Today on the light rail, I was invited to Hustler Mondays.

A man dressed in really long red shorts and a flat billed cap (with the sticker still on it, of course) steps onto the light rail a few stops before mine. He is carrying a bag and a box. He immediately sets both down on a seat and grabs a handful of flyers. He begins passing these out, starting with the people nearest him and working his way towards me and the cracked out woman to my left.

At first he seems pretty liberal with his target flyer-takers. He hands me a flyer and then starts to hand one to the woman next to me. She slowly raises her head to grab it from his hand.

Hustler: “Oh never mind.”

The woman is confused and reaches for it and mumbles something that sounds like “wwwhhaaaayyyyyyy???”

Hustler: “Oh hell naw I ain’t wastin’ this $1 flyer on your cracked out ass.”

The woman sighs and mumbles something that I thought resembles “Stupid dumbass.”

Hustler: “I ain’t givin you nothin. We don’t want people like you at this party. It ain’t for people like you.”

The woman puts her head back in her lap and appears to cry. I feel bad at first but finally take a look at the card.

“HUSTLER MONDAYS” it read on the front.

The back featured an explicit picture of a very voluptuous woman. Apparently this club showcases the sexist ladies, along with a full kitchen till 5 am. Now, with my 25th birthday approaching, I never thought I was old but I was unaware there were clubs in Houston open past 2 a.m. Now if we were in NYC, I would understand, but these late night party places in Houston are new to me. I don’t think I would fit in.

The man continues to pass out the flyers in the front of the train. I notice him almost hand one an old man, then quickly snatch it back. I started to feel lucky that I was invited to such an awesome event. I guess even on those ponytail days at 9 a.m., I somehow resemble a party animal.

He returns to his seat to open a box full of CDs. I was unaware people still made and/or bought CDs. He turns to the man sitting across his row.

Hustler: “Yo man dis my album. I wantchu to take a look at it. It’s dat new shit you been hearin bout yaknowwhatimsayin?”

Man: “Aight.”

The Hustler continues to pass out CDs, but this time he skips me. He has conversations with a few other people and then returns to grab some more CDs. By this time, we’re at my stop, so I inquire about the CDs.

Me: “Are you any good?”

Hustler: “Well what kinda music you like?”

Me: “I dunno ... all kinds.”

Hustler: “Dis ain't no country or no Katy PerryCalifornia Girls shit you white girls listen to ... dis is pimpin music.”

Me: “Well I’ll probably like it.”

Hustler: “Naw man this is from da soul. Dis is hardcore. Ain’t for you. But imam see you at da club, right?”

The doors open and I exit the train. I guess I’m not cool enough for the CD.

Moral of the story: I don’t think I have the appropriate attire for Hustler Mondays.