Upon paying the nice smiley woman at the door you are handed two stickers with an identical number on each of them. "This is how people are able to iSpy you," she gleefully states while a twinge of pity flashes through her eyes. Pity, why? Perhaps she found love young and revels in the knowledge that she will return to a partner waiting for her to continue their life travels.
Enter the bar. It is fairly full, luckily not smoky although a pack of cigarettes would probably ease your nerves. Classic bar lighting keeps you from scowling - good for the wrinkles and perceived perception - except for an oddly bright area. Oh, it seems that the primary center of the singles party is lit up like a Christmas tree in NYC because you need to be able to see the numbers pasted loosely onto other singles clothing. Great idea party hosts. Corral a bunch of singles into a bar, give them alcohol, rely on bright unflattering down lighting and expect them to meet new and interesting people. Thankfully the bartender seems to be alert and ready to make you a drink. Alcohol will not only make the other people at the party more attractive, but it will dull the pain that will be shotgunning through your eyes once you step into the bright abyss of the singles party.
A large screen is the center of attention, nervous anticipating eyes scour it for mention of their black number...a connection that they desire. A singles party could well be the last hope of an increasingly anxious thirty something and the room reads of desperation. Of course you join them in the reading of passing comments. Ever watch someone type live? As it turns out the experience is not very fun but apparently more fun than meeting singles, you know, the entire reason you subjected yourself to this torture.
Finally, after two drinks you decide that you are full of alcohol and desperation, blinded and possibly sunburned by the UFO-mocking bright lights, and, quite simply, done with the night. Besides it is 8:30 p.m. and there are television shows to watch. You leave.