No, not that CSI

There are some things I know about myself. One of them is that I simply cannot survive in a club. The music, the translucent people…all hideous.

Why was I even in a club? Well, let me back up: after finishing the exam today we had a ceremony at our corporate headquarters this evening, the first graduation ceremony of two, and most of us went out to celebrate afterwards. I’d never heard of the Brant House; having seen it I wouldn’t have picked it, but I’m not most people, and most people seemed to like it. Put it this way: any place that offers bottle service, and attracts people who would want bottle service, is outside of my wheelhouse.

I stayed long enough to be respectable (i.e., not a pussy) and then fled to safety of my home where I could guarantee the percentage of real people (my wife = 1/1) and control the music that was played. In this case, “Million Star Hotel” by The Constantines: low enough not to wake my wife, but loud enough to expunge all the disco blather and Def Leppard remixes from my head. I scarfed down some food as soon as I got home (dinner was disappointing; at least my friend Russ gave me half his fries) and now I’m typing this, reveling in the knowledge that I don’t have to go to work tomorrow.

Oh, and I’m now officially a Fellow of the ICB (or CSI, or whatever it’s called now) as well as a silver medalist. Imagine my excitement.

[tags]mba, brant house, icb, constantines[/tags]

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