A Thursday At The ATL

Well this sure came a lot faster than I’d anticipated.

On Thursday, my 10-year-old golden retriever Allie died.

Nah, not really. I’m talking about my last Gainesville-stationed night at The Atlantic, that bulwark of hipster chic, glittery bros, Alexis Krauss lookalikes and humans after all.

Unlike The Top, which I’ve frequented – occasionally against my will – roughly 37 straight Thursdays in a row (and have grown to hate or love/hate – but always partially hate – depending on my mood), The ATL’s been something of a white unicorntard this semester both because of its line-induced elusiveness and its penchant for, um, single-pieced bodysuits.

So I don’t make it across the street as often as I’d like to in these waning days of youth, but just the prospect of a Doowhatchyalike jam adds a little jolt of awesome to the rest of the evening’s oft-inebriated festivities. The Atlantic is the ace of spades (to drop a song that would never, ever get requested… unless it was remixed by Robyn) up the night’s sleeve: the wildcard, the afterburner, the hole of sweaty groove, bump ‘n grind, dancing yrself clean.

I’m gonna miss this place a lot, just as I’ll kinda sorta miss the rest of Gainesville – home for four shitty years and two pretty great ones. There will be other “nightspots” in my future (South Beach FTW), but none with more likable DJs, or a better hipster-to-human ratio, or dankier bathrooms, or free-er beer.

On a Thursday night, every girl is Karen O, every song is “Reptilia”, every cigarette is Virginia Slim, every mustache is ironic, and all the Ammy Appy (RIP) is tight as shit.

This is how it should be, ya know? No school, no jobs, no homework – unless it’s Daft Punk.

Daft Punk – Da Funk