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La Rumba Martini

La Rumba

There are a few things that I know for sure, and one is that I'm not hip. When I was younger, I thought I was, and/or tried to be, but now I know for sure that I'm not hip, that I've never been hip, and that no amount of trying will make me hip. In fact, as I've gotten older, I've learned to revel in my unhipness. I don't smoke, don't have tattoos and look silly in trucker hats (really, who doesn't?). And vintage clothes just look old on me. So in the past, when my friends asked if I wanted to go to Lipgloss at La Rumba on Friday night, I shied away. I imagined that the club would be full of hipsters and that I would stick out like a sore thumb — or a fresh new pair of Lee jeans. But in a moment of weakness (and after a number of cocktails), I finally went to Lipgloss — and was delighted that when I entered La Rumba, no one turned around and pointed at me. Then, as I waded into the crowds by the bar, I realized that I'd been all wrong: There's nothing pretentious about Lipgloss. It attracts not just hipsters, but everyone from beautiful young women dressed to the nines to Spicoli-type "dudes" in board shorts to trannies and drag queens in, well, tranny and drag-queen outfits. "No one gives a shit," one person told me. "We just come here to dance." Actually, one person did give a shit: Just as I grabbed a La Rumba Martini ($9), made with Stoli Strasberi, Red Bull and cranberry juice, my friend's hairdresser walked up and said that her hair looked terrible. But then a guy in a huge Fu Manchu mustache asked me to dance, and we joined the happy hordes on the dance floor. Let's get ready to Rumba!

 
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