Ah, the world of the velvet rope club. Don’t let us fool you; it’s not a world with which we are very familiar. Generally the rope says to us, “Go to the dive down the street.” Then we are invited to a party at one of these joints, put on a list, and are actually welcomed into the world of the upper crust. Of course, we are inevitably disappointed. Now, you ask, how could you be upset with a place packed with girls in high heels, asspants and tops that could double as hankies? All I have to say is that teens in tube tops do not a club make. The first problem this joint has is its clueless staff. After struggling to get past the geniuses at the door–whose guest list is apparently written in crayon and disappearing ink–we had to deal with waitresses that had never heard of the putting drinks on a tab. Once we told them this was a way of paying for multiple drink orders without having to dole out immediate cash (and not a diet drink) they were actually reasonably friendly–even after being jostled and spilled on by some drunken asshole that tried to steal my drink. The space itself is weirdly schizophrenic. There are several sections that are roped off from one another. We were in the Winter Wonderland room, a space entirely coated in that fake Christmas tree snow that tastes oh so wonderful when it flakes off into your glass of Jack. In order to dance, one must leave these spaces and joint the throngs on the dance floor. One dance floor played awful house music and had a total population of four completely high idiots that were dancing like epileptic monkeys. The other floor played rap and hip-hop, and was more crowded with lots of ladies. I’m sure if we were in more of a dancing mood, we would have enjoyed the music, but we are rarely in the mood to pay a giant cover and ridiculous drink prices to hang out in a basement space with chumps. [MF]
246 Columbus Ave.