My club makes me laugh out loud.
To my left, I watch Mad Max’s frizzy-haired girlfriend run for her life from post-apocalyptic road thugs.
Ahead of me is a dance floor packed with 25 women and -3 guys dancing their hearts out to It’s Raining Men.
To my right, two bouncers crowd the ladies room, mops in hands, urgently cleaning up whatever mess I’m glad I didn’t get to see.
