And for this, I have to admit to going to Plaid…

In The Trial and The Castle, the hapless protagonists spend the bulk of each story muddling through an ever-complicating bureaucracy that seems simultaneously predetermined and self-actualized. This is what we in the hallowed corridors of academe refer to as “chiasmic unity,” a highfalutin term that we stole from the anatomical world for use in describing the seemingly incongruous momentary unity of two opposite forces.

A modern chiasmic unity I recently experienced involved a certain coat-check woman at a certain above-referenced New York City club* which is destined to become the New Webster Hall, ha ha. After giving this person three entire dollars (plus one more in tip!!) for the pleasure of stashing my miniscule gym bag for twenty minutes (you might say “carry your stuff, then, you cheap whore,” to which I reply, “YOU try schlepping your stinky shoes through a gaggle of hot gay men who already hate you because you’re the only thing between them and your boyfriend who is allegedly very convincingly gay onstage and see how YOU like those withering glances!!!”), I stood in what I thought was a line (in that it was a group of people standing one after another and getting the coat-check woman to do things for them, such as check and return their coats) for about five minutes, but when I got to the front of it, the woman said, “You have to stand in line.”

To which I said, “But I did stand in line!”

To which she said, “No, the line’s over there,” and pointed to a group of people who had gotten in line BEHIND ME.

Keep in mind that this took the amount of time it would have taken to return my bag to me.

Now, here’s where the Kafka-ish chiasmic unity comes in: A nightclub is supposed to be somewhere you go for fun, to recreate, and you sometimes even spend money for this express purpose. And yet, the staff of a nightclub seems absoultely intent on treating you with as much scorn as humanly possible while taking your money and then asking for a tip. I mean, granted I don’t look very cool, and I do eat every once in awhile, and I did happen to be breaking in a new pair of Birkenstocks for my impending trip abroad (everyone wears them over there! Fuck off!)…but really, why the fuck can’t you just give me back my bag, you mean, mean, meanie?

Why make me look like a douche in front of people who already hate me? Why do this? Because you can, I guess, because you can. I suppose that I, like the doppelgaenger K.’s in The Trial and The Castle, self-actualized my misery at this nightclub by going in the first place when I know full well I don’t like clubs, but I also think my misery was preordained because people like the mean meanie coat-check woman are trained to be assholes because that’s part of the whole club experience.

So to make a long-winded and self-obsessed anecdote short, here’s what I really mean to say: FUCK YOU, coat-check woman at Plaid! You are mean and nasty and hateful and why would you ever be such an asshole to people? Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!

Eh. Yeah. I’m on a new pill. It’s making me moody. I’m going to have some ice cream-flavored pizza.

*Thank you Jesse for even getting me into said club in the first place, the free Anheuser Busch World Select and mashed potatoes made up for the above-referenced debacle. Although I’m still never going to a club ever again.

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