Ask your nearest seven year old if they’d like to go to a party. “Yay!” they’ll say. Tell them the party has a special name – would they like to know that special name? “Yay!” they’ll say. “It’s called Sunday School!” you reply. 

Your kid will shoot you the worldliest of WTF looks, sneer slightly and involuntarily from sheer disgust, and hold your sense of fun suspect for the rest of their days.

Maybe you were that seven year old who got asked such asinine questions. If so, then what on god’s green earth were you doing at Zanzibar on Sunday night? Lest we forget, ye who forgets the past is destined to repeat it? And lord, how we repeated it last night.

They call the party “Sunday School” at Zanzibar. After getting conflicting information about the DJ, we set out anyway because it was $5 to get in and we’re cheap bastards. There were enough people there to deceive us about Sunday School’s fun-ness. So we headed to the dance floor, greeted by the muzak version of my roommate’s love-making music. 

And we tried. Lord how we tried. Just like we tried to look interested in real Sunday school two decades back. And lo, the higher God of Music was not strong enough to keep the lesser God of Boredom at bay. Yet we powered through because our friends were trying to impress their dates, and Zanzibar sans Sunday School really is a cool place.

Take heed! If it was boring when you were seven, it’s still boring now.  Resist the temptation of a $5 cover charge in the land of No Dance Parties (hello, Westside!). Ye shall be greatly rewarded at another bar.