Friday I was at Johnny Utah’s. This place isn’t your usual club party. It’s more for people who are into bars and don’t want to deal with door trouble or paying cover. It’s the in-between corporate or PR girl type of crowd looking to have a beer and a laugh instead of champagne (which we actually get at the promo tables…huh). Friday I myself was actually in awe. When the emcee came on and started hyping the crowd, the DJ hitting some hip hop music, the crowd went absolutely insane. The emcee had to fend off people fighting to ride the infamous Johnny Utah mechanical bull. That’s what you call a successful night. Now what needs to happen is to bring that same energy to Mondays at  Johnny Utah’s. Let’s see how it goes this Monday.

Right after Johnny Utah’s, I took my crew down to Citrine since the owner David R. had asked me to come check it out. He runs a corporation called the Impulse Group. They’re basically are similar to Strategic Group (Noah Tepperberg for Marquee and Avenue) but not as potent. Impulse has under its wing the nightclub Citrine, Puffy’s Tavern, and just recently Johnny Utah’s…that’s a little inside scoop for you non-clubbers. Citrine had a good-looking crowd. The doormen Spencer and Han are from the good ole’ ClimaxVIP.com (very good guys that are very serious about the nightlife business and to me, very trustworthy people). Citrine charges a cover now. That’s news to me ever, and I used to work there on Thursdays some time ago.

We stayed at Citrine only an hour and a half and then went to Simyone the new EMM group spot (Mark Birnbaum Eugene Remm-I think Simyone is the name of Eugene’s Grandfather, hence the new name of the club. Those two always have some interesting reason for naming their clubs.) Obviously, they moved Alex Julian from Tenjune and now have him running the door at the old Lotus (aka the new Simyone). A lot of hot girls and good-looking guys here, then also the average looking guys that are friends with the owners of course and spend a lot of money. All of the who’s who was there etc., the usual BS for a brand new club when opening. Ellington Keys (as I mentioned before) is the # 1 model promoter. I saw him at Simyone with all his models and his partner Isaih (not sure if that spelling is correct). These are the guys who have taken the crown of being able to bring out ONLY MODELS. The Tenjune staff came through late night to chill out at  their new home. Tyson Beckford told me he loves the spot, so I wanted to see how good it really was. Eugene Remm was spinning.

The lowdown on the Simyone layout: You walk down some stairs after getting past the doorman. There’s some winding until you reach a long room. At the end of the room, is a doorway which then forms a “T.” Walking through this second doorway you can look left and right and there is another room filled with…tables (of course). On the walls in this room are funny-enough photographs of X-Rays, and when the colorful lighting passes behind it you can actually see the X-Ray. Then, they vanish. The ceiling’s low with a lot of color, while at the same time floor is black and roof is black.

I will have more information on La Pomme for you. I think I might stay on this Thursday to try it out again. I personally hope it’s more full this Thursday, because the venue itself is phenomenal.

Last week, I started the holiday season off right by going to the Stoli Holiday Party at Cain-Luxe, the new Cain. I’d never been to Cain before, new or old. So, when Miss Model Behavior offered me her invite to the event, I beat down the little loser inside of me whining, “but Stylista is on the CW tonight!” and jumped at the opportunity.

As an East Villager and a bit of a homebody, places located around double digit avenues are like far-off, distant lands. Going somewhere between 10th and 11th Avenue sounds almost fictional to me, like getting on Platform 9 3/4 to go to Hogwarts.

My roommate and I made the four-block, two-and-a-half-avenue trek from the subway station to the club and, I’ll admit, the journey did feel a bit strenuous in my high heels. A mash-up “Climb Every Mountain” and “Walk it Out” played in my head throughout the trudge. Hopefully the club would offer a better soundtrack.

As we neared 11th Avenue, I spotted two girls in khaki onesie uniforms and huge fur hats. This had to be it. My hunch was confirmed by the tiny placard that read “Cain” next to the massive double doors. We approached the girls. One of them was holding The List.

I gave them my name.

Nothing.

I gave them Miss Model Behavior’s name.

Nope.

Uh oh. Okay, well, I had one more shot–this guy MMB had told me to contact in case trouble arose.

“Uh, I’m supposed to get in touch with Jordan Harris if there’s any problem getting in.”

“Ohhhhh. They’re with Jorrrdan,” the girls exclaimed. It was like that moment in the Wizard of Oz when the gatekeeper exclaims, “Well, that’s a horse of a different color!” and lets the gang into the Emerald City.

Except Cain was way better than the Emerald City.

Upon entering the club, another girl in khaki and a fur hat handed me a USB thumb drive packaged in a mini-bottle of Stoli Blackberry Vodka–the specific alcohol promoted at the event. My inner loser finally boarded the party train.

Next, we moved to the open bar, where I ordered a “dark tea”–iced tea and blackberry vodka. Delicious.

Roommate and I spent the next twenty minutes enjoying drinks and admiring the club’s jungle motif, as well as the attractive quartet of gay men dancing together.

The music was fantastic–I’m always impressed by DJs who actually DJ. No song was ever played without a special twist, interesting remix, innovative mash-up, etc. Everything, from Prince to T.I., sounded a little new, a little different. Plus, apparently Cain has dropped some serious dough to create a state-of-the-art sound system. I’m used to college parties with scratchy sound systems from past decades and base beats that make your insides vibrate. In Cain, the music is smooth, like butter.

Over the next few hours, the club filled up, the quartet turned into a cluster, the drinks started to taste better, the music sounded sweeter, and I even met my secret password, Jordan Harris.

I expected either some swanky operator or a neurotic New Yorker (why do I always assume that people are going to be crazy?), but Jordan Harris, wearing a baseball cap and a flannel, was incredibly nice, shockingly approachable, and he clearly knew how to throw a good party. I remember thinking, in my state of, uh, slight intoxication, Who cares if Santa Clause is coming to town if this guy is already here? Luckily, I wasn’t quite drunk enough to share this thought with him.

The evening was well worth the journey. I loved the music. I loved the open bar. I loved Cain. I had that warm, happy feeling inside, like on Christmas morning so many years ago when I woke up and found Santa had given me my very own American Girl doll. Or maybe I was just drunk.

Because we were running on blackberry vodka, the walk back felt effortless. I love how energy efficient alcohol can be. Later, as I finally tucked myself into bed, visions of Stoli drinks danced in my head.

Having friends in town often means you’re required to take them out, baller-style. As I escorted a good friend of mine around Manhattan in a merry-go-round whirl of old and new hot spots, I found myself increasingly bored with the ‘scene’ and decided to Live Twitter my night as a result. Those of you who don’t already follow me on Twitter and want to can do so here.

Here’s a rough sketch of what I was going through.

10:31pm Back in da CITY

In the trunk of a car service driving through Manhattan. Time to rage

Now at Southside. The great news about my going out outfit is that I’m elasto waist pants

Talking in Circles, band, must look up

I want to start wearing hats / I’m finally starting to get why girls dig guys in bands

The promoter I’m with seems really open to fat girls being a part of his entourage. Maybe NYC is changing for the better

1:42am Why is it that the 40y olds at clubs are always the crazies jumping up and down?

Spinning imaginary DJ tables in the air while dancing – not cool

Let’s pause here for a moment to elaborate that if you’re sober enough in a club to send somewhat coherent texts into Twitter, everyone else’s dance moves begin looking pretty ridiculous. Guys, don’t spin imaginary DJ tables as a dance move. It really only works if you’re an actual DJ.

Anyway, at this point in my Twitter-fest I was at a locale I’ve been meaning to write about for sometime, a new club called Southside. It’s in Goldbar zone (Nolita), has hosted bands like MGMT, is apparently uber exclusive and had an amazing Halloween party. They also have a kick-ass website.

Well, my disappointment was immense. I believe I’ve written before about how nothing in New York is really ‘new.’ Southside falls into this category with a rude clunk. Ever heard of underground Bar Martignetti? The swanky spot bellow Bella’s on Broome Street? Someone inserted a disco ball, hired an expert re-brander, and now formerly chill Bar Martignetti is red rope-level club Southside. It’s New York magic.

This fern wallpaper might be new, but I wouldn’t put any money on it.

It’s hard to take such a highly reputed club seriously after you realize it’s just a disco ball-ified space you’d been to one hundred times before to enjoy a casual beer. No one else seemed bothered, as people were raging.

I was always a fan of the Bar Martignetti feel: the checkered floors, the paintings, nooks and crannies. This brasserie style didn’t translate into an ambiance where jumping up and down to Jay-Z seemed like a good idea to me. But what do I know? It seemed to work for everybody else.

The remainder of my Twittered night:

“Is English your native language? Tell the truth.” I’m live twittering my night if that’s yet to become obvious.

I think this is in reference to someone who was talking to us who we couldn’t understand.

2:07am In the trunk of an SUV again. Ppl take down ur Christmas trees!!! It’s over

My best friend and the guy with us are talking about law school.. Laaaaaame

New York from the perspective of a backwards SUV trunk is somewhat different

I feel like cabs are tailgating us

I think from a backwards perspective, this would always seem like the case…

FYI Sam Adams Light is disgusting

It’s amazing to me that a rapper became famous off the word ‘lollipop’ alone

Three guesses at what song was playing here.

3:24am Lesbians in animal print. Recipe for disaster.

Fade out. The coherency ends.

Moral: if you want to see something new, or are just looking for some kind of innovative deisgn or surprise, Southside is the wrong place to be.

No matter what your personal sense of style is, I think we can all agree that this shirt is what one would call ‘eye-catching.’ I felt compelled to put my night out dancing on hold for the sole purpose of properly photographing it, for three main reasons:

1. I thought it was ballsy and she’s got a great bod. So Resepct.

2. It’s December. Repeat. December. Is this girl nuts!?!?

3. I have zero comprehension of how one puts on a shirt like this, how it stays up, and how it’s not a ‘flashing accident’ waiting to happen.

I often get tangled up, forced to solicit my roommate’s help, just when taking off tight turtle necks. Getting in and out of a fashion contraption like this would probably land me in the ER, fabric suffocating me, both my hands tied against my back, fabric molesting me etc. A wild top like this shows you’re a risk taker.

It also shows you’re willing to go head-to-head with the club’s Go Go Dancers in an effort to command every man in the room’s attention. Now, I could be wrong here, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and speculate that this girl is probably 21 or younger.

Call this my latest clubbing fashion ‘theory,’ but I think the amount of skin a woman’s showing is in direct correlation to how young she is. Honestly, bouncers should stop wasting time scanning IDs and just glance through the girls and shout ‘underage’ at the slut tops.

I once, used to wear slut tops.

Yes.

For some reason, when you’re under 21 or just got that first legal ID, the idea of sharing your midriff with all of New York seems like a GREAT idea. Zipping yourself into toddler-sized skirts which are breeding grounds for Brittney Spears level embarrassing moments getting in and out of cabs (or just standing up or sitting down) isn’t disconcerting at all. Wearing Victoria’s Secret lingerie out to lounges as clubs as if it were an actual shirt is a regular occurrence. If you’re like me, when looking at photos of yourself from this era, you’ll spit up whatever you’re eating to scream:

“WHAT WAS I THINKING!?”

These days, it’s rare that I’m willing to put high heels on to go out, let alone go through the necessary gym regime and increased risk of date rape involved in wrapping myself into a latex scarf that somehow covers my nipples but nothing else. Yet it’s always a friendly reminder of nights passed when you DO see girls dressed like this.

My guess?

This girl had the time of her life.

…And hopefully a really large boyfriend or older brother around to protect her. God knows I didn’t.

In Part 1, I wrote about my first experience at eco-friendly New York nightclub Greenhouse. What I didn’t go into is how this was my first nightclub experience since my decision to quit drinking.

Yes. I wrote: Quit. Drinking.

Quit drinking and you’ll find this is not an activity your friends support you in.

Strange, right?

Your friends stand by you in situations far more complex than beverage preference and encourage you to improve your life in myriad ways. If you think this translates to them being supportive about your decision to stop axe-murdering your liver with vodka, you don’t speak the secret New York language of alcoholism. They won’t just hate you for putting down the bottle, they’ll guilt trip you about it too.

Anyhoo…It’s a Monday night, I set the scene, and I’m not ‘exploring’ Greenhouse per se because it’s too packed to adjust your shoulder blades let alone move. I didn’t get the memo that Monday night was ‘rock night’ so there’s an anonymous band playing music that involves electric guitars on a what appears to be a stage at the far end of the room. From the amount of people who showed up to see them, I assume this band, if you like this type of music, is considered very good. Or Monday night’s just the new Friday. Anything’s possible.

What was cool about my evening at Greenhouse is that I actually saw different kinds of going-out people. What do I mean by that? I mean along with seeing your club staples:

1. Men in jackets who are trying to hard
2. Eurotrash
3. Baby models
4. Wanna-be models

I also saw people dressed in grunge and Goth. A party just feels so much more like a real party once a Goth person shows up! If I were a New York promoter, I’d hire a Goth person to flank me at all times just to differentiate myself.

An eclectic mix of people is not something you encounter often in exclusive nightclub locations. Especially being sober, I found Greenhouse’s variety fascinating. This may be painfully obvious, but it’s amazing how much more you’re able to observe your surroundings and the people around you when not drinking. Perhaps because everything’s not blurry.

So what’s it like to be in a club stone cold sober? As in ‘stone cold for the whole night,’ not because you just arrived there?

Well, it’s a mix of

1. Heightened awareness as described
2. Jealousy for those around who are drunk…and happy
3. A giddiness that you will not be hung-over tomorrow, which is quickly replaced by
4. The realization that by not drinking, you now have nothing in common with 98% of the room and should probably just go home

In short, it’s a fish out of water sensation made more manageable by Greenhouse and their leafy, nature décor, which made me feel sort of like an amphibian anyway. I guess if you’re going to give sobriety a go, a club that trying to look like it’s part of the wilderness or at minimum, the back garden of a rehabilitation center, is a good place to start.

It was only a matter of time before some club owner hopped on the whole ‘green movement’ bandwagon, partially in support of the cause, partially, I’m guessing, since the marketing angle’s just too good not to go with.

In this case, it was nightclub owner Jon B. (Jon Bakhshi) of Home and Guest House, who opened up environmentally conscious venue ‘Greenhouse’ on Varick Street in Western-most SoHo. This is a somewhat weird location for a club but you won’t hear me complaining since it enables me to walk home, a convenient and money-saving tradition I’ve sorely missed ever since Upstairs closed.

Side note: Upstairs will come to life again, only for one night, on December 31^st to bring in 2009. It’s sort of like nightclub Easter on New Years but without Jesus. Anyone who followed me on that analogy, congratulations.

So Jon B. named his clubs Greenhouse, Guest House and Home.

Greenhouse - Guest House?

House - Home?

Anyone noticing a theme yet?

It’s sort of like parents who name their kids Patricia, Polly, and Patrick.

Anyhow, my girlfriend went to check out the club before me, the night before opening night or early in the evening on opening night – something like that. Point being, she said construction workers were still assembling the bar. A glass slate from the counter flew up and almost hit her friend in the face Cartoon Network style.

Talk about last minute construction!

By the time I made my way over to the club, the place had been fully assembled, glittering in all its green glory. They definitely took the ‘greenhouse’ theme literally, but it’s somewhat odd since all the plants are clearly fakes and sparkling Broadway-esque light bulbs everywhere aren’t really what you associate with the power saving green movement.

Jon B. got the building LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) certified by the U.S. Green Building council so clearly he knows what he’s doing. I guess it’s just sort of still a mystery how a green theme translates into swanky club décor. The tables are all supposed to be made of recyclable materials etc., yet I personally would’ve gone a little less, ahem, overboard with the green theme via fake plants and focused more on ‘no smoking’ in the club, proper ventilation and clean air.

Wouldn’t it be great if there was a club you could enter that had things like humidifiers and a staff that actually enforced the state’s ‘no smoking’ law? You exit dewy, moist and refreshed ala’ ‘day at the spa’ instead of smelling like a half-burned pack of Marlboro Lights, soggy with Kettle One. These kind of green improvements would also make my laundry / dry cleaning loads lighter.

My night at Greenhouse proved interesting for many reasons, a few being a) it was a Monday b) there was a ‘live music’ event c) it was one of my first nights in a club with my new ‘no drinking’ policy. Yes, you read correctly: No Drinking.

To Be Continued…

I knew 27^th street had changed.

I’d read about the underage girls murdered at Guest House.

I’d heard about the guy who fell to his death via Bed’s elevator shaft.

Yet my jaw still dropped in an ‘Is-this-seriously-happening-to-me?’-moment when I was frisked entering Home. Why I was at Home on a Saturday night in the first place is a sordid series of events. The point is that by the time they were frisking me, I decided there was no way I was backing out and missing whatever other outrageous changes had happened to this place since its fall from grace a few years ago.

Oh, in addition to being padded down, my Lollipop purse was searched, including inner pockets. Good thing my days of carrying knives and small weapons are behind me.

I got in.

Ascending Home’s staircase, I experienced a small series of flashbacks to Home’s former glory with Sara Mclachlan’s ‘I Will Remember You’ as my mental auditory backdrop. I emotionally floated back to the days when Guest House had that awesome sax player and the best house music in the city and I was dating a long-haired Israeli and Home was, well, that place nearby Guest House for people who liked Hip Hop. Home was sort of like yesteryear’s Tenjune. And now they have an airport-level security system out front. Why?

The inside of the club looked like this.

The music was the same as it was years ago, just with a lot more Kanye West.

This guy looked like he was invoking a P Diddy’s aura – or maybe it’s just the shape of his sunglasses. The whole sunglasses thing? Indoors? I won’t comment.

I’d just like to make it clear that I’m glad I went Home again, and I wouldn’t discourage anyone from checking it out. It’s probably the best place in Manhattan to reenact a Save the Last Dance grinding performance-a-thon, which is a scenario I fantasize about frequently. If you complain that it’s hard to find a dance partner at snoody places in the city, you won’t have anything to moan about at Home. You will be touched, and the dancing that ensures will be intimate. Get off your high-horse an enjoy. A little frisking never hurt anyone.

When I wrote about my first date with Marquee a few weeks ago, I failed to mention that I returned to the club the very next night. My pride only just got out of rehab.

This time, I was there for another event. I’ll be honest: I don’t even know what the specifics were–only that it had something to do with the empowerment of women in the workplace and that a friend of a friend hooked us up. The crucial detail of the night: for one hour, there was a vodka fueled open-bar.

We arrived promptly at 10:15 p.m. At 10: 30, the bouncer gave me a coy wink as he unhooked the velvet rope to let us in. Or was he reacting to the close proximity of a hair toss from the carefully straightened mane of a supermodel in front of me? Either way, the outcome made me feel a little special. I couldn’t help but feel the promise of this Friday night.

One hour’s worth of free drinks…and my friends and I intended to take advantage of the alcohol. We’d paid $25 to attend the event, so we had to drink more than our money’s worth in order to consider the evening worthwhile. Economically efficiency is always a first priority.

I’d worn a sparkling black and silver headband that everyone just loved. I could tell by the way that people smiled and pointed at me. Enthused, I decided to send a quick text to another friend about plans for later in the evening. It was Friday and I was ready for a late night. But as I opened my phone and attempted to type the text, the vodka reared its ugly head and sucker punched me in the face, sending me spinning. Oh, the spinning.

I didn’t feel buzzed. I didn’t feel drunk. I just felt ill. Horribly ill. And angry.

I recently finished college, a four year program designed to educate an individual about alcohol intake through hands-on experience. Such training should theoretically result in an expanded tolerance and a keen awareness of one’s limits.

But just when I think I’m all grown up and prepared for real life, my world spirals out of control. I tumbled out of Marquee, confused friends in tow. One loyal confidante reentered the club to retrieve my jacket, despite my pleas to, “Leave it! Leave it! It’s nothing to me now!”

As another friend and I waited outside, a guy tried to sell us Ecstasy. Apparently it was obvious to any Tom, Dick, or harried drug dealer that I was in need of a serious pick-me-up.

“I dthon’t dooo druugth!” I told him–the combination of drunk and cold induced a speech impediment best described as delightfully tacky, yet unrefined. It’s not often that one is filled with the essence of a Hooters bar, particularly not in front of Marquee. We needed to go. Immediately.

Just in the nick of time, my courageous friend emerged from the club with my coat in hand. We hailed a cab and were off!

…Until 2 blocks and half an avenue later when I suddenly felt like we’d kicked into Warp drive. As someone prone to motion sickness, particularly car sickness, this high-speed sensation is a personal nightmare of mine. At the red light I told my friends, “I gotta get out of here,” and gracelessly dumped myself onto the pavement.

After an avenue and three blocks on foot, my friends convinced me to get into another cab. This time, I rode in the front seat with my head hanging out the window like a dog.

The next day, after sending out a sad little batch of apologetic text messages, I solemnly vowed never to drink again. For one week. As someone who feels a bit of nostalgia for college, I guess it’s a comfort to know that the lessons continue beyond four years of formal instruction. In this case, I learned that, just as with Mexican food, sex, and grocery shopping at Trader Joe’s after 5:00 p.m., an open bar should be approached with enthusiasm, but also a bit of caution.

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 :))

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.