Have you ever walked into a party and realized you were in the wrong place? You know, that feeling that everyone knows each other. You know, you’re the only one that finds the 6’3″ transvestite dressed as a mouse to be a little disconcerting. And then the show starts and you’re afraid to look out from between your fingers. It’s worse than anything that you could possibly imagine, but everyone, including the bartender, is being really nice, and you feel like they are trying to recruit you into their “Tufted Tit Mouse” brigade. Is this how the Scientologists do it? Rope unsuspecting couples into their layers by waving the $5 cover (you must look like a nice, trusting couple) and then lock you in while a bunch of bizarre freaks parade around on stage brainwashing you into believing that the guy wearing the carrot on his nose is in fact God. And then you stay for a second drink. Finally, intermission, and you suck down the rest of your magic Cool-Aid and head for the door. The bouncer in the flowered, polyester shirt wishes you a good night as he opens the door and a trail of comets follows his unfurled arm. You walk down the street shaking your head, unable to believe what you just saw, and you turn around just in time to see the Slipper Room fade into nothingness–leaving nothing but an empty East Village street. At least that was our experience… [MF]
167 Orchard St.