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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”