I was one of the last people to get on the Bijoux bandwagon as the club’s launch coincided with my temporary retreat from society. Too bad, because the place is a lot of fun. Several new locales have launched in the past months including RDV and Greenhouse, both of which I’ll be formulating written thoughts on soon, but neither of these places got me excited the way Bijoux did.

What’s cool here?

Well, it got me revved up enough to do a top ten list, so here we go:

1. It’s hidden! Nothing gets me more excited than hidden La Esquina-esque places. I think it has something to do with my childhood longing for a secret fort. If I have to traverse a kitchen, scale a secret stairwell, knock three times on an unmarked door, and creep through candlelight down a sketchy hallway, my happy going-out energy starts pumping — and you have to do all these things and more to get into Bijoux.

The club’s in Meatpacking in the basement bowels of Merkato 55. The entrance is a black door and after negotiating your way inside, you slither through a long hallway, down a staircase (making lefts and rights in sharp sequence), and down another long hallway to a seemingly-standard door at the end marked ‘Employees Only.’ In opening what appears to be an electrical closet or staff bathroom, you reveal a sprawling underground party lair.

2. A break from house music. I’m a house music fan, but between Kiss and Fly and Cielo it seems you can’t get away from it in the Meatpacking zone. Bijoux played hip hop intermixed with fun oldies.

3. It’s not too crowded. When you’re several levels underground, this is a good thing for claustrophobics and the rest of us.

4. It has a Wishing Well! Talk about my childhood fantasies continuing to be fulfilled. OK, maybe it’s just a well and not magic, but any club with fairy tale elements in it is cool in my book. I wonder if a late night patron has ever fallen in…

5. That red velvet color: in the curtains, in the lampshades and on the wall. There’s something about this color that I’m physically attracted too.

6. Display cases. Why not browse jewelry or really aged liquor on your night out? I thought this was an innovative decoration motif. I hadn’t seen it before and it gave the place a boutique-y feel.

7. No Go Go dancers! There’s nothing wrong with dancers per se, but I’ve always found they ‘trashy up’ an atmosphere making it less chill and well, sleazier. The ceiling at Bijoux is so low anyone that tried to Go Go on something would smack their head and fall down. Phew.

8. The very pretty, massive chandelier. I don’t know if this photo properly captures how large this thing is, but it’s bigger than me in the fetal position.

9. The sections of the wall that are leather and look like black snake skin. Creepy!

10. It was mentioned in Gossip Girl (IF you’re a fan :))

For people who want a side of club music with their dinner experience and can actually afford to pay for their meal instead of attending promoter charity dinners like the ones I’ve written about at One, Bagatelle is the place to be. It’s a meatpacking block away and while One and Bagatelle have nothing in common except for excruciatingly loud dinner music and being the brainchildren of club owners, I find myself comparing the two because they’re the kind of restaurants one frequents pre-going out.

Haters describe restaurant-hybrid-disco Bagatelle as ‘an overpriced, overcrowded clubhouse for Guidos and women with a lot of mileage.’

Fans describe it as ‘the best food and social scene in the city.’

Obviously, getting a reservation’s close to impossible and even if you do, an hour long wait while you suck down outrageously over-priced martinis in a body lock at the bar is mandatory. The best word to describe this restaurant: Crowded. The runner up word: Euro.

While one guy did sport a donkey rope, the rest of the crowd was the slicker, elegant Euro type who knew the brand name of the shoes they were wearing off the top of their head and kept colorful kerchiefs in their suit breast pocket. The ladies that accompanied them were decorated accordingly.

FYI Bagatelle is a great place to wear your most uncomfortable, super-high heels. It’s so crowded that you can use fellow patrons to keep your balance walking around and falling is an impossibility.

Once we finally sat down, a waiter that looked like he’d just completed the half-marathon greeted us with a broad smile while sweat / tears trickled down his face. At another point, when I flagged him to take our order he made it half way around our table before sprinting off again with only half our orders received. I was more concerned about that man’s cardiovascular health than the restaurant’s service in general so the waiter and I remained on good terms. That is until he told me my entrée of choice, the scallops, was no longer available. That left me with the veal. Boring. But the goat cheese and foie gras appetizers were great. Get them if you ever find yourself here.

Also, keep your eyes peeled for the most attractive Asian male waiter (or water boy?) who circulates the restaurant all night with ridiculously shiny, long hair and a sexy saunter under his aproned black pants. He’s somewhat mythical looking and my friends and I decided he should star in the next Lord of the Rings movie and probably received a frightening amount of attention (and cash?) nightly from older women.

Don’t come to Bagatelle if you really want to talk to anyone because the music level makes that impossible (they actually have a DJ by the door).

Do come if you want to be dancing to ‘My Dream is to Fly’ on your chair by dessert.

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.

The entrance is the same but the club’s entirely different. My jaw dropped upon arrival.

Why?

Because these were right in front of me:

Cain’s new décor revolves around a runway in what used to be the center dance floor. Go Go dancers shuffle around it in an awkward line like birthday candles strewn upon a cake. I felt like I’d entered Bada Bing and at any moment, I’d see Tony Soprano waving at me with his cigar from the bar.

What had happened to this place?

Technically speaking, they moved the DJ booth to the opposite side of the room (sure that cost a fortune) and hung red stringy thingies everywhere, which to me just accentuated the fact that this could be a brothel. Impressive elephant tusks support the ceiling and a beautiful mural’s on the back wall (if you manage to remove you eyes from the grinding women in front of you, you’ll appreciate it.) It’s sort of like Cave du Roy meets the jungle…which for me, didn’t really work. On this plus side, they clearly revamped their sound system and the quality is excellent. This place is definitely not the old Cain.

While I personally was not a fan, this venue could be wild fun for bachelor or bachelorette parties. Then again, maybe my whole perspective would be different if they had male dancers up on that stage.

The thing about Halloween landing on a Friday this year is that it gave people the excuse to make it a weekend long event. For some, face painting and sugar-highs started as early as Thursday.

I’ve written in the past about how I’m not a huge Halloween fan. I created a cop-out excuse last year about how ‘every night in New York is Halloween’ (it’s true, every night you can wear anything you want) and ‘going out is hard enough without specific wardrobe requirements.’ These excuses, while nicely crafted, are lame.

The truth: Horror movies make me cry. I get scared easily. I still have horrific memories of supposedly fun haunted houses terrifying me into months of insomnia as a child. I just don’t like dressing up. I really like things to pretty all the time. I’m anal about my skin and can’t imagine putting yucky face paint on it. I so hate being scared myself I can’t even fathom dressing up as something spooky and scaring others.

In short, I’m a Halloween loser. But this doesn’t mean I didn’t go out to do a full investigation of Halloween events taking place in the city all weekend long. I realize Halloween is over, we admired the costumes and hopefully ate a year’s worth of candy corn, but before everyone forgets about Halloween completely and refocuses 110% on their idle mind time on New Years, I wanted to put in my quick two cents on the club with the best Halloween decorations.

And my winner is…

MANSION!

Photo proof below:

That ghost hornet (ghost hornet?!) seriously looks like it’s airborne and about to impale us. I also like the ivy and autumn leaves they have going on here. It actually gives Mansion class.

This ivy and spiderwebs looks real! OK, just the ivy does. But I’m still impressed.

GAAAA! Again, excellent color palette. And the club lights in the background make the place look like an insane asylum.

These chains are HOT!

This is how I feel every morning when my alarm goes off:

Photos via Kilroy Cafe

Wow. Can this guy breathe? And we have a human calculator.

You can never go wrong with Teletubbies / Trolls…

I want to make this face of shock and disgust all the time when I go out. Inappropriate? Yes.

OK, she wins in the creativity category.

These two groups of friends mastered the art of Halloween coordination:

More fun Halloween photos available via facebook here

After being in New York for nearly three months, my social scene remains somewhat limited. While MMB tends to frequent the most exclusive nightclubs in the city, her little sister is reluctant to venture out of the East Village. I’m comfortable in the scene I refer to as NYU.S.A.—an address that’s a fusion of college life and New York. Such a combination makes me feel somewhat at home.

But I can’t remain a village idiot forever. When MMB had to leave town on a business trip, she asked me to attend an event at Marquee in her place. She had to talk me through the whole arrangement several times, very slowly, as terms like “nightclub” and “business trip” are somewhat foreign concepts.

How could I say no? It was time to venture out of my comfort zone and discover what a club had to offer.

I had two concerns about going to Marquee:
1) Running into fellow intern and arch nemesis Sushi Girl, who frequents Marquee like a bad case of herpes.

2) Being obviously out of place in a crowd of people exactly like Sushi Girl: impeccably dressed, subtly judgmental, effortlessly bitchy.

But if Marquee’s the most famous club in Manhattan five-years running, I decided it must be worth seeing. My sister wouldn’t feed me to the wolves! Besides, who am I kidding? I rely on subtle judgment and bitchiness in each blog post I write.

How out of place could I be?

I put on a little black dress and very high heels. My headband stayed home. I was ready…I guess.

The event at Marquee was hosted by TruthThroughAction.org, an organization that “brings independent filmmakers together to create edgy film and video content to support the Democratic Party, its issues and candidates.” I think it’s both commendable and effective when people use their own creative energy and channel it towards a greater cause. Be sure to check out the viral videos on the website. While surfing the world wide web, you may also want to take a glance at McCain’s crazy faces. That should be a real push towards “political monogamy”–a status that Truth Through Action promotes through its “I only sleep with Democrats” shirts. Sex doesn’t just sell; it also votes.

My friend T and I strutted into Marquee at 9:00 PM and immediately downed two cocktails. We surveyed our surroundings, unsure of our next move. The club had a projector that showed behind-the-scenes footage of the “I only sleep with Democrats” photo shoots. Sleek photographs hung on the back wall and blue balloons floated in a few tastefully scattered bundles around the crowded interior. This Democratic party looked good.

The DJ was fantastic, playing everything from Rihanna to Jay-Z to Oasis to Pat Benatar, each song dressed up with irresistibly danceable beats. There was also a live performance by Madison, who boasted an oversized white oxford with Obama’s face printed on the back of it. She too had solid dance music to contribute.

Yet no one was dancing. I wasn’t completely naive. I never assumed that the inside of a New York club was going to look like the Britney’s “I’m a Slave 4 U” music video. But I did think that signs of life would extend beyond the occasional shudder and twitch from a collective crowd. Perhaps it was just too early. After all, nightclubs thrive in the after-hours.

But the music! It was too good not to enjoy. I hadn’t felt this compelled to dance since my last drunken college frat party when I ended up dancing on a Beirut table to “Shake Ya Tailfeather,” only to land flat on my face in what I tried to play off as an attempted crowd-surf. T and I tossed our inhibitions aside like empty beer cans and began to bust out in full force: flailing arms, shimmying shoulders, I don’t even know what was happening with the lower half of my body but, word to the wise, doing the running man in heels is both difficult and dangerous.

It may sound outlandish and embarrassing, but T and I were having a great time. With each new song, we’d let out a wooo of excitement, another tradition of college partying that didn’t seem to carry over into the Marquee scene. The rest of the room became a blur until some youngish guy approached us.

“You guys are like, the only people dancing,” He told us.

We gave him a nod and a shrug. People stating the obvious don’t tend to hold our interest.

“What are you, like, 18?” He asked skeptically

“Yeahhhh.” T exclaimed while breaking into a ridiculous pelvic thrust. “It’s her 18th birthday!” As she pointed to me. “Birthday girrrrl!”

I think that T prefers acting drunk to actually being drunk. This guy propelled her into full force faux-toxication. We probably appeared to be the drunkest, most immature people there.

I took a look around the club.

We were definitely the most immature people there.

But no one cared. Yeah, it probably looked a little like Romy and Michelle’s Marquee Intrusion if anyone was seriously surveying the scene, but everyone was immersed in his or her own Marquee experience.

Almost everyone.

T noticed her strapless dress had slipped down to an almost inappropriate level–then she noticed that a guy standing a few feet away had also noticed and continued to unabashedly stare and grin even after she had readjusted her apparel. She shot him a glance that said, “You are testing my gag reflex.” While a glare of death can sometimes be interpreted as sultry, there’s really nothing ambiguous about a pre-puke face. He continued staring. Since T wasn’t about to follow through and pull the trigger in the middle of Marquee, we decided it was time to leave.

Though Marquee wasn’t quite the scene we were accustomed to, like so much of New York, I walked away thinking, “I could get used to this.”

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.

Secondly, just because Ed Westwick went to Lit one steamy Wednesday night in August doesn’t qualify it as exclusive. Granted, if I saw Ed Westwick in Lit, I would probably pee my pants and try to pass it off like I’d spilled my drink. Maybe that’s what they’re trying to avoid. But that doesn’t mean passage should only be granted to the most hipster-elite who refuse to get excited about anything that swims in the polluted mainstream of pop culture.

So I decided I’d swear off Lit. Until my friends and I got really drunk last Saturday night and, come 2:00 a.m., decided we wanted to go dance and profusely sweat out all our alcohol in Lit’s dark, dank basement-cave.

The odds were against us: a party of six with a 3:3 ratio of guys to girls. But I had a plan. I happened to be mildly acquainted with a friend of two guys that occasionally deejayed at Lit. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all we had.

We arrived and, sure enough, Papa Bear was stoically seated on his Baby Bear stool.

Papa Bear: “It’s a private party.”

Ha! Not falling for it this time.

Stunned/Intoxicated in the City: “Our friend is in here. He knows the DJs. They told us we’d be able to get in.”

PB: “Can I get a name?”

S/I: “Yeah. Tim Wolf. He told us we wouldn’t have a problem at the door.”

PB: “I need a name of one of the DJs.”

S/I: “Look, you let us in here two weeks ago without any problem. My friend’s inside already. He knows the DJs. He told us we’d be fine to get in.”

PB: “How many guys are with you?”

S/I: “Three, but two are European so…”

PB: “Okay, okay, whatever.”

And that was it. We were IN. The place wasn’t even close to capacity. The basement was practically empty, which made Lit’s exclusivity even more lame. But that didn’t matter now that we were on the other side of the door.

Oh, how I reveled in my success, dancing into a sweaty oblivion. With the exception of 30 seconds of “Hypnotize” by Notorious B.I.G., the basement music was Doo Wop-themed and though my friend’s two European pals faded fast (“What is this? No techno?”), the rest of us did the twist, the shake, and the mashed potato long into the evening. When I finally came up for air on the first floor of the bar, an attractive young Brit struck up a friendly conversation with me because he was so intrigued by how sweaty I was.

It was as though I could do no wrong!

My friends and I left Lit in the wee hours of the morning. The bar was back in my good graces. For now. But if I ever get turned away again, Lit will become nothing more than an old flame.

I have a question for inhabitants of the universe: It’s not even Halloween, therefore why is everyone freaking out about New Years?

Yes, the New Years madness has begun. The question’s being tossed around left and right, leaving me dizzy and about to fall over. Those of us who don’t work in finance can finagle a nice chunk of time off for the Holidays. So the pressure’s on to do something FUN. And unless you’re what I call a ‘ski-Nazi’ (someone who enjoys the feeling of their extremities morphing into icicles as they hurdle down a mountain at life-threatening speed), chances are you want to go someplace warm, preferably with a great party scene.

Here are my New Years vacation destination requirements:

1. Warmth, by ‘warmth’ I mean tropical level heat

2. A beach with a ‘swimable’ water, by swimable I mean no scary waves, no fish, actually minimal marine life of any kind, and a transparent ocean so I can be certain there are no sharks

3. A great party scene that isn’t too immature, by ‘too immature’ I mean I don’t want there to be frat boys and rowdy college kids puking in the pristine ocean I just described

4. That it be in the realm of affordability, by ‘affordability’ I mean as cheap as possible without resorting to pitching camp on the beach.

So what options does that leave us with?

Last year, I ventured all the way to Uruguay to understand what the deal was with global hotspot Punta del Este. It was too great an experience to ever be properly repeated, so I’m determined to find something new. The brainstorm sheet:

1. Mexico
The pros: It’s close, cheap and will have a lot of young people wanting to socialize.
The cons: I’ve heard the waves can be scary and it will have a lot of young people wanting to socialize.

2. Costa Rica
The pros: It’s more exotic than Mexico and has a rainforest with monkeys and Toucans hanging out around you. It’s supposed to be mega-cool nature-wise.
The cons: It’s more of a family outdoor adventure vacation destination. I’m assuming the rainforest also has crazy bugs.

3. Fortaleza, Brazil
The pros: Similar vibe to Punta, but in the Northern part of Brazil. International with a mix of Europeans. Safe with immaculate beaches and a party scene.
The cons: The flight alone will bankrupt you.

4. Miami
The pros: Theoretically cheap and no passport required.
The cons: It’s everyone from New York, just with less clothing.

5. The Caribbean:
The pros: Weather-wise and water-wise it fits the bill perfectly.
The cons: I think it’s honeymooners only.

Feel free to add on or correct me. Suggestions welcome. Oh, and before you even think about stressing, enjoy Halloween.

My efforts to check out the New York bar scene have been contained to swanky places like Sway. Realizing this wasn’t hardcore enough, I decided to double my efforts, stepping way out of my comfort zone to check out a traditional Irish pub. This is how I ended up at Swift on East 4^th street between Bowery and Lafayette, known as one of the best places in the city to down a Guinness. Swift is just far away enough from the SoHo zone to attract a truly diverse crowd, without the tribal feel of the East Village places. The space is the definition of an old-time alehouse. You enter to see a long, winding bar, exposed brink, antique booths, beer on tap, comfort food on a black board and chalk menu, and most intriguing, an intricate wall mural of books and ghosts that looks like it could’ve been painted in the 1700s.

The pub’s named for Irish Jonathan Swift (you know, the guy who wrote Gulliver’s Travels, a book which gave my bizarre dreams about being in a world of tiny people from age six to eight). There’s the rowdy front room which the bar jaggedly sprawls through and a larger back room with picnic tables, ideal for parties of six or more. The bar’s renowned for its antique feel but not-antique sound system. Post-midnight, music was blasting at that perfect level – loud enough to dance wildly but not so loud that you couldn’t carry on complex conversations. In short, I discovered that bars were good places for meeting people. Shocker, I know. Here are some of the other bar etiquette ‘do and don’ts’ I picked up along the way:

DO order shots and beers at the same time while you have the bartender’s attention.

DON’T order tap beer in rowdy settings (higher chance of spillage than bottled beer).

DO offer to buy girls drinks at the bar or assist them in getting the bartender’s attention.

DON’T monopolize bar space if you’re not ordering. It’s not nice.

DON’T give up a bar chair/stool if you’ve managed to score one.

DO let it double as a storage facility for all your friends’ jackets.

DON’T dance on the bar, even if so inclined.

DO give feedback via tip.

DON’T eat the peanuts.

DO make a night of it and order bar food.

DO do shooters. Every bar has its own kind. Immerse yourself in the local culture.

DO buy your bartender shots. They appreciate the gesture.

DON’T hit on the bartender.

DO pay in cash to keep track of spending.

DON’T, if paying by card, forget to close your tab.

DO stake your claim on potential mates by making sure you’re the one to make out with them first.

DON’T do this in public.

The move my girlfriend pulled involved her and the cute guy we’d been talking to “going to the ATM to get cash.” I had no idea I’d just been ditched and kept pondering, “What’s taking them so long?”

Bar rules.

I’m still learning.

Last night, I did something I probably should’ve made a priority to do long ago – spent an evening at Meatpacking’s members only British club the SoHo House. The door policy is extremely intimidating, as in if you’re not a member, a hotel guest, or someone whose first and last name was put with the concierge by a member, they’re not letting you within touching distance of the elevator button. Since the main lobby is the size of a studio apartment, entrance negotiations that aren’t swiftly confirmed are off-the-charts awkward. There’s no space in which to ‘hang out chill’ and the staff doesn’t want anyone who’s not paparazzi-worthy polluting their child-size lobby. SoHo House’s first floor entrance represents the philosophy of the club itself. It’s simple, actually. You’re either ‘in’ or you’re ‘out.’

Loitering hopefuls not allowed.

Exiting the elevator on the sixth floor, I felt like I’d entered some classic version of New York that only exists in Mad Men and Carey Grant movies. There’s a lot of leather, elegantly muted browns, and men in suits who seem like they should be enjoying cigars (but aren’t because it’s 2008 and you can’t smoke cigars in restaurants.) A lot of exposed brick gave the place a homey feel and the yellow chandeliers swanked everything up a bit. For me, the most interesting thing about the whole place was that it created an ambiance in which men in tuxedos and bow ties, of which there were many, didn’t seem cartoonish or out of place at all.

Style is something SoHo house clearly values a lot in its own décor and in the dress of its members. I spent a whole ten minutes analyzing the outstandingly expensive Hermes crimson bag a woman held in front of me. Ladies’ clothes ranged from cocktail dresses to Kimonos (I, inappropriately, was rebelliously dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket) and most of the men appeared to have arrived straight from work, the majority with briefcases still in hand.

The service rivaled Cipriani’s Upstairs with cocktail waitresses going above-and-beyond to make sure you never hit half-empty and rang up the largest bar tab known to man. We picked at expertly tossed salads and gourmet mini hamburgers, but the highlight was definitely the strawberry shortcake dessert. It was made with homemade whipped cream and served in a personal-size glass. As a drained my cup and our lurking cocktail waitress immediately asked if I’d like another, I decided I could get used to this.

The interest surrounding SoHo House is both tangible and transferable. Everyone seemed ridiculously interesting. Every man seemed attractive, every women seemed like a world traveler. The aura’s extremely non-aggressive and serene as many folks are doing business and entertaining clients. In short, I found myself at a place in which I wanted to talk to everyone but of course could not, because it’s not really the ‘meet new people’ by walking around and socializing kind of place. It was sort of like ‘sophistication sophistication everywhere, but no one you’re allowed to talk to.”

You’ll never get hit on here. I found this simultaneously calming and irritating.

In summer months, the scene transfers up one floor to SoHo House’s prestigious outdoor heated pool. If you can gain access, this is a spot that’s definitely worth checking out at least once, if only for the other wordly aura.