As I mentioned in a previous post, yesterday marked the club Pink Elephant’s third anniversary. And in typical Pink style, the miser owners of the establishment are milking the event for all it’s worth with no not one, but three nights of celebration – Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday (honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t try to stretch it out to a whole week).

I remain flabbergasted by the fact that Pink Elephant has existed for only three years. I feel like I’d heard about it since my childhood (shows I had a messed up childhood). And the club has already taken up foreign residence in several European and soon-to-be South American countries.

This is all extremely disturbing. If one club has wreaked this much havoc on New York nightlife (and on my life personally) in a mere 1,080 days, what will it be capable of in ten years? It has already attempted to become a planet. What’s next? Will it have a Chelsea 27th street clubbing monopoly? Will it shut down Marquee? Will there be Pink Elephant champagne? (They already have their own vodka.) Pink Elephant spas? Resorts? Games at Atlantic City? A Pink clothing line?

Dear God. Make it stop!

Despite the fact that the DJ whose music I want to make love to was spinning on Wednesday night, I showed up only for the Thursday segment of the celebration as “special gifts” were promised to all the tables from the “Pink Elephant family” according to the invitation. Who is the Pink Elephant family anyway? I picture a bunch of Scrooge-like accountants in a back office drinking scotch and using patrons’ credit cards to cut cocaine lines before they snort, cruelly sniffle, and then ring the card up for a seven thousand dollar charge. But hey, who knows? Maybe it’s even worse than that.

Knowing it would be hectic night, I arrived at 12 am sharp. This clearly wasn’t early enough as the door looked like something out of a comedy sketch: people tripping over one another, dodging umbrellas, bodysurfing forward in an attempt to get a word in edgewise with the unsympathetic doormen. There were throngs people outside the door from every angle, and literally no one was getting it. All we kept hearing was:

“Clear the sidewalk. Clear the sidewalk, please. I need my sidewalk clear. No. No. The answer is NO. Clear my sidewalk please.”

It was it’s own mini version of Hell. But soon we realized what had all of Pink’s bouncers’ balls in a knot; Rihanna and her remarkably unattractive posse were working their way into the club with bodyguards etc.

Gross.

When she passed, I really wanted to ask her for an umbrella considering it was slightly drizzling and she managed to produce a number one hit pop tune containing only the word ‘umbrella,’ but my friends advised me against it. Once she got through, the door laxed slightly and we were finally ushered in after I had my ID photographed with a digital camera. Apparently scanning IDs just isn’t enough anymore and now Pink can access my driving record (and I’m sure a bunch of other government records as well.)

Great.

The music was what I call ‘B Minus house,’ i.e. house music spun by someone who actually has no house music experience, just spent several summers being a DJ in Ibiza (NOT the same thing). It tends to be really thumping, unoriginal, and unpleasant unless you’re on ecstasy, in which case dancing to Raffi would feel like a unique pleasure. The place was also crowded to the point that I made it my own personal mission to never leave my elevated spot at the table for fear of being molested, trampled, and burned by flaming cigarettes poking out from the crowd in every direction.

The so-called ‘gifts’ tables supposedly received seemed to be these large Dom Perignon buckets of what look like green larva and Dom Perignon champagne stand holders made of plastic. Unimpressive.


Here's the green larva gift bucket from another angle complete with a photographer trying to snap a pic of Rihanna (not visable) and an woman oddly (inappropriately?) wearing a pantsuit.

The only part of the evening I found especially entertaining was also a horrifying example of how Pink Elephant will soon be a ride at adult Disney Land. That's this huge, fuzzy Pepto-Bism0l pink elephant in the DJ booth - who then ran through crowd.



I snapped this picture as one of the impractically enormous, child-size bottles of 5 grand champagne was making its way toward me.


Note that the pink confetti you see on the bottle was drizziling down on all of us for most of the evening. I spent this morning trying to remove the champagne soaked confetti from the inside of my purse. The stuff got everywhere.

Festive? Maybe. Fun? Absolutely not.