A conversation with my coworkers today reminded me that I haven’t added anything to Tales from the Club recently. That isn’t because my social life sucks. The hiatus is a result of a number of things: lower income means less bottle popping, non-local clubbing circle means more complications in assembling, and a steady relationship means less need to seek out prospective crushes. Not that I’ve ever done that before. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

This showertime reflection made me think about what has changed in my social activity since spending time with Bongo. I pondered: Bongo and I have gone clubbing three times. The first time he enjoyed it. The second time he really didn’t like it. The third time we were kind of cornered into clubbing – And I punched that girl – I know everyone enjoyed that. What was it about the second time that made him not like it? Oh yeah, THE HELLA OLD CHINESE GUY WHO KEPT STALKING US.

The memory of this geriatric clubber caused an immediate and unwelcome series of flashes from my clubbing past. Geriatric Clubber after Geriatric Clubber. Old people in clubs – WHAT THE HELL?

Case No. 1 – The Professor

Two of my high school guy friends and I had gone out to one of those super classy 18-and-up club nights. Not in San Francisco. Not in San Jose. Not in any respectable cosmopolitan city. In Mountain View. That is where Google is. That is not where you should go for primetime clubbing.

Anyway, we were there, and so was this 50-or-so-year old man. He looked like a professor. (Or maybe I was primed to think in educator terms because I should have been working on college apps instead of clubbing on a Wednesday night.) He wore a navy blue velvet blazer – buttoned – and khaki slacks with black leather shoes. He wore smoked glasses with circular rims. He was Caucasian, of seeming Irish descent, with his red hair.

His red hair and velvet jacket made him especially professor-y. I don’t know how to describe his hair, except that it had this Gene Wilder curliness to it, falling wavy on top and gathering in curly bunches by the nape of his neck. In fact, he also gave off a bit of a Willy Wonka feel, particularly from the creepy tunnel-singing sequence.

The Professor wrapped his arms around the bars of human-sized gorilla cages LimeLight’s go-go cages as teenage girls aspiring to come off as adults danced in that tired homoerotic way. They gave him weird looks, but they kept dancing. In return, he kept this unchanging and gross tight-lipped smile as he ogled them. Shudder. Around The Professor, with the exception of the monkey bitches he had entrapped, writhing in the cage, a ten-foot gap of people had formed. No one dared go near him. Why was he there?

Too creepy.

Case No. 2 – Jack Lemmon

If you knew me in college, you knew I loved The Vault. It’s a homey little place in San Jose where I pretty much always had a good night – Okay, so “homey” in the sense that it didn’t charge cover for ladies. They also handed out all these free condoms on “Sex Ed” themed nights. That’s not so homey, but it does show concern for the greater clubbing public’s health!

On the night I reviewed The Vault, they unfortunately got some really shitty DJ, and after that they started charging women for entry. The changes make me sad, but I choose to remember The Vault the way I liked it best: free-99, with great music in the back room. I like to also think I boosted their business with my voluntarily professed fangirldom. I was even approached by some random Santa Clara boys one night who were all drunk and trying to get their swerve on, like “You’re that May-ka girl, aren’t you? Don’t you write that clubbing column? You like this place, right? Are your girls here? Blah blah blah.” Boy, stop.

One night I was there in all my glitz and glamour. The girls I was with were also Professional Clubbers, and we had dutifully dressed to meet the standard Shiny Shoe Rule. The Vault was very strict about dress code, so we were waiting outside in line as bouncers filtered through the potential clientele’s wardrobe. Other young adults, 20- and 30-something, were in line with us, all dressed to the proverbial nines. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Except.

Jack Lemmon. He looked like Jack Lemmon. He was bald on top with a disappearing white crown of hair running from ear to ear. He had glasses on. Khaki jacket that you’d buy your grandpa from Sears. Docker-esque slacks. And a sour, pouty expression like you just stole his newspaper. He refused to look the bouncer in the eye through his wire-rimmed glasses when he joked, “Lemme see, I’m guessing – You’re 17?”

The second bouncer stood behind the shoulder of the first bouncer, not even trying to stifle a laugh as he swept his flashlight from Jack Lemmon to Jack Lemmon’s driver’s license. Jack Lemmon looked on, fixated on some spot beyond the bouncers’ chests (which he barely came up to in height).

Umm, yeah, that was weird.

Case No. 3 – Our Chinese Stalker

The second time Bongo accompanied me clubbing, my girlfriends and I had gone to Bubble Lounge. Miss Hawai’i was making the move to the islands, and after a hearty good-bye dinner at Oola, we trekked over to Bubble in the financial district.

Things were going good. Bellinis were had. Pageant queens were met. One can only take so much of the ground level of Bubble, though. We decided to migrate downstairs to Bubble’s cave-like dance floor, where more hip-hop and top 40 is usually played. Bubble’s cave is a dark, sweaty place. We were all having fun, though. Just as I was thinking, “Yay! Bongo likes clubbing!” and the girls went to the bar for more drinks, Bongo and I noticed this guy who was basically the ethnic and age replica of my dad standing even closer to me than my dad and I do. He was actually looking at me, too. Bongo stood behind me and I was sandwiched between Bongo and this random old Chinese guy.

This was highly awkward. Part of me expected him to give me some lecture on dancing with White boys, or dancing in sweaty clubs, or drinking alcohol, or something – all things my dad has never done but I wouldn’t put past some random old man who frequents San Franciscan night spots on his own.

Our Chinese Stalker (How wrong would it be if I dubbed him “China Man?” Doode…) was actually lifting his arms in apprehensive reference to the music’s rhythm. What? You’re totally like my dad and you’re trying to dance with me? With us? Again, what?

Even without the social awkwardness, on his own Our Chinese Stalker was strange. There, in the dark and almost murky depths of the Bubble Lounge cave, Our Chinese Stalker was wearing a full leather jacket over his shirt and slacks and shoes. FULL LEATHER JACKET. In a sweaty, sweaty place! That, in itself, was just an uncomfortable image to behold. Like that loner in high school who hustles from place to place under their turtle shell of a backpack.

Bongo and I spun around to try to shake Our Chinese Stalker. I turned to face Bongo. Bongo positioned himself between Our Chinese Stalker and me. We rotated so that Our Chinese Stalker could no longer sandwich either of us. We squeezed through the crowd to a different part of the dance floor.

Our Chinese Stalker kept. On. Keepin’. On. He kept following us! Though he said nothing, he gave us no personal space and seemed to show no regard for Bongo being there or me looking utterly repulsed. We retreated to the bar. Upon returning to the floor, he appeared again. It finally got to the point where I literally pushed him away with two hands.

No, Chinese Stalker, no.

It’s hard enough having a safe and fun night out on the town with your friends. Virtually no part of any evening out is completely carefree. At some point you have to plan the drunken trip home, who’s going to remind you to close your tab, and what signal you’re going to send to your friends when you disapprove of your latest suitor. But never, never ever, do I want to be concerned about some old guy next to me collapsing from overexcitement.

Old people. Ban them from the driver’s seat and prohibit them from crossing the velvet rope.

This means you, John McCain. Y’ain’t gettin’ into my Club America!

Editor’s Note: Further reading on Chinese people’s ages from former Gawker editor Emily Gould’s Emily Magazine:

“Chinese people have only two ages,” he explained when I got all bug-eyed over his license. “We look like this, and like this, and like this, and then one day we wake up and we’re that hunchbacked lady carrying two buckets of soda cans dangling on either end of a broom handle through Chinatown.”