I thoroughly enjoy admitting when I’m wrong. Maybe because it happens so often. Everyone ready to time travel? Good. Let’s go way back to October of last year, when I had this to say about the swanky, closet-size, SoHo lounge Goldbar:

In broad terms, Goldbar pisses me off. The door’s extremely tight and the place is never packed. They’re super snoody and won’t let patrons take pictures inside, and no, I don’t think this is to protect the artwork (I really doubt they’re hanging paintings that valuable in place where people come to get shitfaced and often climb/fall into the walls).

Hmm. Several months later, I opted for a softer tone:

After not loving Gold Bar my first few encounters, I actually had a positive experience there this weekend. This might have had something to do with the fact it was our last stop of the evening (we arrived at 3:30 AM) and everyone had easily drunk a bottle of vodka a head since we left the house.

Not really a ringing endorsement but okay.

The ‘gold skull closet’ as I fondly call it was actually FULL (I guess that’s what happens when you go out on Saturday instead of Monday night), the music was FUN (Billy Joel? Yes, please!) and the bathrooms, which I used for the first time, were clean and spacious enough for me to stretch out and change my clothes (don’t ask why I was changing clothes).

As if we weren’t retard enough, my girlfriend ordered me a specialty alcoholic concoction called the Gold Rush. It tasted like a Long Island Iced Tea on crack. When I inquired about its ingredients, I received a slurred response that it was whisky, bourbon, and honey, all made ‘bearable’ by a giant ice cube in the middle. I took two sips and wisely professed to my friend,

“This is throw up. This is throw up.”

I think what I was trying to express is that the drink was both vomit inducing while also tasting like liquid sour patch kids gone bad. It’s a miracle no one projectile puked that night.

Months later again, I’m here to come full circle and give Goldbar two tequila happy thumbs up. I found myself hanging out there both this past weekend and the one before. I’m here to say, on the record, that this place is a good time.

I partied there on a Sunday night and found what I judged to be the sexiest crowd out that night in the city. The flocks of female supermodels seemed relaxed instead of rigid. Men weren’t busy boasting bottle service to impress, they were actually pulling out cute dance moves and managing to look like homo-sapiens genuinely enjoying themselves instead of bankers desperate to prove that they know how to party.

Since Goldbar shimmers with a lounge-y feel, that hard-core club vibe that often makes intimacy, listening or thinking impossible, isn’t there. You are therefore more prone to talk to some one instead of just making vulgar “I’m checking you out” insinuations with your eyes across a crowded dance floor.

I’ve been getting excited since someone in the rumor mill has been churning out news that the owners of Goldbar and Cain would be opening “Cain Downtown” here in the SoHo area. Naturally, I was thrilled about the birth of another downtown club I could attend, get wrecked in, and walk home from. It only took me an entire year to warm up to Goldbar! Now that the skull closet and I are friends, I had high hopes for my relationship with Jamie and Jayma’s next downtown venture.

Sadly, it doesn’t seem like this is going to materialize. Apparently, the locals are hell-bent against Cain becoming their new neighbor. And frankly who can blame them? I wouldn’t want an establishment that was known for go-go dancers in zebra bikinis and for pushing people too drunk to see straight onto the street at four AM as my neighbor either.

Tragic story for all of us who were hoping to save cab fare to Chelsea by hanging out downtown.

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

Just when you’re trying to enjoy yourself at a space saucer like Mansion where the music’s intense, the disco lights are trauma-inducing and it takes twenty minutes to scale the six staircases to the bathroom, the club fades to black and a girl with butterflies in her cascading hair starts busting out some opera. Because isn’t this why we all go to clubs? To hear whacky versions of Verdi?

I’m confused.

I’ve known Mansion is into doing shows: Last time, I witnessed some electronic string quartet jam along with the DJ. Naturally, everyone remained bewildered about whether to continue dancing or to give the string instruments their full attention while sitting attentively feigning an interest in art. This is what I don’t get. Mansion is as clubby as a club gets. No amount of luxury renovation can kill the Crobar spirit that permanently haunts this space. Why the bouts of Lincoln Center?

Are they trying to pull a theater thing like The Box?

Are they trying to culture the club experience?

Do they consider such spectacles a selling point?

How much is this costing them on top of their frightening rent?

I’m thirsty for theater as much as the next overworked New Yorker, but is when I’m chilling with my fifth cocktail really the time I want it chucked in my face?

Next time at Mansion, I’ll consider packing both earplugs and opera glasses.

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

This weekend at the urge of many friends I decided to check out Sway, a long-established lounge on Spring street between Greenwich and Hudson in an effort to extend my nightlife knowledge beyond hardcore clubs. My consensus: Sway is definitely a breath of fresh air if you’re usually frequenting places like Pacha and Pink Elephant.

My experience at clubs has been that it’s primarily about who you know. You get in through pre-established contacts, congregate at a table with pre-established contacts, and assume any stranger who talks to you is a freak without their own crowd. Bars however seem to work in the reverse, it’s all about who you don’t know. Since there’s no bottle service, people are less likely to split off into table groups, creating a social free-for-all. So if you’re interested in meeting someone outside your extended friends’ network, Sway might be the kind of place you’d want to hit up on a weekend.

CitySearch wrote, “This is a huge meat market: the volume of numbers exchanged exceeds the hefty bank accounts of most of the male patrons.” This is utterly true. While no one’s wearing the slut tops you see at nightclubs, they might as well be. Everyone’s mentally undressing each other. This didn’t bother me since the first time in ages I found myself actually meeting people I might want to talk to at bars. The entire establishment was remarkably sleaze free with zero B&T. It looked like a frat house of young, healthy, athletic people…and interestingly enough, a lot of Southerners.

Why the name Sway? The place has been around for over a decade, and my girlfriend divulged that when it opened it couldn’t get a cabaret license.

Cabaret license? I did some research and New York Channel Thirteen’s website explained that believe it or not, it is against the law to have dancing in most New York City clubs and bars. Establishments that do not hold one of the city’s few cabaret licenses are breaking the law if they allow their patrons to dance; if caught, they can be subject to fines and shutdowns. Naturally, this has more to do with the side effects of dancing (brawls, drinking, noise, rowdiness in residential neighborhoods) than the actual act itself. Sway had trouble securing this license years ago, so for many months patrons could sway but not dance.

All the fun takes place at a long bar which opens into a small, sweaty dance floor and extends back into what looks like a mini mosque. There are intricate tiles, Moroccan designs and extremely slippery floors (so make sure you don’t hydroplane when sliding up to whoever you want to talk to.) There’s no cover charge to get in and the music stuck to upbeat 80ies, throwing in the occasional 50 Cent for couples who wanted an excuse to grind with each other. If you’re looking to meet someone of the opposite sex for a spring fling, I’d definitely recommend this place.

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

Spring has been an eternal excuse for people to get a little frisky; to let their guard down, let their worries down, let their pants down, etc. Folks are coupling off faster than you can count flowers and the word ‘Hamptons’ seems to penetrate every New York conversation. Many of us who spent chilly winter evenings enwrapped in a duvet cover eating ramen in front of game shows are now out every night – because there’s sun, because Happy Hours are actually ‘happy,’ because you don’t need industrial strength layers, mittens, and warm accessories to get where you need to go. All you need’s a sundress, a song and a skip.

While this all sounds fabulous, it’s a big lifestyle adjustment to trade your nightly mac’n’cheese in bed for nightly evenings at Marquee. All this joyousness can lead to a condition I like to call ‘Spring Over Kill.’ The symptoms include severe exhaustion, daily hangovers, and hormones going haywire. Since the long-awaited good weather’s irresistible, you’re incapable of taking it easy at home. You’ve shed your hermit skin and have transformed into a social butterfly that’s out 24-7. The problem is that if you overdo it partying now, you’ll be dead before summer.

So in an attempt to help cure cases of SOK (Spring Over Kill), I’ve created a reference to analyze how we’re all handling the change of seasons. Utilize the spring nightlife guide below to determine if your party fever’s OK, dangerous, or out of control to the point where you need to padlock yourself in your apartment for some R&R.

Entrance Drama

OK: You know the doorman’s name
Dangerous: You have a secret handshake
Lock Yourself Up: You bolt the club closed together before 5 A.M. breakfast

Bottle Service

OK: Just when clients are in town
Dangerous: Just when anyone’s in town
Lock Yourself Up: As long as you’re in town

After Clubbing Snacks

OK: Occasional street meat
Dangerous: The vendor knows how spicy you like your taco
Lock Yourself Up: You have an automatically renewing 4 A.M. reservation at L’Express

Dating

OK: You pick up some numbers
Dangerous: You pick up some people
Lock Yourself Up: You can’t pick up anyone you haven’t already hooked up with

Bathrooms

OK: You use the shortcut
Dangerous: You’re used to the bathroom attendant greeting you with a hug
Lock Yourself Up: You use the staff bathroom and have the access code memorized

Night Doorman

OK: He expects you home between 2 and 4 A.M.
Dangerous: He often has to carry you in
Lock Yourself Up: You get home so late he’s already off shift

Promoters

OK: You get 3 – 5 promotional texts a day
Dangerous: You reply to 3 – 5 promotional texts a day
Lock Yourself Up: You participate to the extent where people think you’re a promoter yourself

Drinking

OK: A few drinks never killed anyone
Dangerous: A few bottles never killed anyone
Lock Yourself Up: Regular blackouts never killed anyone

Shots

OK: On special occasions, fine
Dangerous: On every occasion, cheers!
Lock Yourself Up: Constantly circulating on platters, thanks!

Hangovers

OK: Sometimes my head hurts
Dangerous: Sometimes I forget how to multiply and divide
Lock Yourself Up: I don’t get hangovers thanks to my mimosa intake the next morning.

Liquor Intake

OK: Politely sipping from a champagne flute or drinking through a straw
Dangerous: Through six straws
Lock Yourself Up: Directly from bottle

Security

OK: The security guard doesn’t know me
Dangerous: The security guard knows I’m a regular
Lock Yourself Up: The security guard knows more about my life then I do

Credit Card

OK: Always in my wallet
Dangerous: Always behind a bar
Lock Yourself Up: Always missing and could be at Scores

Results

Mostly OKs: Continue to party responsibly

Dangerous: Make yourself stay in with a movie at least thee times this week

Lock Yourself Up: Put down the drink you’re holding. Detox in bed with Echinacea and green tea. No going out again until you can complete the mental equivalent of a crossword or intermediate Sudoku puzzle.

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

Many New Yorkers like to nurse their hangover with more liquor, the logic having to do something with ‘keeping you liver working.’ The exact science of this theory I cannot explain, but it’s popular among Manhattan’s expat crew: Italians, Frenchies and Brazilians who all seem to body surf their way into Felix Sunday afternoons to keep daylight just as jovial as nighttime at the club.

Felix, located in SoHo on West Broadway and Grand, is the thumping heart of a much larger Sunday circle of sin. The rounds include nearby Novecento, Café Noir, Diva and Cipriani’s Downtown. And for foreigners, there’s a zero percent chance of not running into someone you know. It’s an exercise in incest so be prepared to hear a lot of joyous shouts of recognition in a lot of different languages.

I’d stopped through Felix on a handful of Sunday afternoons, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I engaged in ‘the Felix tradition,’ a full day’s worth of productivity lost inside this French bistro/bar. Below I’ve documented my experience.

2:15 – I arrive. The place isn’t a mosh pit yet because the hardcore partiers are still sleeping. Every table however, is booked and the wait spills out into the sidewalk. Great.

2:18 – I wiggle toward the bar and see some French friends. They suggest I put my name down for a table ASAP as they were just told it’s a forty-five minute wait. I think to myself ‘that’s absurd’ and decide once my friends arrive to convince them we should go to one of the eighteen other perfectly delicious brunch places in SoHo. I approach the intimidating female maitre’de (she’ll scream at you just for darting a hopeful smile her way) and in the bar crowd almost trip over someone’s small dog.

2:20 – As I avoid nose diving into someone’s drink, I hear the owner of the leash I’m entangled in calling out to the dog I almost killed, ‘Cocoa. Cocoa’

I slowly double-take. I know a dog name Cocoa…

I look up to see the leash leads to the hand of my uncle who’s at the bar next to me enjoying a scotch. WTF?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

6:41 – I’m officially drunk.

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

Me: Whaaaat?

Him: No one knows if it’s true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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