Saturday night I went clubbing.

The night sky was a black sheet, and the full moon was stuck in it like a white thumb tack. I stopped at the first liquor license, parched from the arduous eight block walk. Club Dedo used to be goth, but now it's only gothesque, a kinder, gentler kind of goth. Five patrons stood on the sidewalk smoking as I walked up. The dress code was monochromatic black. I shook hands with the ones I knew, and slipped inside the nearly empty bar. All the clientèle was on smoke break.

I ordered a shot and a glass of water, and talked to Delia.

I got my last degree, she said. Now I'm a Sumerian priestess.

Apparently there are multiple enclaves of people practicing an ancient religion in El Paso. But that's a whole other story.

Loco was the only other customer inside when I got there. He's big and blocky, goateed, with a shaved head. I met him when he used to front a hardcore band in fishnet stockings. He and I caught up and swapped shouts, and pretty soon the place filled up with mohawks and extra eyeliner. In the dance floor next room strobes flashed like gunshots.

As I left Loco gave me his number.

Don't call me if everything's all right, he said. Call me when you need me.

I walked downtown. Traffic was light, and I didn't wait for the signals.

By the time I got to Soho I had to pee. I bolted through the door and made a beeline for the tatsefully appointed bathroom.

When I got to the bar the deejay was pumping out Depeche Mode's Personal Jesus. It was the last song that I'd recognize that night.

Surveying the bar I spotted a hot chick by the door.

Are you the door guy? I asked her.

I'm the bouncer.

I took her picture, and showed it to her from the back of my camera.

You look like a lion, I said.

I'm a tiger.

And I bet she is.

From Soho I intended to hit the Union district, but music from the Arts Plaza pulled me in. The patio around the new bar on the ground floor of the theater annex was peopled, but not exactly full. I walked around the front and between the two guys working the door.

Am I okay? I asked them.

You're fine, sir. Go ahead.

I wasn't sure my wardrobe was appropriate for El Paso's club scene. I wore blue jeans and bowling shoes, my best western shirt and black velour blazer. I thought I looked great, but there's no accounting for taste. As it turned out, my outfit was adequate for every place I went, and appropriate for every place except Dedo, which endorses black on black.

The club at the Plaza Theater is nice, fancy, and expensive. One ounce of premium tequila, served in a heavy clip joint shot glass engineered to fool the customer into thinking the drink is bigger than it is, cost eight bucks. I drank the shot and dropped a dollar tip and left.

At the door, I noticed another line under the marquee.

Is there a movie showing?

No, the door guy told me. That's the line to get to the upstairs bar.

I stood in line for the elevator for a couple of minutes before I decided I had bigger fish to fry.

On the other side of the civic center, the sidewalks had traffic before I got to the bridge. The alley percolated like a bee hive with circulating humanity.

Chuck sat on his pedicab in front of 1914.

You want a ride, Rich?

I'm going to Republic.

Get on.

We willowed through the throng, heavy on the handlebar bell. I passed the line and went to the VIP entrance and gave the bouncer the secret handshake.

Republic is, apparently, the hottest club on the planet. I should have worn baby oil to negotiate the crowd in front of the bar. Girls in bikinis syncopated on risers at both ends of the room. At floor level motion was apparent, but I couldn't really see anybody moving. It was like worms in a can.

I fell into the flow and crossed the room, and then climbed a step and crossed back over to the relative quiet of a less densely populated corner.

Passing through, I saw Chuck deBroder at a table. He said it's gonna rain.

By that time I'd had enough. Tequila. Water. Sensory overload. I vibrated through the crowd one more time and left through the gate I came in.

Note to all the bartenders: Don't dip my glass in salt before you serve me my premium tequila. Give it to me naked, as they say

In all, I'd say the state of the local night club industry is healthy, or at least the options for consumers. At least it was last Saturday.