Saturday, March 11, 2006

The elephant in the room

I met up with friends last night and was introduced to one of the part owners of a new club in the meat packing district. Since I had just read a New York Magazine article featuring the space, I decided to check it out as the owners guest.

The cool barometer was raised by two distinct quotients:

1-We got out of a cab in front of Scores.

2-The last time I ventured into the meat packing scene I was the guest of a broker and his coke snorting friends. They only went to the hottest clubs in town, always got table service and somehow managed to surround their balding shortness with gaggles of emaciated models. My friends and I passed him in the line when we were ushered in with the owner.

Now, If you want to do a shmance New York club right, you have to be escorted past the velvet red rope, you have to be comped at the coat check and bar, you have to be granted VIP access and you have to be treated like your famous.

Status can trump beauty in bars like these. And since I had eaten that day, I was only going to get the kind of attention afforded the former.

The interior of the club was gorgeous. But it couldn't distract from the social ugliness. The dance floor was a scene of frozen expressions and eyes roving the crowd, searching over everyone's shoulder for the next best thing.

Littered with models and stock brokers, this club was no different than the others I had visited in the area. Same crowd, different colored walls.

But these walls were definitely cooler. Live clover lined the walls like geometric chia pets. Judging by the women standing on the bar raising their skirts over their heads and grinding in their nude satin panties to the beats, there would likely be a few three leaf clovers found before the end of the night.

In summary, I'm too old for these kind of places. These places are made for a time in my life when I didn't have to wear moisturizer, but always looked dewey. A time when if I wanted to fit in my skinny jeans, I just didn't eat dinner for three days. A time when I could stay out all night dancing and wake up the next morning for an 8:00 AM brunch date. A time when I wore jean miniskirts that only showed the curve of my ass when I bent over. A time when the most I wanted from a man was tight abs and a good make-out session. A time when I thought being hot, being cool and being noticed were the most important things in life.

But it's not that time.

So I took myself home and crawled into bed with my New York Magazine to scout out tomorrows adventure.

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posted by Pop Culture Casualty @ 3/11/2006 02:07:00 AM |


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