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 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.

I hid my head in a hole during fashion week and one of the many things I missed was the opening of new nightlife locale Mr. West on 22^nd and 11^th ave. Their claim to fame is hosting Zac Posen’s party post runway show.

In traditional New York style, the place isn’t actually ‘new.’ It’s Opus 22 gutted and redesigned by Danny Devine and partner DJ Jes Ske. (Am I the only one who has no idea how to pronounce his name?)

Anyway, I had no intention of going out to dance last Thursday as my evening plans involved an art gallery party and quiet mingling. I’d forgotten, however, that art gallery parties have open bars (I mean, of course, they’re trying to get you drunk enough to pay twenty thousand dollars for an abstract painting of a plastic clock). With encouragement from some naughty friends, the evening turned into more than just the art appreciation session I’d anticipated.

This is how after several fun-filled stops to nearby friends’ house parties, I ended up at 1 AM exhausted in a taxi I thought was taking me home, which my girlfriend Safari had actually directed to Mr. West.

Hijacked.

Too tired to put up a fight, I let Safari expertly negotiate our entrance. Once inside, I loved her for not letting me hit the sack.

My most recent nightlife woe is the absence of my formerly favorite hang out Upstairs on Spring Street, which appears to be closed indefinitely. The yet-to-be replicated casual club atmosphere of Upstairs is something I sorely miss. Mr. West of course hasn’t captured Upstairs’ magic, but I felt could be categorized in the ballpark of ‘relaxed.’ No, there isn’t graffiti on the walls or windows covered by black cloth hung off what looks like plastic shower curtain rods. In fact, the décor’s elegant. But to me, Mr. West had an unpretentious vibe. I think this is because the establishment considers themselves ‘a lounge which gets rowdy at night’ instead of a straight up club. Apparently, this is also an after work spot that provides legitimate services to people like tapas and finger food.

Granted, I wasn’t in any condition to be performing credible analysis, but from my somewhat hazy perspective, the place was an all-around goodtime. Fabrizio’s at the door, actually stays there, and is attitude free. The place wasn’t too crowded but wasn’t self-affirmingly spare in an attempt to appear uber-exclusive. Perhaps best of all, the space wasn’t large but didn’t fall into the closet category. In square footage, I’d say it equals Upstairs. And the music was incredible.

The signature decoration is the pearl-colored lamps that look like upside-down tulips which hang above the submerged dance floor. I really appreciated the bronze mirrored wall which gave the space the illusion of depth and allowed me to study my own dance moves.

Everyone’s already whining about how the place already is / will be a B & T rodeo. At this point, I’d say the B & T is still safely at Mansion and I’d gladly hit up Mr. West again. And don’t worry, for those of you seeking to make a statement instead of slowing down, a $25,000 bottle of Dom is available on the drink list.

As clubs got increasingly smaller and only needed to let ten people in every hour, the role of the doorperson dramatically changed. The door guy went from someone who was constantly stressed and permanently outside maniacally waving a clipboard to someone who has relatively nothing to do.

If your club’s capacity is eighty, meaning the doorperson will probably only let in around ninety people in the six hour span of an evening, that makes for a night’s work equivalent in boredom to manning the late shift at an off-road gas station in Kansas. Outside a club, everyone wants in and therefore perpetually harasses the doorperson with pleas of ‘I know so and so,’ and ‘I’m with girls!’ regardless of the fact that the door guy has neither the ability to make the locale any larger nor the authority to make the ostentatious door policy any less strict.

It therefore comes as no great surprise that in an effort to avoid boredom and persistent pestering, the doorman will take refuge inside the club. Often for chunks as large as twenty to thirty minutes at a time.

Does no one else find this absurd?

Doesn’t the title of the doorman imply that he should be at the door? Not relaxed by the bar wholeheartedly enjoying a martini while sixty-five plus people outside wait for him finish playing with his olive and actually reappear to let them in.

It’s come to my attention that at these new small places, I’ll often find the door person dancing at my side. Or running around flirting with models. Or just sitting at a banquette relaxed, handing out his business card or engaging in casual networking. And I always want to scream, “Hello! You’re on the clock! Hello! It’s not even cold outside yet! It’s not like you even have to warm up! Get on your feet!”

It’s gotten to the point where often we’ll have friends outside wanting to enter, but the door person is, as usual, MIA. It then becomes your nightlife responsibility to treasure hunt through the crowd in search of the individual in charge of the door, tap on their shoulder and in the most non-intrusive way possible, request that they go do their job. Often, their response is:

“The place has a nice level of people right now,” or “I’ll go out there when I finish this bottle of champagne,” and you’re like, “Wait! My friends are the future customers outside who are supposed to be having a good time. And ‘nice level of people’ means you’re nowhere near capacity, just that you’re too lazy to move your ass to the door right now!”

In the old days of Euro-style clubs like Pink Elephant, the only reason a doorperson wouldn’t be always stationed outside is if some bottled host failed to properly do their job. Then you’d see the door guy running around inside frantically with a flashlight doing damage control Speedy Gonzales-style. The red ropes were never unattended for more than five minutes at a time. Flash forward now to the days of snooty, child-size places like SubMercer, Eldridge, Beatrice and Goldbar, and you’re lucky if you manage to catch the doorman on duty.

Let me tell you, if you don’t, it can be a loooong wait. Amazing to think that nightlife is, in theory, a service industry.

Yesterday, I wrote about suburban summer barbecues, yet there’s no need to maneuver into the wilderness to enjoy a fiesta with charcoaled hotdogs and toasted buns (hee!). Central Park’s Tavern on the Green launched its first garden party of the season last Thursday, an event which will continue every Thursday 6pm – 2am for the remainder of the summer. This isn’t news as they held the same weekly soirée last year and got me complaining about their depleted staff and inefficient drink ticket system.

Any savvy city promoter buses their entourages up to Tavern on the Green’s pre-party since it allows them to get paid for an extra gig before herding everyone to whichever club they’ve previously contracted their soul to. Tavern’s outdoor party is a no brainer for

1. promoters,
2. anyone who lives uptown and
3. any mid-town business person craving a happy hour

resulting in ridiculous crowds, made bearable by the fact that they’re staggered throughout the lengthy evening. Five dollars gets you in, then it’s up to you to use deductive reasoning and brute force to navigate the drink ticket system and battle towards the teeny-tiny bar.

This party attracts an older generation because of its early start time and location in prehistoric Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Nix the option of getting drunk since the crowd and obstacle course of a bar set-up make alcohol wholly inaccessible. But that doesn’t mean you’ll go thirsty. Last week, a new energy drink called Verve promoted itself by providing much appreciated free samples. I slurped their pomegranate flavored health beverage the entire night while gazing at the hanging lanterns and silver stars, finding myself 100% relaxed and content.

Sure the median age may be forty, the music somewhat cheesy and drink line atrocious, but what other outdoor New York venue could create an aura of such intense tranquility? At Tavern, you’ll be dancing under the stars with a freshly grilled burger in your hand. If that’s not a stellar summer combination, I don’t know what is.