You Ain't Partying Here No More

If your New York relationship was good (and by good I mean was able to last longer than the customary three months), it can be exceedingly difficult to let go of. City breakups are rough, and if you partied together, splitting up can also lead to a lot of awkward encounters and hardcore game playing.

So here’s my question: If you have clout at a nightlife establishment i.e. you know the doorman, the owner, the investor who mattered or the security dude, is it socially or morally acceptable to have your ex-significant other banned from the place? Setting up an infrastructure with the powers of the locale so that when your ex walks up to the red rope they’re automatically turned away? A nightlife blacklisting of sorts?

I think the answer to this question is more complicated than it seems.

Full article here, including a humorous poll I've created on this topic.

Cast your vote!

Feature Interview with Club Vocalist Ania J.

When I lived in Milan I knew Ania J. as that sassy, over-the-top diva in my group of girlfriends who was always harassing us to come hang out with her at Milan's underground club Gasoline. Six years later, this Canadian vocalist has achieved Italian fame and is hard to miss in the European club culture. She's in your face no matter what musical genre, vocalizing over beats aside top international DJs, as Masters at Work, Joe T Vanelli, Kenny Carpenter, Supernova and more.

In March 2005, Ania J. traveled to Miami for the Winter Music Conference together with producer Giacomo Godi from SUPERNOVA, representing their first single "Rock U," which hit the top ten charts in the house genre in Europe and New York. Ania J.'s performed at various fashion ceremonies including Dolce & Gabbana, where she shared the stage with Grace Jones, and perhaps most well-known for her regular performances at Milan's most exclusive nightclub, Chandelier Motel - the dinner theater New York's The Box is modeled after.

Since America's a bit behind on the vocalist bandwagon and many clubbers, myself included, don't fully understand what a vocalist is, I sat down with this “rock star angel” to learn about nightlife through her eyes.

Full article here

Video of Milan's Chandelier Motel below:
Chandelier MOTEL

Lost in a Ball Gown: A Review of La Esquina

Saturday night I dressed up as if I were going to the Oscars since a friend of mine was having a black tie themed birthday party. I’ve written before about my strong dislike of costume requirements when going out. Isn’t being a girl with a thimble size closet, pathetic salary, trying to look modelesque in one of the most fashion forward cities in the world hard enough without additional complications?!

So usually I pooh-pooh events that require I waste extra brain cells figuring out how to not look not like a moron while also incorporating a theme like 80s, Egyptian or toga. Yet when the invitation for a black tie birthday party rolled around, I squealed in delight like an over-sugared child. Practically all women have a collection of prom / bridesmaids / wedding / opera gowns which we’ve only got to cavalier around in once. Any opportunity to debut them once again should be taken advantage of.

This story would have ended swimmingly if New York nights weren’t so utterly unpredictable. My initial plans for the evening ended up being hijacked and I found myself on a completely different social trajectory than a priorly anticipated.

Translation: I never made it to my themed birthday party uptown and was dressed in black tie all night for no reason.

Full Article Here

Nightlife Paradox: You Can’t Sell Liquor, by That I Mean You Can Only Sell Mass Quantities

Wednesday night Upstairs, the exclusive SoHo club and location of much debauchery like dollar bill tossing, was raided by the cops.

Old news.

The charges had something to do with liquor license violations and a legal problem with the sound system. All I focused on was trying to hide my inherent panic: Where would I go to hear Hip Hop and Bruce Springsteen in the same night? Where would men go to meet models age sixteen and under? Where would Leonardo Di Caprio go to schmooze low key with his entourage?

Full Article Here

Separately, my Friday night out was a nightlife disaster. A going out abortion. And I still want a do-over. I won’t bore anyone with the tragic details, but I’ll say it started at the Black & Light Ball which while festive, would’ve been much more entertaining had I consumed hallucinogenics, beta-blockers or even just liquor before attending. That’s my own fault for leaving my apartment sober and wearing outrageously uncomfortable shoes.

I then voyaged to Made in Italy at Mansion which was such a horrifying hive of undulating, wasted, slithering bodies that I left after twenty minutes. Calling Mansion ‘overcrowded’ would be an understatement. Not only that, there was no liquor in sight and I didn’t consider body surfing to the bar a viable option – so I remained sober even longer.

Next I tried my luck at the usually fail-proof Upstairs, only to discover Leonardo Di Caprio happened to be frequenting the place, and therefore the security guards were treating patrons like undervalued cattle. So we made a quick detour to 1Oak, and when it became apparent they weren’t going to let anyone in at 4:15 AM, we drove aimlessly around the city before arriving it home.

Nights out. You can’t win ‘em all.

Burning Man Camp Boogies in New York

Just when you think you’ve seen all the weirdness NYC has to offer, you stumble across a party like this.

Full Article Here...

Opera & Turning to the Stars

Just when you’re trying to enjoy yourself at a space saucer like Mansion where the music’s intense, the disco lights are trauma-inducing and it takes twenty minutes to scale the six staircases to the bathroom, the club fades to black and a girl with butterflies in her cascading hair starts busting out some opera. Because isn’t this why we all go to clubs? To hear whacky versions of Verdi? Article and video here.

On a romantic note, when your love life ceases to even confuse you but just becomes an undulating enigma like the Big Bang and Amy Winehouse’s brain, you know it’s time to surrender any sense of control. Forgo logic, emotion and reason and turn to the stars.

That’s right – astrology.

The male sex has mystified me to the point where I no longer even want to ponder. Analysis is futile. That’s why my new number one way to waste time is by visiting sites like these, which provide soothing input about men, women, and children as categorized by their sign.

Does this make you any less baffled by your personal problems? Nay. But it does allow you to identify with truths about certain types of people, which can be comforting when you’re going crazy and opting for spinsterhood.

Is it all a bunch of silliness? Perhaps. But cultures outside the US take ‘the sign’ thing very seriously. When I lived in Italy, “Che segno sei?” (What sign are you?) was a bar question that came before ‘how old are you?’ or ‘what do you do?’ And the Brazilians feel such a deep connection with their sun sign that permanently tattooing it on your body is a common choice. Like in my encounter with the passionate pierced Brazilian he had the balls to proclaim:

“Anything you need to know about me just read about my sign. I’m a scorpio through and through.”

Ha. Right, guys. If only it were that simple.

Flying Money & Fromoters

Once you’ve lived in New York five years, you think you’ve seen the maximum douchiness this city has to offer. Alas, no. Go here to see the sad insanity I witnessed this past weekend. The party foul was conducted by a promoter; someone you’d think would be classy and know better. This segways into my next topic which is ‘friends who pretend to be promoters but are not.’ For the purposes of this discussion, let’s call them Fromoters (‘F’ standing for both friend and fake.)

Fromoters are concept I fail to understand. You’ll recognize them in your life because they are:

-Guilty of group texting you and your entire posse of friends
-Out and about as if they had a press schedule
-Blowing up your facebook feed like it’s their job and
-Incessantly trying to organize group ‘brunch’

Let’s not confuse the fromoter disease with the generous friend who takes on the burdened role of organizer to help everyone get together. Occasionally taking the hit to play organizer is both selfless and kind. How would everyone ever get together otherwise? The fromoter on the other hand, thrives on being the centerfold of this endless string of group events. It’s the nectar from which their ego suckles. And they will batter you with invites, reminders, and updates until your mobile device explodes.

When promoters harass you, you can let it go. It’s their job. The fromoter on the other hand, doesn’t have the excuse of having to text you to pay their rent. What’s mind boggling to me is that the work of promoting in the city is so cutthroat, exhausting, cruel, and time consuming that I’m amazed anyone would take on such a stressful duty voluntarily. And while working promoters understand that their job is a job and rejection is 99% of the deal, fromoters as your friends have a hard time taking no for an answer.

How to best handle the fromoters in your life? How to stay on good terms while asking them to politely only contact you four times a day?

I don’t have the answer to that yet.

Feel free to leave thoughts.

Picking on Pick Up Lines

Since it’s spring and we’re all hitting on each other, I wanted to take a quick moment to analyze some of the most common going-out pick up lines and why they’re effective, or not. Check it out here.

On a separate note, a matter of great importance has been weighing on my mind making my nights restless and my days intolerable:

Can someone outline some sort of protocol for dirty text messaging!?!

Do guys like it? Does it make you come off as a slut? Does it make you come off as hot? Does it categorize you as ‘non-girlfriend’ material? Is it appropriate during the day? Or only late at night when drunkenness can be used as an excuse? If something’s just asking for a dirty joke is it unladylike to go for the laugh? How long should you know each other before it’s appropriate to get verbally raunchy via phone? How raunchy is too raunchy?

Any and all insights are appreciated. Feel free to taunt me as well. Cajun boy has actually witnessed me take over forty-five minutes to compose a simple ‘what’s up’ text message to someone I liked. Curse of being a writer I guess…

OH. And those of you who haven’t been watching the Youtube series ‘The Guild,’ you should be.

Sway and a Sensational Parody

This weekend at the urge of many friends I decided to check out Sway, a long-established lounge on Spring street between Greenwich and Hudson in an effort to extend my nightlife knowledge beyond hardcore clubs. My consensus: Sway is definitely a breath of fresh air if you’re usually frequenting places like Pacha and Pink Elephant.

My experience at clubs has been that it’s primarily about who you know. You get in through pre-established contacts, congregate at a table with pre-established contacts, and assume any stranger who talks to you is a freak without their own crowd. Bars however seem to work in the reverse, it’s all about who you don’t know. Since there’s no bottle service, people are less likely to split off into table groups, creating a social free-for-all. Full article here.

On a separate note, Quin led me on to this video which is a must-see for any America’s Next Top Model fan, hater or occasional viewer. Enjoy Cleveland’s Next Top Model, and pray that crazy Tyra sees it too.



Don’t worry, it’s a series…

Medicating Clubbing Spring Fever Quiz

Spring has been an eternal excuse for people to get a little frisky; to let their guard down, let their worries down, let their pants down, etc. While this all sounds fabulous, it’s a big lifestyle adjustment to trade your nightly mac’n’cheese in bed for nightly evenings at Marquee. To help everyone cope, I've created my very first humorous quiz to determine if your spring party fever’s OK, dangerous, or out of control to the point where you need to padlock yourself in your apartment for some R&R. I've made it fun, so check it out here!

The Felix Tradition

Many New Yorkers like to nurse their hangover with more liquor, the logic having to do something with ‘keeping you liver working.’ The exact science of this theory I cannot explain, but it’s popular among Manhattan’s expat crew: Italians, Frenchies and Brazilians who all seem to body surf their way into Felix Sunday afternoons to keep daylight just as jovial as last night at the club.

Felix, located in SoHo on West Broadway and Grand, is the thumping heart of a much larger Sunday circle of sin. The rounds include nearby Novecento, Café Noir, Diva and Cipriani’s Downtown. And for the Expat crowd, there’s a zero percent chance of not running into someone you know. It’s an exercise in incest so be prepared to hear a lot of joyous shouts of recognition in a lot of foreign languages.

I’d stopped through Felix on a handful of Sunday afternoons, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I engaged in ‘the Felix tradition,’ a full day’s worth of productivity lost inside this French bistro/bar. Below I’ve documented my experience.

2:15 – I arrive. The place isn’t a mosh pit yet because the hardcore partiers are still sleeping. Every table however, is booked and the wait spills out into the sidewalk. Great.

2:18 – I wiggle toward the bar and see some French friends. They suggest I put my name down for a table ASAP as they were just told it’s a forty-five minute wait. I think to myself ‘that’s absurd’ and decide once my friends arrive to convince them we should go to one of the eighteen other perfectly delicious brunch places in SoHo. I approach the intimidating female maitre’de (she’ll scream at you just for darting a hopeful smile her way) and in the bar crowd almost trip over someone’s small dog.

2:20 – As I avoid nose diving into someone’s drink, I hear the owner of the leash I’m entangled in calling out to the dog I almost killed, ‘Cocoa. Cocoa’

I slowly double-take. I know a dog name Cocoa...

I look up to see the leash leads to the hand of my uncle who’s at the bar next to me enjoying a scotch. WTF?

Full Article Here

Virtual Tour of NYC's The Box

Going out too much can make you feel crazy. No locale however can compete on the crazy scale with The Box, Manhattan’s whacky version of a Freak Show, Cabaret, and Dinner Theater rolled tightly into one notoriously high-priced package. All the glittery songs, stripping, contortionists, and acts of defilement start at $2,000 minimum just to sit at a table, further bottle minimums apply after that. FULL ARTICLE HERE.

For those of you who can't make it to New York, enjoy a scandal or are just curious, below’s an ‘Inside The Box’ photo and video tour, mainly the late night crudities since I didn’t get there till 3 AM. Be forewarned that nudity is involved. For my original Box impressions back in 2007 when it first opened, fly here.

White Nights in Brazil

A story of pantomime love, man holes, and stolen shoes...

On our last day in the jungles of Brazil, we were scheduled to attend a traditional ‘white party,’ hosted not at the marina, but at someone’s private home on the other side of the lakes outside the condominium. Since my friend the Argentine wanted to triple check that the party’s host (we’ll call him X) was okay with putting three foreigners he’d never met on his uber-exclusive list, we went to visit the house pre-lunch to schmooze and offer him gifts of Moet and Johnny Walker Blue Label (pre-purchased at Duty Free for this exact purpose).

Trucks of lighting equipment, toilets, and speakers surrounded the house which was already abuzz with pre-party activities.

Full article here

Marquee’s 'Red Room' Renamed 'Room3,' Attempts to Launch House Music Wednesdays

It’s a New York nightlife staple: when things get rough, rename. I’ll spare our local club friends the embarrassment and not list the thirteen trillion examples that come to mind.

Yesterday, I found myself intrigued after receiving emails from both the folks at Marquee and promoter friends I knew announcing the debut of a ‘house music Wednesday’ inside the club’s private room called Room3.

“Huh?” I thought. “I don’t remember Marquee having a private room.”

Naturally, I let my imagination run haywire and was soon fantasizing about this hidden chamber I’d heard of but never been to. An unfulfilled mission. How had I missed it? Would there be a secret password? Morse code-like knock? Entrance through a liquor cabinet?

Full article here