Immaturity 101

Since my romantic life has been voided any substantial activity, I’ve regressed to infancy and have been indulging and posting about things that make me feel like a child again. Previous examples I’ve used have been things like playing Frisbee, karaoke, dancing, salsa, and sleeping outdoors in the grass.

At a recent birthday party, I experienced one of the best things of all.

Goodie bags.

No, not gift bags, those promotional pieces of baloney they thrust at you for attending some stuck up, overrated event, but goodie bags. Like the ones you got when you went to your neighbor’s birthday party in third grade. The contents inside included things like plastic flowers, gum, fart bags, party hats with Mickey Mouse on them, and most importantly, celebratory plastic horns so we could make an outrageously annoying amount of noise. In addition to this fun mix, there were tongue tattoos (banana flavored!) and the kind of balloons magicians use to make animals. Naturally, we got too distracted contorting the balloons into different types of phalluses, but other than that and the fact that I was high on white wine, I truly felt like I was eight years old again.

The whole experience brought me back to my actual eighth birthday, one of the few birthdays I didn’t have a tantrum or throw things at my innocent guests. I had a unicorn cake. I wore neon blue spandex pants and nobody judged me for it (just another of the many benefits of being a child). It was a gymnastics party, which in retrospect makes no sense because I never really liked gymnastics, but I guess it was a party theme that got boys more involved than if it were ballet.

What’s awesome about birthdays is that you get to be the center of attention for a prolonged, constant amount of time. People also feel uncomfortable denying you anything, so you just for fun, you can ask for really outrageous things and watch them squirm. But adult birthday parties become cluttered with so many complications, like do I invite all of my ex-boyfriends or just three? Do I serve quiche or sushi? Can I even afford sushi? Do I hire a bartender like some self-righteous, snobby person, that I secretly envy? Or do I just throw down a lot of orange juice and make people stir their own drinks? What assortment of mixers do I need for Bacardi? Should I wear something casual like I’m too cool to worry about the fact that it’s my birthday? Or should I wear something that’s reflective / glittery / neon so that if anyone has any doubt about whose birthday it is, they’ll know it’s me because I look like the human equivalent of a disco ball?

No. When you’re a kid these things don’t matter. You don’t lose sleep about who caters your unicorn cake, you just throw on aquamarine leggings, put obnoxious sparkles in your hair, and you’re ready to rock ‘n roll. And I think that’s the key to a successful adult birthday party, especially in New York, where we’re so egocentric that it would take an industrial strength Buddha squad to straighten us out, is to make it the one day out of the year where we’re not so self-conscious.

This is exceedingly difficult because birthdays provoke self reflection, facing the reality that we’re getting older and wrinkly, and are probably the time when were most self-conscious (aside from swimsuit season and what our mother’s in town, of course). So forgoing the billion person blow out in lieu of something more relaxed, with people you can be yourself around, and enjoying the childish stink of a fart bag with, might be the viable way to go. I’m going to keep that in mind for my upcoming summer fiesta, perhaps steering the opposite direction from last year.

Newsflash! You Can Star in Your Own Real Life Version of Dirty Dancing!

You can! It’s called hitting up salsa clubs, and I did it last night.

A little background: I love to dance. Ballet, modern, jazz. I got childhood/teen fortune worth of training. Since then my flexibility’s gone to hell, but I thoroughly appreciate any excuse to act like a child. That’s why karaoke, the Wii and pillow fights remain some of my favorite activities. The best part about dance is that in addition to making you feel like a liberated five-year-old, it gets you high on endorphins – and you actually work out your abs! Fuse this exuberance with the Latin tradition of salsa, meringue and bachata, then add in the social factor, and you’re essentially speed dating, going to the gym, and having childish fun all at the same time. Is this not a stellar combination? Not to mention absurdly productive?

OK, it’s not as glamorous as that scene from Dirty Dancing where Baby sees Johnny shaking it for the first time and she’s the loser carrying a watermelon. There are some people you definitely don’t want to dance with, like men that are missing more than three teeth. But the best news is that you don’t have to dance with anyone you don’t want to. You just say, ‘I’m resting for this one,’ and everyone’s very well mannered about it. And once you are on the dance floor with a suitable partner, you feel like a million bucks. Swirling around with other couples, getting sweaty in the dark, you actually DO start feel like you’re in the new Dirty Dancing trailer. Keep it up for several dances and you’ll be sweating through your jeans. Time flies. And did I mention the music makes you insanely horny?

Yes it helps if you’re attracted to your salsa partner, but that’s totally not the point. If you like them, you continue dancing and get closer. If not, you keep respectable dance partner boundaries and are free to switch off at any time. I let myself go and got really into it (Latin dance rule: shake your hips and shoulders with every movement and you won’t totally look like a fish out of water). I imagine I was every predatory Latin man’s wet dream, a clueless blonde creature with ‘teach me how to salsa’ written across my forehead, but I never once felt uncomfortable or taken advantage of and even took a phone number. Just a guy saying ‘bachata,’ let alone dancing it with you, is often enough to make you feel like you want to make out with him.

New boyfriend requirement: must be able to salsa.

You and your significant other would be in the best physical shape of your lives if you hit this up as a recreational activity a few times a week. Can you imagine if you got to add ‘foreplay’ to our already outrageous list of fun yet productive activity?

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

Utterly Disjointed Thoughts

Dear Barbers / Hair Dressers of the world,

Please stop mutilating the men in my life. It’s hard enough to be consistently attracted to someone without you enacting ego-fueled artistic “visions” on them or just plain sheering their skulls as if they were sheep. Even though I’ve completely cut your kind out of my life by never letting a professional hairdresser near my locks, you still manage to disrupt my existence by taking your aggression out on the objects of my affection. Here’s an idea: how about trying to give guys haircuts that actually make them look good when they walk out of your salon instead of looking ‘violated’ and then ‘normal’ in two weeks.

Thank you,

--MB

On a separate note: this weekend I snuck into against my will (i.e. attended) this emo-hipster party for Scope Art Foundation. It was more like a gathering of emo-hipster emulators since no real emo-hipsters would ever be caught dead at an event in the Tribeca Grand. I felt completely out of my element (probably because there wasn’t smoke, disco balls, unbearable loudness and bottle service). It was quiet enough for conversation and people would saunter up to you and open with, “So what kind of artist are you?” in a snoody fake-foreign accent (why would you ever fake an accent if you’re not good at it?) Then they’d talk about art, claiming to own auction houses and stuff. And here I thought the people inside places I frequent like Kiss & Fly were obnxious. Yes they’re spending stupid amounts of money, but at least their drunk, dancing, and quiet. Turns out they have nothing on ‘the outrageous meter’ compared to cultural event-goers.

Regardless, the evening remained entertaining since it encompassed two of the most original pick-up lines I’ve ever received:

Number one wasn’t actually ‘a line.’ I was just standing by the bar when a guy did a full spiral body twist arching his neck toward me (sort of like an aroused snake) and continued to do this corking movement as if he wanted to caress my shoulder. Unclear if this was an invitation to talk or to dance.

Two: In trying to pass a young gentleman on the stairs, he blocked me and announced: “I like your MoJo.” I think I replied, “thank you,” while images of hairy Mike Myers in Austin Powers romping around on a bed danced through my brain.

*****

Also, what is this SubMercer bullcrazy that I’m never-ending reading about? (That’s a rhetorical question, I know what it is. What I don’t know is why we need more and more ‘exclusive’ places on the New York City nightlife crash course.) Can’t it just be like you get into Beatrice, Bungalow and Rose Bar and then graduate? Stop. End. No more additional challenges except seeing how many cartons of Ben and Jerry’s you can polish off in one Saturday night sitting?

*****

For ladies who want to dance their pants off without doorman, drinks or drama, check out this new lead my girlfriend clued me in on: DanceDancePartyParty.com You can even take classes here. Reports on how fun it was and how silly I felt next week.

Exercising Can Make You Fat and Other Such Absurdities

Bartok had somewhat of an emotional breakdown yesterday. Being the supportive friend I am, I went into my building’s stairwell for some privacy to talk to her for about twenty minutes. Since I’m incapable of standing still, I walked up and down the stairs repeatedly.

I was winded after three flights, and today I’m sore.

In the evening, I found myself sprawled on the couch waiting for Project Runway to start killing time with my roommate Tatas. She was watching the college ‘Dance Team’ nationals on ESPN 2 or something insane like that, although it actually isn’t as lame as it sounds. These girls are flexible like pretzels, have the precision of ballerinas, the coordination of hip hop dancers and do these impressively choreographed routines all with Vaseline on their teeth while smiling! It was then that I thought:

a. where’s my DVD copy of Bring It On and when can I watch it

b. I haven’t been to the gym in FOREVER!!!!

Stairs make me sore? My after work activity is power napping or eating on my futon in the fetal position? All this while inspiring young women from the University of Kansas are re-telling ancient Shinto mythology through sweat-inducing dance routines wearing spandex!

When did I become a sloth?!?

That question’s only for dramatic effect since I can tell you exactly when I stopped going to the gym. Sometime this past fall, in the waiting room of some doctor’s office, before I owned an iPhone in which to channel all my A.D.D., I started looking at magazines.

Note: I hate magazines. If I want to read girly shit I go online. If I want to read something meaningful I open a book. I guess I never just understood the concept of paying for literature that you’re going to throw away.

Anyway, I came across an article published by the pricks at New York Magazine entitled: “The Scientist and the Stairmaster: Why most of us believe that exercise makes us thinner—and why we're wrong.”

Since doctors tend to run about forty-five minutes behind schedule, I was able to read the entire article. Twice. The Wall Street Journal does a good job summing it up:

The idea that exercise produces weight loss is seldom questioned in workout-mad America, but Gary Taubes says evidence for this belief is, well, thin. Mr. Taubes writes in New York magazine that most studies on the link between swimming laps and losing weight demonstrate little beyond one widely accepted fact: “exercising makes us hungry.” In fact, he says, exercise may even lead to a weight gain, though he doesn’t deny its many health benefits.

Mr. Taubes, who drew controversy in 2002 for

a New York Times Magazine article on high-fat, low-carbohydrate diets, suggests that what really determines how fat or lean a person is has more to do with the body’s own internal programming.

Those of you interested in reading New York Mag’s full article can do so here, but be forewarned, it won’t make forcing yourself to get on the Stairmaster any easier. What I took away from the article (and this is an unprofessional summary) is that:

- When you exercise you burn calories. The more you burn, the more hungry your body makes you so you replenish what you’ve lost. I.E. You eat more

- Some chemist at Harvard thirty years ago invented the idea that overweight people are chubby because of lack of exercise as a way to explain to the rest of the world why Americans are so often obese

- Exercising has a ton of health benefits and is a positive thing, but won’t necessarily make you skinny.

I had to clasp my hands over my own mouth in order to not shout into the waiting room in utter outrage:

“EXCUSE ME?”

If I’m not getting thinner, what’s the point? I lose time and energy on the treadmill only to have a bigger appetite AND have to spend more money on groceries? Is that a joke? Don’t sign me up!

OK, exercising is good for you. So is spinach and not drinking alcohol. Doesn’t mean it something you go out of your way to DO all the time. And the more I contemplated whacky Mr. Taubes theory, the more it made sense to me. I’ve always been thin. As a child, I was frail. And in my adult life, I’ve gone through both hardcore exercising bouts and lazier periods always looking the same. Perhaps more toned while exercising, but barely. I’m just naturally twig-like. And it definitely makes sense that the only truly effective way to lose weight would just be to stop eating. French women are super thin and they don’t even know what a gym is. Sure most of them are starving, crabby bitches, but they further prove my point!

Needless to say, after ingesting that article, my gym participation rate diminished significantly. I also rationalized that I get plenty of doing other activities:

-Walking around the city to save on cab and metro fare (at least 2.5 miles a day)

-Dancing in stilettos (a tricky and intense physical movement)

-Shopping (trying on lots of outfits in a changing room is a work out)

-Chasing free cabs late at night (I often run)

-Bending down to pick up dropped jewelry (my earring backs are always falling off)

-Climbing up and down stairs to use the subway (for the express on 59th street that’s like 6 flights!)

See? My life’s exhausting already!

OK, it’s still no excuse. Why don’t we all watch the dance team from University of Kansas. If anyone can inspire me to get back on the Elliptical, it's them.

Punta: Day One

I arrived at Montevideo airport (for those of you that don’t know, Montevideo is the sketchy Uruguayan city one usually flies into to then drive two hours to Punta del Este) feeling refreshed (I was that passed out drooling person with a blanket over my head on the plane) and shocked at how wonderfully warm it was. Considering I spoke zero Spanish and had never even been to Mexico, for my safety and peace of mind I’d organized to fly in with our trip’s organizer, a fabulous party Nazi who’ll for the remainder of the saga I’ll refer to as Cavalli.

A note about Cavalli: while an amazingly generous friend and kind-hearted person, he drives like a Nascar driver dropping acid. I had been forewarned about this by our mutual friends, but wrote of their concern as ‘silliness.’

WRONG!

Cavalli and I burnt rubber pulling out of the Montevideo airport parking lot and for the remainder of the two-hour trip (which speeding, took us 45 minutes) I was gripping my broken seatbelt and smiling through clenched teeth.

Note: Renting a car in Punta isn’t like renting a car anywhere else in the world. Be forewarned that the locomotive they present you with will resemble a reconstructed dump unit. In La Barra and Jose Ignacio, most of the roads aren’t paved. Cars are expected to get seriously beaten up by irresponsible vacationers who don’t know the terrain. What we rented looked less like an automobile and more like a junk-heap on wheels.

Airbags? Forget about it.

We didn’t even have seatbelts, and if we hit a pothole the car stereo would fall out. Regardless, we were all too quickly on our way.

After checking into our house in La Barra, blocks from Mantra hotel and the ocean (by blocks I mean dusty dirt road blocks) we headed out with an Argentine girlfriend to Jose Ignacio beach and the trendy La Huella bar/restaurant on the water. The idea was get on the list for the annually, notoriously difficult to get into Lacoste party hosted at La Huella for people like Giuseppe Cipriani and Ralph Lauren models. It was at La Huella that I began my first analysis of Punta:

-That everyone enjoying sunset aperitivos on beach were from a classier, better looking planet

- That wearing four inch wedge heels and stilettos with heavy, expensive jewelry on the beach with your bikini was ‘normal’

- That going anywhere without your bathing suit and sunglasses on was considered a crime

-That the girls could wear clingy, transparent, white ‘cover ups’ over their bikinis that somehow managed to be more revealing than naked flesh, and

- That Spanish was actually an incredibly sexy language when not hearing it whilst on hold on the telephone (‘prima una per espagnol’)

That night we went to the house party one of my New York/Argentine friends. House parties in Punta are ‘the thing.’ Clubs are pretty much looked down upon, except for the infamous Tequila, which I never even made it to. The problem is Punta has

a) A lot of dirt roads with no light and
b) Practically no street names (only the houses have names)

So for a foreigner there’s pretty much only a 20% chance you’ll ever end up at your destination. More likely, you’ll waste hours cruising through pitch black cow fields and calling friends for directions that sound something like this:

“Turn off the main street after street sign 48 onto a dirt road that has an incline. Drive up the hill for two kilometers and turn left onto the third dirt road you intersect. Drive a kilometer past the golf course, and take a right onto the second dirt road. 700 meters above on the right, turn at the high, oddly shaped rock and we’re the third villa on your left called “’D’Angelo.’”

Keep in mind you’re always doing this in pitch black around 1 A.M. after several cocktails.

Luckily, my two friends are I were on what we called “mission party” (kind of like “mission impossible”) and by gathering all of our long distance eyesight, night vision, and limited knowledge of the terrain, made it to my friend’s house party with only one wrong turn.

And the house was stunning: long gravel driveway, tennis court, pool, acres of grass, a pool house with speakers the size on my Manhattan bathroom, two DJs. We immediately started mingling and drinking the insane vodka supply.

Don’t worry, Rocco, who I had no idea was even in Uruguay (although I should have guessed) showed up at the house party with a male entourage. Surprise! So much for leaving New York behind.

At around 3 A.M., we headed out to Ocean Club’s grand opening in a follow-the-leader string of barely functional cars operated by drivers who weren’t as sober as they should be. The door out front (literally hundreds of people) made our Manhattan club line-ups look pathetic. Once inside, I entered a mediocre dim hallway. But before I could condemn the place as ‘so so,’ I stepped into the main dance area – an arena area so full you could easily body surf from one corner to the other. If people in New York party, these people were party maniacs.



Everyone was so happy, especially the gorgeous girls. Apparently, Bob Sinclair is right: “Love can save the world.” Or at least the Latin aura of love inside a Uruguayan disco has the power to heal. I’m convinced of this, because from this moment forward, and for the duration of my trip, I felt elated and anxious free in what I’ve been defining as an attitude altering Zen-like experience.

We left at 5:30 A.M. and Cavalli drove us home Shumaker-style, which would might have been okay in a Ferrari but is absurdly terrifying when you’re in a car that wouldn’t pass a one basic US safety test. We pulled up in front of our house and smelt burning.

Then we realized we’d driven the entire way home with the emergency break on.

Great car.

And this was only day one.


To Be Continued…

Official Kiss & Fly Review / Club Rumors

So I finally made it to Kiss & Fly and by “made it” I mean I got past the throngs of people and into the actual club for a two-hour analysis. My review in a nutshell:

“Pink Elephant – without the energy or the crazy French people.”

If Webster needed a visual example for the phrase “copy cat,” Kiss from Pink would be an ideal definition. Sure Kiss & Fly wins the décor award. They put in these aesthetically pleasing gold archways and the whole place looks expensive (and in no way resembles Aer!), but the decorations are the only unique thing going on here. Stop me if any of this sounds familiar:

- They have elevated tables around circular dance floor (like Pink Elephant)
- A center piece disco ball (like Pink Elephant)
- A siren sound (a pitch higher and more annoying than Pink Elephant’s)
- Lounge-y house music (like Pink Elephant)

And the music’s not just like Pink Elephant, it’s identical because Pink Elephant’s least impressive DJ has taken up house residence at Kiss & Fly. This was reassuring, since before I knew this I assumed I’d officially ODed on house music since I’d sworn I’d heard the exact musical set I heard on Friday night a dozen times on 27th street. Turns out I had.

A clubbing concept first at Kiss & Fly:

“Coat check girl on the prowl.”

That’s right. Not knowing how long I’d be staying at Kiss & Fly and having no circulation (I’m chronically cold) I’d opted to keep my jacket with me. I laid it down on an out of the way, empty table behind me only to turn around five minutes later and discover it had vanished. At first I panicked thinking a klepto girl with a fur fetish had stolen my leather animal collared mini coat. Then another girl whose jacket had been abducted informed me that a roaming coat check girl had taken them and would be brining us tickets, which she did – twenty minutes later. Having my personal property unknowingly taken from me by management in a club/restaurant setting was an unpleasant first. To their credit, coat-check-chick-on-the-prowl had a great smile and actually delivered me a ticket, which miraculously led me to my coat at the end of the night. I guess we can deduce that Kiss & Fly has a pet peeve about stray clothing.

I skipped out around 2 A.M. since fellow clubbers mentioned Mr Grey might be stopping through. After my Punta zen-style enlightenment, I don't want to even dip my pinky toe into any of that old fog.

In sum, I think Pink Elephant struck gold with the boutique, intimate, international nightclub trend – a trend that has know been replaced by lounges disguised as mini clubs like Goldbar and Socialista. So while many may see Kiss & Fly as a success, I think they’re surfing a passing wave. They won’t be the deranged phenomena that was Pink. That doesn’t mean you might not squeeze in a good night there if they’re hosting a DJ from Europe.


Other club rumors of note:

1. Get ready for Miami’s Mansion opening in the Chelsea space that used to be Crobar on or around Febuary 4th. No one wants to go to big clubs anymore. Mansion’s owners know this. Apparently, they’re planning to deal with the space issue by filling Crobar’s carcass with lots and lots of furniture. No dancefloor. A lot of couches and beds. Will this work? Boogie-ing in what feels like a storage facility? We’ll find out.

2. The owners of Room Service have bought the sadly shutdown New York signature club PM and plan to open Room Service 2 / something else (hopefully of worth) in Meat Packing.

Onto much more interesting topics (i.e. Punta) tmrw.

10-Year-Old Cyclone

Not a lot of writing got done this weekend because:

a) Bartok visited and I'm just now embarking on a dual recovery from her / the Punta trip.

b) I spent all my time trying to learn how to dance like this 10-year-old girl. She's got mad moves -- observe:



Details on ALL (yes, they're juicy) tomorrow...

Unofficial Kiss & Fly First Impressions

No, I have not yet been inside Kiss & Fly. My body’s fighting it. Maybe because of the trauma I witnessed on their Wednesday opening night.

Wednesday was supposed to be a soft opening for press. From what I could tell, there was nothing soft about it. The establishment seemed wildly overwhelmed in every sense of the word, even early on in the evening.

Curios, I walked by the place opening night at 12:15 A.M. knowing there’d be little chance of getting in. I was right. What I didn’t predict however, is how utterly disorganized the door would be.

First, we had our typical door people with Bluetooth headsets whispering amongst themselves like troubled middle school girls, ignoring all the desperate partygoers around them. They seemed frantic. We had bouncers screaming for everyone “to clear the sidewalk,” but instead of just vocalizing their instructions, they physically pushed people too. Classy. Nothing however, beats the fact that at 12:20 P.M. all the doormen disappeared inside, never to be seen again. That’s right. We had an EMPTY boxed in red velvet square outside the club. I’ve never seen this before in my life. And it wasn’t just empty for five minutes while the frazzled doormen ran about inside or chugged tequila shots at the bar. It was empty for a solid twenty minutes until at 12:38 P.M. someone came out and announced that they were “closing the door for an hour, absolutely no one was getting in.”

Then the out front was empty again.

Really?

Shame on us for getting to a hyped club opening past 12:15 A.M. I knew we wouldn’t get in. But shame on Kiss & Fly for not establishing some entry pacing so that they didn’t have to shut down their door at 12:30 – an hour at which most going-outers are just arriving at their destination. Too packed and having to shut down the door at 1:30 A.M. makes sense on an opening night. At 12:30, I think it just shows serious disorganization.

On the sidewalk with me, a noteworthy promoter and his entourage who (like everyone) had been denied entry explained:

“They were begging me to work here, so I said I’d come by and check out how they were at the opening. Guess all my questions are answered.”

He and his friends piled back into their black jeep and wisely sped away from the madness. I used my time out front to interview the people who were leaving, many of whom were promoters or nightlife aficionados.

“How was it inside?” I asked one of my departing friends.

“Like this.” He proceeded to dry hump me. “It’s so crowded in there you can’t even move. I accidentally touched over five women in places you should never touch women. They would’ve smacked me but no one had enough room to raise an arm.”

Other reviews were:

“Lots and lots of bottle service. Tons of tables in little nooks with elevated areas.”

“I heard they decorated a ton, but it still feels like Aer.”

And…

“It’s the next Pink Elephant, but will probably die out in the spring. Its location will kill it. No one wants to go out in meatpacking.”

Of those who did make it inside earlier in the night, the doorman split up groups saying:

“Women only. Only the girls are getting in, thanks.”

I don’t like this. People go out with a group of friends and want to stay together. Any classy establishment should try to accommodate. Men have to pay. Fine. Men have to get bottle service. Okay. But men with girls are denied entry all together: Not cool. That’s a club just acting way too prima donna for my taste, although I’m sure they’ll start to lax up when they’ve recovered from their four night opening delirium.

I haven’t yet been inside – so I've made no official judgments yet. I was supposed to go Saturday, but a voice in my head warned me against it. Most people have been instructing me to avoid Kiss & Fly for the time being deeming it ‘too crazy.’

For the sake of the club’s reputation, let’s hope they hire more door people.

Rock it, Rocco

Looking for something to celebrate this evening? This is worth your while:

Come Celebrate the Birthday

Of Beloved International Nightlife Icon

Rocco Ancarola

Friday December 14th
11:00pm


Along With Special Guest
DJ Benji Candelario from Ibiza



Pink Elephant
527
West 27th Street New York

212.463.0000

www.pinkelephantclub.com

Few truly deserve the absurd title of “nightlife icon.”

Mr. Rocco does.

Just check out my pics of him booty dancing topless on the bar at Pink Elephant South Hampton this summer – and that night wasn’t even a special occasion. At one point, he even toppled off the ceiling rafters, survived a six-foot drop and blow to the head only to pop right back up and continue dancing. Amazing! This guy monopolizes city hotspots like it’s his job. He’s twice my age with ten times the energy. I’m fascinated, not disgusted. Rocco's more fun than I could ever hope to be.

Since I'm on strict advisory from mental health consultants who think Pink is the club equivalent of crystal meth, the chances of me making it there tonight are slim.

Please, someone go and email me the photos. I'm a junkie.

Kiss & Fly Prep

Kiss & Fly Grand Opening Week
Wednesday December 12 2007 
10 PM

Kiss & Fly 
409 West 13th Street

New York, NY 10014

Please join us for the opening of our latest venue from Wednesday December 12th to Saturday December 15th 2007.

You will discover a great space that we have designed to be your new home away from home. The next four nights will be filled with surprise performances along with some of the world's most reknown DJ's.

We are counting on your presence to make this opening week very special.

I heard about it the sticky bowels of Pink Elephant, now this hotspot hopeful is actually here.

I, for one, am especially hopeful. I need something to warm up my winter in a non clubbing-in-a-mosh-pit way. I’m hoping for something genuinely fun…dare I say classy? Most likely I’m setting myself up for disappointment, but optimism's a good quality, right? Or is that only outside of 212? Regardless, I need to think positive: I’m Pink-ed out and Box-ed out. Socialista, Goldbar and Beatrice are so pretentious that even if you’re fortunate enough to get your group in, you can check any hope of happiness at the door. Cipriani’s Upstairs and its nearby neighbor and namesake Upstairs (good luck not confusing the two, they’re both in SoHo) still provide space where one feels they can actually let loose, yet enjoyment only ensues if you inebriate yourself into a state of semi-consciousness.

Bring on something, anything, else.

As far as DJ line-ups Kiss and Fly's got Brian Ling. Marco Peruzzi, Stan Courtois from Monaco, Philippe Paris from Corsica and Olivier Berger from South Beach. For all the “who’s opening it” and club "investor" info I refer you over to Guest of a Guest.

To my knowledge, Kiss and Fly hasn’t yet been reviewed or written about in New York Magazine. So that’s a good start. And despite being in the failed club Aer’s carcass in Meat Packing, the place might have a shot.

Updates after my attendance...

Pink Scarves & TV Stars

I haven’t been to Pink in weeks. I was under the impression that I’d actually kicked my Thursday night addiction, yet somehow got dragged there (I blame the wine at dinner) for Wilhelmina’s Modeling Agency’s 40th Anniversary after party last night. The first thing I noticed as I approached the 27th street strip of debauchery was Marquee’s super-weird new awning-like entrance.


In this picture it looks white, but I swear the atrocity was neon green. It looked like an alien hovercraft had landed on top of the club and Martians had perhaps taken over inside. I doubt this was the look they were going for. Apparently, Marquee was hosting some sort of NASCAR party, but the only thing I saw on the red carpet backdrop were lame ads for Sprint. So who knows? More importantly, who cares? I just can’t believe the city of New York let Marquee extend their already obnoxious entrance into two lanes of traffic. My shocked cabbie had to swerve in order to not collide with the thing. Let’s all hope this ridiculous glowing awning is temporary.

Enter Pink. New phenomena to note!: Men with bright color pashmina scarves. More specifically, men with neon PINK pashmina scarves. Observe Pink’s doorman (sorry I don’t have a better photo, I didn’t bring my camera out and took this with my phone…SEE…proof I wasn’t planning ITAL to going out).



When it started to get chilly in the city, Euro men had some sort of hidden fashion conference and decided to dawn colored pashminas with dark jackets. Most of these guys were sexy anyway, and the spark of color added a little flair to their outfit, while also making them look gay by American standards. Anyway, this started with electric blues and deep reds. That I can handle. Then around Halloween, guys started wrapping orange scarves around their collars. While the orange scarf-look may look stunning on a Helmut Lang billboard, it just doesn’t work in real life.

But now!

Now we have men with pink, that’s right, pink scarves. Last night saw two. One Pepto Bismal pink and the other baby pastel pink. Is the doorman sporting pink accessories because he works at place called Pink and is trying to mesh with the club’s title? That doesn’t even make sense since the cocktail waitresses are wearing gold. And what are the two others guys’ excuse?!

The club filled up around one thirty. The music was entirely uninteresting…dare I say bad. The crowd wasn’t impressive. Roberto assured me Wilhelmina had a 150+ person guest list, and that people were just arriving late since this was the ‘after party.’ I decided to take my tired ass home.

I dawned my coat and just as I walked toward the exit, I saw the most beautiful man I’d seen in weeks. I shamelessly made eye contact with him, and I like to think he looked a bit sad that I had my coat on and was heading to the door. As we proceeded down Pink’s labyrinth-like steps, I saw not one, but five more men of the same caliber.

The male models had arrived.

And they weren’t gross, diaper-wearing, baby models like the ones I recently encountered at The Madison. These boys were clean-cut, well groomed, not-inebriated and appeared to have full possession of all their bodily functions. Pink Elephant also actually cards. So they all had to be plus twenty-one. I immediately took my coat off:

“I’m staying to ogle the man-meat!”

So I stayed another twenty minutes and did some schmoozing, although the beautiful boy I’d first seen never resurfaced. When I finally did leave, I saw Alex Karev from ABC's Grey’s Anatomy standing on the staircase below me.


My first instinct was just to pass by and say to him: “Alex Karev!” But that seemed absurd. Besides, the guy was shit-faced! He looked like a seventeen-year-old baby model who’d gone shot happy with a bottle of booze. From my limited reading of US Weekly, I’d been under the impression he was married and a nice, family guy. Well, he was walking in ‘S’ shapes while a woman (his wife?) bitched about not being able to find something in her purse.

I slid by them as one of the doorman began announcing, “Clear the way. This is Justin Chambers!”

Sadly, his name didn’t elicit any kind of acknowledgement from the crowd. As I exited, Justin pushed against me before wobbling to the left and announced to everyone:

“I have to take a piss!”

The Pink doorman took him by the shoulders and steered him back inside the club.

Charming.

I was done for the night.

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