I had an amazing experience last night. A friend of mine was having her birthday party at some establishment named after a cephalopod. I believe it was called The Octopus Lounge, though it may have been The Squid Shack. Either way, it looked like a good place to get crabs.

I arrived at my customary time –1 am– and was forced to line up like a Soviet trying to garner a loaf of bread. This is not my habit. I never line up for cultural events.

But I wanted to wish my friend a happy birthday so I broke out the stoicism and endured the humiliation that forms so many lives. I eventually came to the front of the line. There I met the most quaint and gauche of bourgeoisie customs.

The velvet rope.

I had heard rumors of this thing but never really believed them. Like Bigfoot, velvet ropes may exist but certainly not at the places I frequent. Yet, there it was. A little piece of faux-elegance and make-believe exclusivity set up to make a bunch of merchants feel like power brokers. And me without my camera.

The only thing more amusing than this little spectacle was the people. On one side they were desperate to get in, begging, pleading and frothing at the mouth. On the other, they were puffed up and preening, quite obviously proud of their sordid accomplishment. It must be an empty life indeed to be validated by something like that. I would suggest suicide for the lot of them.

I do not beg. I know that much about myself. Even while handcuffed and bloody, feeling that my life was in immediate danger, I did not beg. So I’m certainly not going to start begging just to cross some barrier and perhaps impress my inferiors. Besides, I didn’t need to. Two beautiful young ladies on the other side of the rope intervened on my behalf and even went so far as to get into an angry exchange with the doorman, who was, for some reason, permitted to wear an undershirt and bluejeans to work. It was all to no avail of course. Sadly, I lack a vagina.

Eventually the owner came out — I think he may have been some sort of dwarf — and said: “Don’t worry Ryan, we’ll look after you.” If I had not of been so shocked that he felt familiar enough to address me by my first name, I would have told him that I was far from worried. This was all quite entertaining.

Unfortunately, I never did cross that velvet divide. It left me feeling a bit like Shackleton on the Endurance Voyage. I had seen and accomplished much but not what I set out for. The party I intended to join opted to leave the establishment and we all ate a pleasant meal in Chinatown.

But I have learned something of vast import from all of this. Toronto is full of desperate mobs held at bay by velvet ropes. If I were to learn some public speaking, I am quite sure that I could rouse these rabbles to acts of sudden violence. I also think that perhaps I should.