real life You Got Served

Well kind of. There were no dueling dance crews - one white, one black - but at times I did feel like I was in a movie this weekend.

My best friends from home and I went to Memphis for the weekend. One of our long-time girlfriends was getting married on a riverboat on the Mississippi River, which is probably one of the greatest ideas ever. Despite the excruciating heat and the initial feeling of seasickness as the giant Memphis Queen III left the dock, the entire party - from the vows on the bow of the boat to the R&B goodness of the band - was a blast. Sure, parts of it were a logistical mess, such as us being told about two hours before the event that they had not planned for a cake cutter or plates (which they of course had but we managed to borrow a foot-long knife from the Marriott for the evening), not being able to actually hear the vows being exchanged without a mic and the bride's sister walking up to the top deck late after not being alerted that the ceremony was in fact starting. Hey it happens, but all in all, it was a stellar crowd enjoying every minute of the night.

But I digress. The boat docked about 10-ish, at which point my girlfriends and I promptly, and drunkly, chucked every last flower we had labored all day cutting, wiring and arranging in vases. We downed the last drop of our gin and tonics, loaded the car with the vases and left over cake and headed for the dance club, Plush, on Beale Street.

We walk in - all still dressed to the nines - and the two men were frisked for weapons and related contraband. I'm not sure if that made me feel good or kind of scared. Either way, we got in and ordered a few drinks and then unabashedly hit the dance floor. I quickly realized we were the only white (and multi-racial) folks in the crowd, and having had a not-so-welcoming experience in an all-black club in Birmingham, I was a little skeptical. (Picture three ladies walking on to the dance floor at Platinum, promptly clearing the place out. I'm saying people slap walked off the dance floor, with ladies throwing us eat-shit-and-die looks. Some of the men, however, loved the White Girls and bought us Long Island ice teas in massive mason jars.)

But we certainly weren't too worried about the reaction, as we danced pretty much all night. You know it's good if you get there when it's not too full and leave after the floor clears out. Well, there were a few guys there that seemed to be part of a dance crew of sorts and every once in a while they would break into these routines. It was unlike anything I have ever seen, except of course on You Got Served (act like you have never seen that movie) without the acrobatics. But these guys were so good, and crowds would gather around them.

At one point, the song Set It Off came on - a personal favorite - and I was all excited and went to dance again. Then I realized everyone was doing the same dance. Pretty much everyone in the club was moving the same way, something like the electric slide but without all the dumb hopping and cha-cha-cha. It was a sea of people, moving, and smiling and having a damn good time. Only, the white girl didn't the memo and was left standing on the sidelines wide-eyed.

Other highlights of the night include: drinking Remy Martin after some of the groom's friends bought a bottle from the bar; being filmed for some show on BET - the camera crew was taping people dancing and had a friend of mine and I say some shit like "You're watching what you're watching" or "What's on is what's you're watching" or something. There were also these two girls dancing in another area behind the bar, and they were so good we went right up to them and started dancing with them. I have literally never seen an ass do that before. I complemented her, and she said "as long as you're on beat, girl." Easier said than done, friend. So my girl bought them some tequila sunrises and we quickly departed when the women next to them rudely said "excuse me," making it apparent we were not welcome near them. That's fine. Oh and there were the gentlemen that wanted to "holla at us." One told my girl he wanted to "scratch her scalp," whatever that's supposed to mean.

The night ended back at the Comfort in where A and I found ourselves trying, with the help of the guy behind the hotel front desk, to pry into a bottle of Cabernet. He jammed a three-inch screw into the cork and struggled it out with a pair of pliers. After about 45 minutes, he was proud at the success of his project, and we were too drunk and tired to drink the wine.