly sins, with Original Sin tossed in for good measure and guilty pleasure. With Sloth having been chosen as the inaugural no-no, I start to see the world through lazy, slothful, can't-be-bothered glasses.

Exhibit 1: I showed up an hour late, a sloth factor of maybe four. I parked in the spot literally next to the elevator—who wants to walk? Sloth factor of two. I also half-assed it on hair, makeup and wardrobe, opting for a simple braid, mascara and lip gloss, and jeans. I garnered at least a seven there. I was also way too lazy to wait in line, so I broke out the bottom lip, the business card, batted those mascara'd green eyes and, essentially, whined until I was let in—I suspect for being annoying.

We beelined straight for the bar, and I pouted again when I heard there was no specialty cocktail list for me to play Rumjungle Roulette with. "But we do have Rumjungle Juice," pretty barkeep Celina shouted above the din. Hmm, sounds interesting. "Bring it!" Moments later I'm sipping happily on my pint o' rum and watching two girls attempt to work Justin for free drinks. In a typically overprotective female response, I mutter under my now-flammable breath, "Sluts." They sidle up and hop onto the barstools next to him. I slide down to make more room for the sideshow. He folds and buys them each a shot of something weak and suggestive like a Buttery Nipple and a Smirnoff Ice. He must have asked them to join us at Tryst later or something, because the second they see the bottom of those shot glasses, they and their drinks are gone. "They said, ‘We're conservative, we don't go off with strangers. We're from Indiana.'" We sigh and take long, synchronized drags on our drinks in a silent toast to tourists.

I pantomime to Celina, why are there no trappings of the Skin & Sin promo around? No harried promoters, no DJ D-Mixx (though DJ Blind Fury is spinning some sexy midtempo hip-hop), no slothful spa giveaways, nada. She runs off to find out just as one of the conventionettes returns.

I'm just about to threaten to hamper her ability to administer spa treatments if she tries to get more free drinks from my overly hospitable friend when she very sweetly asks me to come dance. I pause mid-verbal assault. "Sure!" The two-story drum kit sways precariously above the dance floor as we join the rest of her foursome. "I've never been out on a weekday!" Angela, my dance partner, confides in low tones as if she's afraid her parents might have bugged her girlfriends' headbands.

When I've had my fill of the fillies, I return to my seat, where Celina is waiting for me, the bearer of bad news. Skin & Sin has been pushed off a week for a March 1 start. All-Star weekend did some physical damage to the club that needs to be addressed first. My sloth-o-meter goes into overdrive. I don't even flinch or speak when a cowboy saunters over and grumbles under his handlebar moustache between pulls on his brew, "You waitin' for somebuddy, darlin'?"


Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at [email protected] and visit thecircuitlv.com to sign up for Xania’s free weekly newsletter.

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