I was flabbergasted when Jamie Mulholland and Jayma Cardosa announced they were gutting and redecorating 27^th street nightclub Cain. Sure, 27^th street isn’t what it used to be, but from what I could see, safari-themed Cain wasn’t suffering. The music was always preppy, the promoters plentiful and the dance floor consistently full – maybe with tourists and out-of-towners – but it’s in Chelsea! That’s where hotel concierges tell these people to go.

I have fond memories of when Cain used to be one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. Their chic Italian door people would stare you down with what felt like daggered icicles shooting out of their eyes until you felt too insignificant to even try getting in. Cain’s always been a fun, familiar friend, even if no longer in its prime. I mean, Marquee’s not longer in its ‘prime’ and remains by far the most profitable nightclub in Manhattan. I didn’t think Cain’s owners would want to ‘mess with success,’ but someone got bitten with the rebranding bug and Cain Luxe was born.

Upon hearing this news last month, I started feeling bad for Cain. Had things plummeted to such a low that they needed to add an abbreviation of the world ‘luxury’ to their name just to make the point they were still classy? What was once a hot club now sounded like a child of divorce with a hyphenated surname. I decided I’d have to do a quick swing by and check the place out of myself. Continue

Last weekend, I ventured skeptically back to Lit. A previous post about my first night at Lit was a rather glowing review, but don’t assume that I’ve been spending most my life living in a hipster’s paradise (yes, that was a Coolio reference). My second encounter with the bar left me burned.

It was a Friday night around 2:00 a.m. I’d just come from a delightfully dull bar--perfect for a few drinks and conversation with a couple of friends. But now we were looking for something less low key. We met up with two other friends and our party of five approached the bar’s dark exterior, IDs in our hands, alcohol in our veins, and a fire in our hearts.

“Private party,” the bouncer told me.

“What?”

“Private party. You can’t come in.” Even from his seated position, the burley guy managed to remain taller than I. New to the notion of an exclusive bar scene, it didn’t occur to me to argue. Nor did I realize that the 2:3 ratio of guys to girls might be a problem. Apparently, having guys in your entourage is a ballsy move (literally) that could impede bar-hopping ability.

I was pissed. In August, Lit welcomed us with open arms.

What had changed?

With NYU back in session, maybe Lit could afford to be a lot more exclusive.

Also, in August, Ed Westwick--aka Chuck Bass of Gossip Girl--had been spotted mackin’ it with some anonymous girl. Such a celebrity sighting may have also upped the exclusivity of the bar.


These notions make me gag. First of all, the idea that all of these little underage NYU ragamuffins can go to Lit whenever they want, but that as an old, haggard 22-year-old, I get turned away...well, that’s just humiliating. Continue Here...

A couple of nights ago I went to Rodeo on 27th and 3rd. Rodeo lives up to its name, with a life-size stuffed boar in mid lope above the bar, as well as a few mounted heads of large four legged beasts placed around the general vicinity. Approaching the bar, I encountered a giant bin of unshelled peanuts. This was indeed a stroke of genius that worked twofold: 1) it was a tasty fun treat for the drunk people at the bar and 2) the scattered shells of the peanuts covered the entire floor, giving the place that kind of dirty, gritty feel one would associate with a rodeo.


I stepped up to the bar and ordered a margarita, apparently the house specialty. I’d consumed an unwise amount of wine at dinner. Then I’d been treated to a shot of Patron by a young man who was inconsolable about the state of the stock market. I suppose buying the shots was a drunken attempt to flip off Wall Street: “If I’m going to lose my money, I’ll lose it myself.” As for me, I found this gift in a shot glass to be a reminder that good things come in small packages. And so, when I arrived at Rodeo around 11:30, I was feeling pleasant, but ready to be sipping on something. The margarita I’d ordered arrived in a huge glass; it had to be holding about 16 oz. And it came with a straw.

Perfect.

Drinking out of a straw always makes me feel like I’ve hooked myself up to an IV of alcohol--and I mean that in the best of ways.

A folky country band played in the back half of the place, where there was another less crowded bar. This bar served drinks in red solo cups (insert nostalgic college memory here).


The live music created the grand finale of the evening, for there were many patrons seated watching the band, but a few had gotten up and madly swung their hips to the likes of Johnny Cash and other greats that I can’t remember because I was now on my second XL margarita.

A man of an anonymous age, anywhere between 35 and 50, gyrated around the tables, purposefully bumping and grinding with the back of everyone’s heads. The last image I have, slightly misty around the edges like a dream out of a 90s sitcom, is this dancing man locking eyes with me before roping me in with an imaginary lasso.

From the free peanuts to the dancing round-up, the whole affair was as honkey tonk as the name of the bar promised. The crowd ranged from obviously under-age college students to men who appeared to use Touch of Gray hair coloring. Rodeo seems to attract anyone and everyone. Its casual albeit corny scene had a lot to offer: live music, large drinks, and and free peanuts that came tumbling out of my purse the next morning. I love a place that lets me leave with party favors.

Having an unlimited metrocard has been one of the most reassuring aspects of living here. I practically get butterflies every time I swipe the card and see that simple, sweet “GO” coaxing me along. It’s encouraging, yet forceful. It’s hot. I want to date someone that makes me feel the way my unlimited metrocard does.

While contemplating this newfound passion, my mind rapidly spiraled (downward) to thoughts of, dare I drop the bomb, love. Generally, when I think about my love life, I tend to envision it as a romantic comedy. It’s true. I stopped emotionally maturing at the age of 13. I don’t really understand why women are obsessed with the idea of guys being the “immature” gender. I’m just as much of a basket case as I was in seventh grade.


As I speculate about the future of my love life in New York, I envision three films—all huge duds that would go straight to DVD.

1. Celibacy and the City - pretty self-explanatory. I move to New York, hopefully find a job that pays my rent and handles my peanut butter addiction, and then I never meet anyone. There’s one tease where I make eye contact with the cashier at Trader Joe’s as I’m paying for my unsalted all-natural crunchy pb. He says, “Hi, how are you today?” with this really genuine smile, and there’s a moment when you the viewer thinks, this is it! And so do I, until the completely humiliating moment when I answer the paper or plastic question with an “I do.”

2. There’s Something about Harry - My dream man is either:
a. Gay
b. In love with my best friend
c. Gay and in love with my best friend

Why isn’t “the worst of both worlds” also an expression? Situations such as circumstance c. do happen. There’s probably a Jennifer Aniston or Meg Ryan movie that adequately addresses such an instance. Someone find it.

3. Dirty Dancing: Humiliating Nights - In this fast paced, beat-bumping, two-misstepping motion picture, I go to club after club, looking for love. But how can I find the right guy when I have the wrong moves? That’s all that happens. Over and over again. I had the (worst) time of my life. NOT like MB’s salsa experiences.

Clearly, after just a week of living in the city, I already feel a surge of New York cynicism pulsing though my veins. To me, being in New York is kind of like being dehydrated in the middle of the ocean: water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink. Though I’m surrounded by people, the notion of meeting anyone is unfathomable. Thankfully, my unlimited metrocard reminds me that affection can appear in the most unexpected of places, that I shouldn’t think about it so much, and that I should just simply GO.

Anyone looking to listen to house music mid-morning will be pleased to know I’ve finally located the number one song from my trip to Brazil. I heard it every night and subsequently became obsessed with it. Upon arriving in the US, I searched for it fruitlessly on iTunes and You Tube. I tried to recreate the song for every DJ I knew. I even racked my brain tirelessly for the lyrics to keyword search (come to find out, there aren’t any lyrics, hence why that didn’t help much.) The song actually has “Brazil” in the title (75, Brazil Street by Nicola Fasano) which is both fitting and frustrating, because perhaps if I just googled “house music brazil” this would’ve popped right up.

Enjoy. Ignore the visuals.

In other news, I’ve unexpectedly become a fan of So You Think You Can Dance. More specifically, I’m a fan of this couple performing this raunchy Latin number. I’d also like the name of the dentist who bleaches judge and British dance personality Nigel’s teeth.

In non-news, another reality show, this time about disabled models. Don’t worry, despite the physical strain, the producers are still making all the ladies live in a house together so catty drama can ensue.

I’ve also finally uncovered the long-running mystery of Kiss & Fly’s notorious bathroom cone (now cones), but I’m waiting till Monday to divulge.

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.

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?

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?

*****

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.

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.

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…

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.

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...

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.

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

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.

Yes, the title says it all. I figured since many of us may be traveling for the upcoming winter holidays, it was time to unveil my dirty secret project: A comprehensive list of all the best nightclubs in every city in the world, expertly compiled by the jetsetters who frequent them.

Some things to keep in mind:

1. The definition of ‘best.’ For the purposes of this list ‘best clubs’ are defined (but not limited to) clubs that
a. Radiate with obnoxious exclusivity
b. Are most likely challenging to get into without ‘connections’ (* indicates members only clubs)
c. Are non-sensically expensive
d. Are home to celebrity sightings and
e. Host famous DJs

So if you’re looking for a low-key, hassle free bar to enjoy a beer near cost price, this list is not for you.

2. What’s ‘hot’ changes in every city every month (or every week, in the case of New York). This guide, while ‘in’ right now, will eventually be outdated. So take these suggestions with a grain of salt.

WARNING: You might have ridiculous amounts of fun. You might get ripped off. Remember, clubbing is addictive.

So here we go…buckle up and put your party shoes on:

Aix-en-Provence
- Le Mistral

Amsterdam
- Jimmy Woo
- Club 11
- Rain
- Zebra Lounge
- Mansion

Antibes
- Pulp
- Les Pecheurs

Antwerp
- Noxx
- Nanno
- Industria
- Fever
- Carré
- Café d'Anvers
- Red and Blue

Athens
- Villa Mercedes
- Rock n' Roll (winter)
- Island (summer)

Bangkok
- The Bed Supper Club
- The Tunnel
- Spasso

Barcelona
- La Terrasa
- Sutton
- Danzatoria
- Catwalk
- Duvet
- Buddha Bar
- Razzmatazz
- Shoko
- Carpe Diem Lounge (CDLC)

Basel
- Bar Rouge

Beijing
- Suzie Wong
- Bed Bar
- Lan Club

Beirut
- Sky Bar
- Crystal
- White
- Element
- BO18

Belgrade
- Magacin

Berlin
- Felix
- Spindler & Klatt

Bilbao
- Image
- Fever

Bodrum
- Ship Ahoi
- Bianca
- Halikarnas

Bogota (Columbia)
- Andres Carne de Res
- Cha Cha

Bologna (Italy)
- Matis
- Kasamatta
- NU Lounge
- Capannina

Bombay
- China House
- Prive
- Posion

Boston
- Rumor-Venue
- 28 Degrees

Brussels
- Le you
- Jeux d'Hiver
- La Patinoire
- Parc Savoy
- Espace 53
- Gallery Louise

Buenos Aires
- Espereanto
- Pacha
- CroBar
- Asia de Cuba
- Creamfields
- Operabay


Bucharest (Romania)
- Embryo
- Fratelli
- Krystal

Budapest
- Club 7
- Negro,
- Oscar´s
- Piaf
- Bed
- Dokk Club
- Studio
- Moulin Rouge
- Romkert
- Cafe del Rio
- Sensation

Cannes
- Le palais
- Le Baoli

Cape Town
- Chrome

Caracas
- Loft

Casablanca
- G Sound

Cairo
- Club 35
- Buddha Bar

Chicago
- Manor

Cologne
- Ivory

Copenhagen
- NASA
- No8
- Slik

Corsica
- Via Notte

Cuzco (Peru)
- Fallen Angels
- Mama Africa

Delhi
- MoS

Damascus (Syria)
- Z Bar
- Marmar

Dubai
- Club 400
- Trilogy
- Shocho
- Chi at The Loudge
- Peppermint

Düsseldorf
- POSH (at Breidenbacher Hof)
- Sams
- 3001
- Nero

Florence
- Central Park

Fortaleza
- Pirata

Frankfurt
- King Kamehameha
- Cocoon

Geneva
- la SIP
- Le Java
- Platinum
- B Club
- Bypass

Gstaad
- GreenGo
- Chloesterli

Hamburg
- Golden Cut

Hammamet
- Calypso
- Oasis

Hamptons
- Pink Elephant

Hasselt
- Versuz

Heidelberg
- Print Media Lounge
- Deep
- Tangente

Hong Kong
- Volar
- Dragon I
- Drop

Ibiza
- Pacha
- SPACE
- Amnesia

Ilha Bela (Brazil)
- DPNY

Istanbul
- Ulus29
- Anjelique
- Reina
- Supper Club
- Blackk
- Wanna

Kitzbühl
- Take Five

Lanzarote
- Room

La Paz (Bolivia)
- La Gitana
- El Mongo's

Las Vegas
- Tryst
- Tao
- Pure

Lausanne
- Red Club
- Zapoff
- D!
- Le Mad

Lisbon
- Lux
- Kapital
- Jezebel
- Garage
- Tamariz
- BBC

London
- Maddox
- Movida
- Crystal
- Tramp*
- Annabels*
- Bougie
- Cuckoo
- Amika
- Boujis

Los Angeles
- Les Duex
- Area
- Winstons
- Opera
- Hyde
- Teddy’s
- Giant

Luxembourg
- VIP Room
- Le Marx

Lyon
- Aperiklub
- aKGB
- Baroc
- First
- VIP Room

Madrid
- Pacha Cielo
- Archy’s
- Gabanna
- Liberata
- Fabrik
- Buddha del Mar
- Fortuny
- El Perro de la Parte de Atras del Coche

Mallorca
- Kinka

Marbella
- Olivia Valere
- Billionaire
- Dreamers
- Nikki Beach

Marrakesh
- El Amounia
- Plage Rouge
- Pacha
- Nikki Beach

Miami
- Mynt
- Mokai
- Suite
- Fifth
- Mansion
- Karu Y

Milan
- Armani Privè
- Just Cavalli
- Killer
- Plastic
- Gold
- Nephenta

Milano Marittima
- Pineta

Monte Carlo
- JimmyZ
- Caremont

Montreal
- Time Supper Club

Moscow
- Diagilev

Munich
- Baby
- 8 Season´s
- Nigthclub of Bayerischer Hof
- Erste Liga

Mykonos
- El Pecado
- Space
- Cavo Paradise

Naples
- La Mela

New York
- Cain (party coverage)
- Le Seuk
- Gold Bar (my review)
- Pink Elephant (stories 1, 2, 3)
- The Box (my review)
- Cipriani (my review...video footage)

Oslo
-Cosmo
-Barbeint
-Golden room

Paris
- Show Case
- Neo
- Le Sens
- Le Neo
- Kong
- Palais M
- Maison Blanche
- Le Baron
- Mix
- Le Mathis
- Le Cabaret
- Le Queen
- Chez Regines

Porto Cervo (Sardinia)
- Billionaire
- Sotto Vento

Prague
- Radost Fx
- Mecca Club
- Duplex

Punta Del Este
- Tequila

Rabat (Morocco)
- Tapis Rouge

Riccione (Italy)
- Byblos

Rimini
- Paradiso

Rino
- NoMI Lounge

Rio de Janeiro
- Baronetti
- Nuuth Lounge
- 00 (zero, zero)
- Melt
-Londra

Rome
- La Maison
- Art Café
- R'home
- Ristrò
- La Suite
- La Maison
- La Cabala
- Espazio 900

Rotterdam
- Offcorso
- Vie
- Cinema

Sao Paulo
- Cafe de La Musique
- Lotus
- Pacha
- Disco Club
- Museum
- Royal
- Alucci Alucci
- Di Bistro Lounge
- Love Story

Singapore
- Attica
- Velvet

Shanghai
- Barbarossa
- Attica
- Bar Rouge
- M on the Bund
- 3 on the Bund
- Mao
- Glamour

St Moritz
- Dracula
- King's
- Privé

Stockholm
- Cafe Opera
- V
- White Room
- Spy Bar
- Sturecompagniet
- F12
- Solidarietet

St. Tropez
- Les Caves de Roi
- Le VIP

Taipei
- Carnegie’s

Tallin
- Bonbon

Toronto
- The Drake Hotel
- The Social

Vicenza
- Victory

Vienna
- Die Passage
- Red Room
- Take Five
- Phoenix Supper Club

Warsaw
- Foksal 19
- Cinnamon
- Opera
- Utopia

Washington, DC
- 18th Street Lounge
- Lima
- K Street Lounge

Zurich
- Q Club
- Supermarket
- Kaufleuten Diagonal
- Carlton Bar
- St. Germain
- Indochine

Disagree? Don't see your city up there? Feel free to add your two cents and add on!

Karaoke rarely sounds good, but it’s usually not this bad.

You guessed it. This time around at Cipriani’s Upstairs’ weekly Sunday night shit-faced singing shebang I had the genius to videotape what was going on. I wanted visual and auditory proof of the ridiculousness because I don’t feel anyone who reads this blog can fully understand what an embarrassment this entire establishment is to the human condition.

For juicy background details on Sunday’s at Cipriani’s Upstairs check out my previous article.

The brief 411: models, modophiles, creepy Italian men, Giuseppe, gold diggers and extremely drunk partiers gather together on Sunday nights in this private club to enjoy spending a few thousand on tables while singing along to karaoke.

DON’T EVEN WALK UP THE NARROW STAIRS TO CIP’S IF YOU’RE GOING TO STUMBLE.

You must attend this party entirely inebriated. Not doing so will result in death, as I’m pretty sure any sober person would hang themselves with a tablecloth from the rafters mere moments after having to endure this adult sing along.

Bartok and I prepared appropriately. We consumed an entire water bottle full of Bacardi and Diet Coke on the walk from my place to West Broadway. Then we jumped around like apes at Diva as the lounge was celebrating its Four Year Anniversary with a Euro dance party starting at 8 P.M. The Diva party was noteworthy, and I’d like to take the time to write about the fabulous Enrique look alike DJ, the relaxed vibe, and the delicious aromatic seafood at another date. For now, just know that Diva served at the perfect vodka heavy pre-gaming event to our eventual arrival at Cipriani’s across the street at 12:30 A.M.

So here you go. It’s dark, my camerawork sucks, the visuals are bad. What’s more noteworthy is the singing – or lack there of. What’s amazing is that when you’re standing on top of a table at this party, you actually feel like a superstar. Looking at these videos, in retrospect, you can barely even decipher what song is playing. Even the karaoke machine sounds like it’s on crack.

Observe my drunken genius in Video 1, as I attempted to create a lighting system for my movie with a candle.

Observe the cocktail waitresses slithering together on the bar in Video 2.

And please, don’t judge me.

My girl Bartok’s in town and after our group of friends consumed half a liter of sake and two bottles of champagne, our evening was off to a promising start. Around 2 A.M., after we all got bored of watching YouTube videos while inebriating ourselves, we decided it might be appropriate to detach our asses from the couch, detach the liquor from our hands, and actually do something of theoretical worth with our evening.

Everyone tossed around plans, and shot them down, texted our friends already out and looked up addresses of where they were on the web. We’d settled on an acceptable game plan when half of our friends realized it was Saturday night (they’d been under the impression it was Sunday this whole time) and we had to start the whole planning pow-wow again, keeping the fact that it was unfortunately a weekend in mind.

Weekends equal crowds.

Weekends equal competition for cabs.

Weekends equal Sixth Avenue traffic.

Somehow we ended up at opening night of what someone claimed was a “new” New York nightclub, The Madison, where there was an IMG Modeling Agency party. Gross. But our guy friend insisted on attending.

Inside the bowels of The Madison, which by the way is large and cavernous like the old school clubs of the 70s, I remembered that drunk and baby-model-drunk are two completely different levels of inebriation. I found myself surrounded by sloppy, sloppy, sloppy baby-model-drunks and the perverted modelphiles that stalk them. There was no escape. I couldn’t even maneuver myself to an empty area, because this club had no empty areas. The entire situation made a Thursday at Pink Elephant look classy.

That’s saying a lot.




I spent most of my time trying not to get drowned in vodka as PR’s on top of tables would occasionally let it rain down Kettle One on the eager, open-mouthed baby models below. I watched in disgusted awe as the models then slithered around with one another in a group orgy, as they were too wasted to properly pair off and grind. And I guess this kind of behavior’s to be somewhat expected when waltzing into a club full of seventeen-year-olds at 2:30 A.M., I guess I just thought considering it was their agency party and therefore theoretically a work event, people might have stopped drinking when they could no longer see straight.

WRONG.

After we planted our coats down in the least violated area available, I realized we’d landed at the boys’ section of the dance floor. I was dead center in the middle of a male model cluster. While amusing, this kind of situation is not enjoyable. None of these chiseled hotties were a day over twenty-two. Most were socially awkward and impressively bad dancers. Many floated through the crowd lost, aimless, unable to talk or even move their mouths. I think most of them would’ve been relieved if their mother suddenly showed up from Germany, grabbed their hand, and escorted them to the nearest exit for fresh air. And half of these guys were wearing flannel.

Newsflash! Apparently, 90s flannel is back. I was outraged that my friends had forced me to dawn a dress for this event. Clearly, if I had worn flats and assembled a grungy Seattle look I might have had a chance at blending in. As I mulled over this thought, an ano-baby-male model abducted me with what was apparently the club’s outdoor red velvet rope, which he was using as a leash. Having swung the rope over my head and down to my waist, he thrust me toward him, forcing us to dance. Then he reached the rope over Bartok’s head and drew her in as well. Once he realized we weren’t seventeen and on ecstasy, he let us go.

Trying to make the best of the situation, Bartok and I picked favorites. I liked a scruffy, blonde, greasy-haired model in jeans and a green t-shirt, who could have easily passed for Christian Bale’s younger brother. His arms were hugely muscular without being obnoxious and he was tall but not skinny. He wasn’t dancing, which was much appreciated, and looked like he could still probably recite the alphabet without having to pause or ask for help. All signs pointed to that he might be an okay time. Then a fat chick, presumably his booker, suddenly started trying to make out with him. She succeeded in getting one kiss. Disgusted, Christian Bale-boy quickly fled the premises, returning twenty minutes later on the other side of the table. I guess he thought he’d escaped, but the fatty found him again soon thereafter. Sad story.

The other male of note was a flannel wearing James Dean look-alike. At first I couldn’t decide whether he was hot or not. He seemed like the sexy Mexican plumber type who’d guest star on a show like Passions. Then we ended up sitting side by side on a banquet couch, me to rest my feet, him to enjoy a cigarette, and I realized he’s the face of at least a dozen city billboards, I’m thinking Hugo Boss. He had the dark hair and eyes I appreciated and I found myself wildly attracted to him, even hoping that we might dance (gasp! Gross, I know).

We were wearing almost identical brown bracelets (yes, this guy was hot enough to pull off flannel and man jewelry) so I tried to use this as a conversation starter. I got shut down. Then he stood up and it became evident that he could barely walk. I bumped into him ten minutes later and he fervently gripped my shoulders and asked:

“Where’s the Danish guy? Where is he? ”

I guess they’d lost a younger, Danish, baby boy model they were supposed to be chaperoning.

“There’s a Danish guy over there,” I said pointing one of my friends who is Danish, “but I don’t think that’s who you’re looking for.”

“No. No it’s not,” he admitted sadly. He seemed heartbroken.

We proceeded to have a brief conversation in which I learned his name and that he was from Amsterdam. Then a very feisty baby girl model wearing what looked like a backless thong as a top, grabbed my shoulder, shoved me off Amsterdam James Dean cartoon style, and started grinding with him.

Possessive. I get it.

I think she was on E.

I realized I was officially in Hell.

Models too drunk to find their coats had taken out their aggression by vigorously flinging our jackets around as hard as they could. Nice. Somehow we recouped all our belongings, and with my feet soaked in vodka, I managed to stomp out there before the 4 A.M. last call with some dignity. James Dean and I said bye on my way out.

As we’d anticipated at the beginning of the evening, Sunday later proved to be a much better night.