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 nighttime 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 foreigners, 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 different 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?

2:42 – I’m still awkwardly chatting with my uncle while I wait for my friend Jewel and her sister to show up. They’re thirty-minutes late, something to do with a frozen bottle of champagne exploding. Me: ‘But why were you opening champagne at two in the afternoon?’ Her: ‘We thought it would get us moving?’

3:00 – Our entire party has arrived but we’re still waiting on a table. Waiters attempt to kick out patrons who are just nursing drinks. An odd French man-couple sits across from each other passing back and forth white plastic sunglasses, which they each wear for five minutes before switching off again. They seem to think they’re super trendy. Weird.

3:23 – We’re joyous as we finally sit. The problem is I now have to run a few block home to let someone in my apartment. Jewel promises to save my seat. I look at the steaming plates of Eggs Benedict and bubbling soups, drooling.

4:00 – I rush back to Felix while receiving texts from Jewel like: “They are being aggressive! Trying to put us in one table and steal your seat / the other table. We’re trying to hold down the fort!” and later, “They keep coming to ask what the status is. I made up that you went to buy cigarettes. They were like, ‘those better be some amazing cigarettes.’”

Tables and Felix are so hard to come by on weekends that most diners develop some sort of strategy (usually the only strategy is to order more and more food) to keep a hold on seats until the evening dancing hours. We were no exception.

4:31 – I come back to a table full of Mojito pitchers. Jewel and her sister are analyzing the crowd and guessing people’s nationalities. We hone in on a beautiful boy with the thickest hair we’ve ever seen and a Patrick Dempsy look alike by the door. This is by far the best people watching in Manhattan.

4:33 – Starving, I order a $17 Croquet Madame. Rip off!

4:45 – Did I say rip off? This is the best Croquet Madame of my life. It’s so incredibly cheesy, what is this cheese!!! This egg is perfectly runny. Take $27 for it. I’m trying to convince myself not to order another.

5:24 – About six friends have pulled up chairs around our tiny table and we’re now on pitcher five…six?…of mojitos.

5:57 – Traditional Brazilian dance music is now blasting. Our waiter has vanished. More mojito pitchers still manage to be ordered.

6:03 – Recognize Italian friends of mine in the sidewalk party outside. Bang furiously on the window in an attempt to get their attention. Other random men on the sidewalk think I’m motioning to them. They now crudely hit on us through the window using their tongues as a seduction tool. Gross.

6:27 – Italian friends finally notice my attention getting attempts and battle the congestion up front to reach our strategically held table. More chairs are pulled up. The female maître’de comes over in a hissy fit and rearranges our table so the over-capacity restaurant’s not such a body lock. We comply.

6:41 – I’m officially drunk.

6:46 – Listen to my Italian friend tell me a rumor that fifteen years ago when Felix first opened and was patronized by Wall Street bankers, they used to put half a pill of Uppers in a table’s first mojito pitcher to get them rowdy and ordering ten more. That’s how mojitos became so famous.

Me: Whaaaat?

Him: No one knows if it’s true.

7:20 – I realize it’s 7:20. I have dinner uptown at 8.

7:21 – Attempt to get one of the dancing waiters to bring us our bill.

7:28 – The bill’s finally delivered and completely illegible. We send it back to them and ask them to decode.

7:31 – We receive a readable version of the bill. Food $69. OK, reasonable. Drink: $230 Total, three-hundred and fifty something. Whaaaat?

7:35 – Re-gather Brazilian friends who ordered an extra three pitchers on our tab (FYI pitchers are sixty-something dollars. Good to know.) American Express cards and cash, the only acceptable forms of payment, are tossed into the middle of our table.

7:41 – With a lot less cash on my hands, I slither through the now jumping crowd and make it out of the sweaty restaurant onto the sidewalk alive.

7:45 – I catch an uptown train and upon sitting in the subway, realize I’m irrevocably more wasted than I was on Saturday night.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

Lollipop’s a hybrid bar-club on 61st and Madison. While in no way a destination hot spot, get the right group of friends together and you can have a stellar night there on a weekends. Be forewarned that the place is shoe box level small. It’s sort of like a hallway turned disco that you have to slither through to get to the back bar.

The people problem’s a double-edged sword because if Lollipop’s empty the vibe’s not that fun, if it’s crowded it can feel like a miniature mosh pit. This is where alcohol intake comes in. Let loose and drink enough and you won’t mind bumping shoulders (and other body parts) with the crowd. Girls can also hop up on the couches and tables to dance and get some oxygen.

Suits swarm the bar after work but late night it’s a stereotype free for all. Don’t miss the cool color-sensor-screen thing at the entrance. It tracks your movement and makes you look like one of those now cliché iPod billboards.

Why the place is called Lollipop remains unclear, but it never fails to make me think of the unbelievably annoying Lollipop song below, which then is usually stuck in my head anywhere from hours to days. Just in case you’re not feeling nuts enough already, I’ve provided it here. If you decide to give Lollipop a lick, make sure to sing this as you skip in.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

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

Last year at this time, The Box was a-booming. Since then, the below-the-radar theater that seemed untouchable has suffered through typical New York club angst (license issues, cop raids, busts). I personally hadn’t been there since their celebrity studded scandal in August (patrons on the night of the shutdown included Cameron Diaz and Jay-Z). It took a trip to Chrystie Street this weekend to fully remember what a jungle that place really is. My initial description from last year:

The Box is different. It’s not a club. It’s a black box stage, but with very extravagant French décor; red plush leather seats, a golden balcony, heavy crimson curtains that encircle tables for privacy, and my favorite touch, Babar wallpaper. People don’t come here to dance like angry gorillas like they do at Pink Elephant. People come to sit, chill out, enjoy the ambiance, champagne and to watch the show.

The Box puts on a new show every week hosted by the infamous MC – a bleach blonde transvestite with red lips, devil horns, long nails and a spandex suit which he inevitably ends up stripping out of to reveal his intricate body art and the phrase “Made in America” tattooed across his stomach. The MC always sings, always addresses the crowd as “motherfuckas” and usually begins the night by stripping some victimized guy from the audience on stage and having topless girls spray him with champagne. This is followed by a series of variety numbers that range from strip teases, singers belting ballads, erotica and comedy sketches. Think Cabaret style: Germany, World War II. The show lasts about half an hour, there’s one at around 1 am and another around 2:30 – although there’s no set schedule.

What I learned this time around is that it’s one thing to enjoy a full evening at The Box, arriving at 12 or 1 AM, settling in, eating your popcorn, focusing on the show, talking politely amongst your table. It’s quite another to show up at 3 AM when you’re already drunk and seeing stars…because if you’re already seeing stars, once you get in The Box, you’ll be seeing comets doing the can-can. The ambiance is just that dazzling. It’s literally like taking a side trip to the circus on your way home; A foolproof way to extricate yourself from any sense of reality, which is perhaps why workaholic New Yorkers love it so. Cause sure, we’re in Manhattan, but for some reason swirling around The Box late night you feel like you could be anywhere, any time zone, any country. Most conversations you have with people don’t even make sense.

Example:

Person 1: Popcorn.
Person 2: John’s gotta get on stage. We’re getting John on stage.
Person 3: Is that a girl or a guy?
Person 1: I dunno. I think they have a tail.
Person 2: Popcorn?
Person 3: Wait, a tail in the back or the front?
Person 2: Are they really twins?
Person 1: (mouth full) This popcorn feels like ale.
Person 2: Taste. You mean, tastes.
Person 3: What do you think it’s like to get whipped like that every night?
Person 2: Ashley does have John pretty whipped.
Person 1: Holly shit, is John on stage?
Person 3: No, that’s just someone who looks like John wearing a hazmat suit.
Person 2: Oh.
Person 1: Where did you say you were from again?

fade out

And the later you go, the more risqué the show. Around the time sex toys are in every act and you’re thinking, ‘wow, I never knew a rubber ducky could be used for that,’ you know it’s time to leave. Luckily, my girlfriend yanked me out of there just before the lights came up. Thank goodness, because these atrocities, while deliriously fabulous at night are definitely frightening by day.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

A Man Hole and Stolen Shoes…

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

Trucks of lighting equipment, toilets, and speakers surrounded the house which was already abuzz with pre-party activities. My roommate and I soaked up the sun by the lake and in mere moments one of X’s many employees came over to us with a bottle champagne and two flutes on a tray, eager to pour. We simultaneously screamed, “NO!” and waved our arms in rejection as if he were approaching us with a machine gun. Unintentionally, we almost scared him over the deck into the lake. We were still so hung-over from the night before and it wasn’t even 1 PM. Cocktails were not happening. We tried to apologize and eventually, the poor waiter slumped away confused.

X the host had no problem allowing three New Yorkers to join his party and hurriedly tried to make friends with us – an unforgettable interaction since he spoke zero English. The much larger issue was the weather. Unexpectedly, a light, tropical rain was spattering the pool and electrical equipment, which party-workers in the dozens were quickly transporting up a massive hill to X’s wrap around porch.

Would the party be cancelled?

NO – of course not, because things like that just don’t happen in Brazil. The festivities, which we supposed to start at eight, were delayed until around midnight. No big deal since that’s what time Brazilians eat dinner anyway. And by the time we arrived at eleven thirty, the entrance was already a mess.

Partygoers were herded in and out of metal gates and then separated into individual lines for men and women (creepy, because at time it felt more like being admitted to prison). IDs were handed through an elegant iron gate to two men in suits and shown to a woman with a binder, who individually checked everyone’s name and ID number. I leave you to imagine how long this process took…so long, in fact, that partiers already inside would sneak drinks over the walls and through the gates to their friends standing in line. Considerate.

Keeping things interesting was this large manhole amidst the entrance. It plunged seven feet deep and I saw at least one man disappear inside before being hauled out by his friends.

The Argentine explained to me that construction jobs in Brazil often go unfinished, and that workers had probably exposed the hole to fix some pipes and then just forgotten about it. We all made mental notes to avoid the man hole when leaving and drunk.

Inside, the party took place between the pool and the lake, beautiful and somehow more relaxing than the massive rave-filled tent parties we’d been to before.

All our worry about the host X not wanting Americans on his list proved to be unnecessary. We not only entered seamlessly, but X fell head-over-heels in love with my roommate. I’d see them zooming through the party, my roommate’s hand always tightly incased in his, X’s body guard always a few steps behind them.

“He’s decided I’m his girlfriend for the night,” my roommate explained helplessly. “We can’t talk, but he really wants to communicate with me. He’s been acting out stories.”

Acting out stories?

I was about to say, “Excuse me?” when X scurried up, took both my roommates hands and began this over-the-top pantomime that somewhat resembled charades. Between him pointing to himself, enacting a sobbing motion, then pointing to a woman across the room, then tracing a heart in the air, we disjointedly learned the story of his ex-girlfriend. The performance was cut short since X saw another one of his guests and jolted my roommate away until they were both swallowed by the crowd.

Since I’d been wearing heels for a week straight and knew this party would be taking place on damp grass (not conducive for stilettos) I’d brought flat sandals in my bag. Half way through the night, I changed and left my high heels behind the Jacuzzi near one of the bartenders. Security encircled the entire area so I figured my abandoned shoes in the grass would be fine.

I spent the majority of my evening conversing with a gorgeous Brazilian (the first man I’d met on the trip who spoke English) who, naturally, was a professional water-skier (what else would a gorgeous guy be in Brazil?). You’d think that because we spent most of our evening on the boardwalk away from the party that we wouldn’t be wasted. WRONG. Because you don’t need to go to the bar to get drinks in Brazil. Clearly they hire men with trays of vodka and Brazilian Redbull strapped to their chest to encircle the party at all times. So we probably consumed five drinks each without ever once having to move. Dangerous.

When we rejoined the party madness at five in the morning, my American guy friend bounced up to me and announced, “Dude, I’m not leaving tomorrow. There’s no way,” and bounced away again. (We were all scheduled on a mid-morning flight.) “Great,” I thought. Typical last night chaos.

Since my best girlfriend had been abducted and the boys had lost all sense of reason or responsibility, the water-skier took pity on me and offered to drive me home. Despite the fact that I’d checked on my shoes twice, when I came to recoup them at the end of the night they were gone.

?!!?!?!?!?!?

Thus ensued a pantomime story in the overly dramatic style I’d learned from our host in which I attempted to relay to the nearby security guard what had happened. Of course that failed miserably, so I went to the other side of the party and retrieved the water-skier, figuring he’d be nice enough to translate. Kindly, he snuck into the behind the bar with me and had a lengthy chat with security. He then turned to me:

“He said a bald man wearing jeans and a white t-shirt came and took your shoes five minutes ago.”

Me: “Someone who works here?”

“No, just some guy at the party.”

“And that’s the best description he can give us?” I surveyed the crowd: everyone was wearing white and 60% of the men had shaved heads.

Utterly perplexed I asked, “Why would a man want my gold platform heels?”

The water-skier shrugged, “Probably really drunk.”

Me: “So the security guard witnessed all this but didn’t stop him?”

“Maybe he thought he was your boyfriend.”

I shook my head trying to ingest the absurdity of the entire situation. “My shoes!” I muttered helplessly.

The water-skier just smiled, took my hand, and began leading me to the car, “Welcome to Brazil.”

Crazy.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

Think New York and Vegas are hardcore? They are. But nothing can truly parallel Brazil, the culture that gave us Carnival, the caipirinha, and I’m pretty sure the concept of ‘the one night stand.’ Since the weather’s always fabulous and Brazilians are suckers for oceans, lakes, and sunrises, parties are outdoors, last till noon the next day and HUGE – we’re talking about flown in porta potties, massive outdoor tents that make your average celebrity wedding reception look lame, and multiple open bars. Because if you’re not going head-over-heels all out, you might as well stay in and make passionate Brazilian-style love.

My trip originated in Sao Paulo. Then we drove five hours in a bullet proof car to a famed Easter weekend party destination called Escarpas dos Lagos. The Escarpas lakes are outside an area of Brazil called Ribeirao Preto, which my friends described as some of the most expensive agricultural land in the world – valued at a higher price than the most fertile tobacco fields in the US. The main product is of course sugarcane i.e. ethanol, and of course you have some of the wealthiest families with ranches the size of Rhode Island near impoverished towns filled with underpaid workers who can’t even afford shoes. The parties took place inside a gated condominium where most houses had their own helipads. Before even departing from the USA, my friends had been incessantly hyping up Friday’s ‘Marina Party’ or ‘Na Sala,’ apparently the pinnacle event in this Easter weekend of non-stop debauchery.

Their excitement proved to be legit. After a SWAT team checked our tickets, bracelets and frisked us (Brazil’s big on security), we entered the equivalent of an adult party Disney World. This pre-party entrance area had Go-Go dancers above a glowing pool, bubbles galore, a massive Giudo-esque angel serenely overlooking the scene, and a Johnny Walker promotional motorboat filled with cowboys that encircled the party at all times.

And here in New York we think disco balls are elaborate…

Upon closer examination of our angel friend, I became 100% convinced that he was in fact from New Jersey. Despite my immature attempts to seduce him into coming down to talk to me, I still have no way to concretely prove this.

There were also men in silver spandex suits with the equivalent of Christmas lights wrapped around them stealthily slithering through the party. I think these creep-shows represented some unheard of Brazilian vodka brand. Sadly, their reflective suits where so glossy that flash photos of them didn’t really come out: and a huge opportunity for comedy missed. I leave you to imagine. Keep in mind; this was just the promotional fun land at the first bar. Then you entered the actual party:

I’m a newfound fan of these trippy, neon green lights, which lose their full effect in New York since our clubs are essentially tiny, underground hovels. At these house music raves, the lights can extend for hundreds of meters. At one house party, the host even had projections of green frogs dancing on the cliffs across the lake from his house (insane, yet entertaining.) Our Brazilian friends somehow negotiated our entrance into the VIP at the very back end of the tent closest to the water, where you could literally survey the entire crowd from above and feel like the neon vortex was swirling directly AT you.

Other interesting cultural phenomena of note:

-Grape juice and vodka! Brazilians in Escarpas love their grape juice. This was a mixer more common than cranberry or orange. Detrimental if you’re wearing white.

-You know how house music freaks in the US like to dance pumping their fist in the air? In Brazil, you nix the fist and pump your hand in the air while performing a wrist flick. It’s sort of a ‘come here’ movement…I’m assuming to evoke the party spirits/Gods.

-DJs dance! Maybe I’m going to the wrong places, but in New York it seems like the DJs are locked away in some dim booth, always with their head down, studiously flipping through binders of music with a puzzled look on their face, occasionally stopping to survey the crowd and take a swig out of a Poland Springs water bottle. They make standardized testing look more fun. Instead in Brazil, the DJ was the powerhouse epicenter of the party’s universe. I couldn’t even understand how he was spinning since he appeared to be always conducting the crowd like it was his own massive orchestra, flailing his hands, shaking his fingers and thrusting his head. I was the furthest away from the stand and could feel the DJs electric energy from his God-like booth on the opposite end of the tent. Talk about being dynamic!

Partying till long after sunrise is standard in Brazil, so you have the opportunity to play tourist drunk at seven in the morning and get photo ops like these.

Here’s a video I took trying to capture both dawn over the mountains and the rave below. Enjoy!

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com