Last Friday, I went to Italy, Russia, India and Greece.

Hence why Nadia decided to transform the gift basket from blah to breathtaking artwork. She decided that each basket should represent the experience of another country – you can send someone Venice, Moscow or the Taj Mahal. Included in a Venetian basket aren’t just Italian eatables, but masks, Italian slippers, a CD with the music of a masked ball and scented candles for the occasion. You’re literally sending someone a little corner of the world, and let’s face it, the mask is going to provide hours of giddy entertainment and you’ll probably use the slippers for life.


Essentially, you’re hand delivering someone the mood of an exotic location along with gifts they might actually use. I thought this was light years more inventive than your standard bottle of wine, apples and if you’re lucky, cheese.

A cultural around the world tour before 8pm on a weeknight without the help of my DVR or the travel channel? Again, please!

Promoters: the species of social leeches endlessly harassing us for our free time. I love writing about these New York party organizers because I find their tactics (mass text messaging, Evites, mass emails, personalized emails, facebook harassment, casual texts, guilt-trip texts, phone solicitation) endlessly fascinating. I thought I’d seen it all. I thought no promoter text message could have the power to shock me.

I was wrong.

I wrote a past article about fromoters (deluded friends who harbor the illusion they’re a hot city promoter, doing this dirty job voluntarily, sans pay). I’d like to introduce another category: The no-moter. This is the promoter you’ve said no to a thousand times. The promoter you perhaps never even went out with in the first place. Who you perhaps don’t even know! How they even have your number remains an enigma. Yet they text you daily anyway.

I’m doing a [insert famous sports team] celebrity event tonight with [insert semi-celebrity name] and [insert a rapper’s name] performing at [Marquee / Tenjune] with [insert DJ you’ve never heard of] from San Tropez. Say my name@door, tons of bottlezz. Are you coming?

You’d think after sending a target messages like this for 367 days with no response EVER, the promoter might remove the prey from their phone’s intricate mailing system and save everyone the AT&T charge of ten cents. But no. Promoter lists are kind of like a tramp stamp. They’re with you for life. And don’t bother texting the no-moter about getting yourself removed from his mailing, because not even he knows how to remove you. His phone’s hooked up to computers which are hooked up to interns which are hooked up to facebook which relay some technical code which births crazy digital mailing lists that only an IT guy from India could understand. Finding a needle in a haystack while drunk and blindfolded would take less time than locating your name in this jumbled promotional spamming method.

I’d like to preface the following incident by reiterating that no-motors are not bad people.

They’re just people you don’t know. I, like many, happen to have very close friends who promote. My loyalties are therefore tied. The ‘no’ answer (or rather non-response) isn’t because I think I’m too good to go out with you, I just have a prior allegiance to people I actually know.

In an iPhone mishap in which I meant to call a friend of mine we’ll call Tim, I accidently called no-motor Tim. It took a solid five minutes of me positing ‘why does your voice sound so different?’ and ‘why do you keep harping about Pink Elephant?’ until I realized I wasn’t talking to my friend Tim, but Tim the promoter I never go out with. I explained to no-motor Tim in the nicest was possible that I’d actually contacted him by mistake, yet he still interpreted my phone call as me finally coming around and craving to go out with him that night.

I’ve only met no-motor Tim a handful of times, but he seems to take the constant rejection of promoter existence more personally than his younger, hotter promoter counterparts. While I’d definitely be open to going out with him, partying doesn’t pay me. My two jobs pay me. So I need to be energized and lucid which translates to only go out occasionally. And when you’re going out occasionally, chances are you’re going to want to spend it with your friends.

Despite my best efforts at clarification, no-motor Tim insisted that I was making an appearance at his party that night, which of course I didn’t because I had plans with my friend Tim, the person I’d actually meant to call. No-motor Tim consequently got angry.

The promotional text I got the next day:

MB, I heard from a girl that you gained weight. I’m deleting you from my phone list. I’m sorry. Clubs want me with skinny girls only.

Woah! Low blow!

Will he actually delete me from whatever jumbled promotional spamming method he uses?

At this point, I could only be so lucky.

The Plaza, known primarily as a mid-town tourist venue and home to the delightful brat Eloise, seems to want a slice of the city’s nightlife party pie. In an operation that involved tenting off their lobby bar with heavy velvet curtains and installing a doorman and DJ, the Plaza now hosts its own mini lounge, seeped in darkness, elegance and plush fabrics. Currently, scattered hotel guests and large groups from New York’s nightlife circuit (imported by promoters who are selling the Plaza as a ‘pre-party’ spot) stake out on opposite sides of the venue. Busboys in tuxes navigate between them. The atmosphere is somewhat surreal, reminding me of the private, chronically un-crowded hotel bars in London, like the Sanderson’s impenetrable Purple Bar.

A major plus of the Plaza opposed to other lounges, is that the music remains at a tasteful level, making conversation with fellow humans an actual possibility. There’s also something undeniably magical about a New York staple building like the Plaza Hotel: the marble floors, the shiny bellman, the buttoned uniforms, the quality furnishings, the sparkling chandeliers. One feels privileged to be here, and for Manhattan ladies who like to dress up and dawn jewelry, this is the perfect place to debut a cocktail number.

The Plaza lounge is a new nightlife initiative, quiet at the moment with promise of becoming a bustling pre-clubbing staple. My experience was so calming, serene, and in stark contrast to normal pre-parties, that I’m sort of hoping the place doesn’t get crazy anytime soon.

Photo Tour below:

The lone interior doorman pulls back the red velvet rope. White tuxedos? Yes, please.

A clubbing crew enjoys drinks before heading to Upstairs.

Impressive glowing décor.

The Ladies Bathroom flower arrangement. A few giant steps above anything you’d see at a typical nightlife venue.

The even more gigantic entry-way flower arrangement, complete with overarching wreath, which is several times the size of an actual human being. [Note the person seated in the corner as a point of reference.]

Update! Update!

The Kiss & Fly cone has multiplied. [Old photo above] There are now TWO. Note the new side view photo I took to properly showcase this point.

I guess I thought that by drawing attention to it via the Internet, the cone would somehow magically disappear and get removed by a Kiss & Fly janitor who’s also a devout reader of my blog.

Not the case!

In fact, the opposite has occurred. The club seems to be promoting the mysterious bathroom stall (rumored as a coke room, but this can’t be true because the stall doesn’t even have a proper door and Kiss is not a place like Upstairs, geez) as a traffic cone hosting facility.

Fix this toilet already or just riddle me a reason for this bizarre set up!

I almost brought up Issue Cone with one of the owners last night over casual conversation, but then realized he might not find it so amusing that I write about the intimate quirks of his club online for sport. I was also way too drunk to conduct a proper interview and figured he’d might think I was dropping acid when all my questions revolved around an orange construction object I’ve fondly named Earl. Plus, it’s in the women’s room. Is he even aware?

I’ll work on getting an eventual statement from him. More disconcerting at the moment, is the fact that my favorite part about journeying to Kiss & Fly is not the music, free drinks, good-looking revelers or really pretty disco ball, but rather my nightly check-up on the cone.

In less interesting news, Kiss also got their Amazon-braided dancers completely halter free bikini tops. Take a look. No back strap. No front strap. No strap in between. How do these things stay on their shaking lady parts? If it’s adhesive and they have to glue feathers to their breasts, I really hope they’re getting paid extra for that.

More mysteries, unsolved.

This week’s nightlife crazy award goes to the lovely narcoleptic boy I saw in Chelsea. The young lad managed to sleep through the night undisturbed, despite his bed being the rowdy, center floor table of Cain. The music wailed at deafening megawatts while drunken revelers celebrated Friday’s long anticipated arrival with stomps and cheers. Neither this, nor the bountiful leaps of the young man in red and white sneakers beside his head, woke our Rip Van Winkle.

Napping boy was evicted onto the 27^th street sidewalk around the same time my roommate and I voluntarily left. He was still half-asleep and seemed ready to spoon with the nearby dumpster. Having drank, danced, and hovered over his snoozing body for the past two hours at the adjacent table, I felt a kinship toward the fellow and tried to halt the trash can spooning process and help him into a cab.

Every time my roommate and I prompted the boy with questions like, “Where do you live?” and “Can you say your address?” he would only slur back crudities and bark that he wanted to be left alone. He consistently mumbled something about “calling Jim” and in clumsy slumber, immediately dropped his cell phone the moment he located it. Even after we retrieved and returned his phone, Rip Van Winkle continued to rudely shun our assistance. At this point, we gave up and scurried into a taxi ourselves, hoping this “Jim” character wasn’t an utter deadbeat and might eventually come to his friend’s rescue.

If you saw a sweet blonde boy sleeping with a trashcan on 27^th street this weekend, you now know the whole story.

Since its inauguration, I’ve perpetually found myself confused when writing about Meatpacking hotspot Kiss & Fly. On the one hand, they copied the décor and vibe of Pink Elephant disco ball by disco ball and are home to dirt-encrusted outdoor traffic cones and even worse, rumored B&T. On the other hand, Pink was getting old anyway, Kiss boasts an impressive ambiance, I’ve never noticed nor been bothered by the rumored B&T, and what better spot does zone-Little West 12th have to offer?

Often, you begin nights at Kiss in a desolate empty arena. I usually enter the club at 12:30pm scowling, not just because of the irritating, indoor security check point guy whose job is to annoy you into checking you coat. The dance floor’s empty, the tables few and far between, and the entire club resembles the Siberian desert. The only sound is the wind whispering across the landscape i.e. the air conditioning vents humming to the non-movement of disappointed guests. You’ll sit and start clicking on your cell phone S.O.S.ing for alternate plans and somehow, consistently, magically, inexplicably, when you shut your phone and stand back up the club’s transformed to look like this:

[All photos compliments of the talented Emma Cleary and her very large camera]

Kiss & Fly does deserve the award for consistently filling up, usually with exceptional energy. Just don’t expect it to happen before 1:30am. Recently, their Thursday night party has featured a live sax player, adding a dynamic element to the music and infiltrating the soul of the crowd. Also adding to the scene is the cabaret-style sparkle dancers, who pitch in with a dash of sensuality and exoticism.

Everyone here seems to be having a good time…

If someone could teach me how to braid my hair in this Laura Croft meets Tarzan up-do that’d be great.

And perhaps it’s true or perhaps I just like to see it this way, but I always enjoy thinking of Pink Elephant and Kiss & Fly in a kind of brutal rivalry for the same sceney house-music crowd. Whether this is the case or not, I want to know: Who is winning?

If we were to rate New York clubs solely on their bathroom facilities, who would win?

Definitely not meatpacking’s Kiss and Fly, who’ve had this lovely traffic cone in their handicapped bathroom, rendering it unusable, for the third week in a row. On the one hand, I doubt a lot of patrons frequent Kiss and Fly in wheelchairs. On the other hand, why has a dirty, painfully orange construction tool taken up permanent residence in a theoretically ‘chic’ New York establishment?

I want answers about the cone, which for me, has become one of those quirky clubbing enigmas; an unsolvable mystery. I crave to understand. Did Kiss and Fly, commended for its expensive ambiance – Romanesque arches and fresco painted ceilings – not leave room in its million dollar+ budget for a utilities closet?

Is the cone a signal that the toilet’s out of order? (A cone’s a little extreme; wouldn’t an “out of order” paper sign or locking the door suffice? This is what they’ve done in their two other “out of order” bathrooms.)

Is it intended to direct women through the handicapped entrance to the main bathroom stalls? (Drunk girls aren’t that stupid)

Is it for occasional outdoor use and the toilet’s just an odd choice of a storage facility? (Don’t think so, because the cone’s never been seen missing from its perch).

Is it some sort of secret weapon?

An object of extreme sentimental value to the owner?

Of course, the most likely explanation is that this bathroom (currently being used as the ladies room entrance way - also weird) is broken.

My next perturbing question is why has it taken the club over three weeks to fix it?!?!?

Guess they have an strong affinity for constructions tools over plumbers.

I always steer away from political fundraisers and events, unless there’s an open bar involved, then I steer toward the Svedka. When art is also involved, I don’t even have to feel guilty. That’s why I’d been excited for weeks to attend Truth Through Action’s first party and short film screening at Mansion.

In a nutshell, this organization makes innovative and in the case of their first film, highly comedic, viral videos encouraging young people to vote and support the Democratic Party. I strongly encourage watching their first movie Blue Balled here. Aside from the film screening, partiers enjoyed a photo exhibit called Political Monogamy by Reka Nyari and a musical performance by Shanna Zell (a tune of hers is also featured in the movie.) It’s always refreshing to feel like you’re taking in a little culture with your alcohol consumption, just because it garners the illusion that clubs don’t necessarily have to be a sinful place.

I Only Sleep With Democrats wife-beaters were for sale and the open bar drinks were appropriately named after political figures like George Bush, Hillary Clinton and John McCain. I stuck with Ross Perot. What can I say? He tasted the best.

And speaking of taste, to my heavy-drinking readers, there’s a new beverage on my delicious list. Truth Through Action included TK KU, an Asian citrus liquor, as part of their open bar.

I don’t know if it’s technically a liqueur or a super smooth version of sake. These details are irrelevant since all you need to know is that for 40 proof, this stuff tastes like heaven. I drank it straight, on ice, at 9pm. Enough said. Making the drink even more entertaining is that it’s presented in, according to their card, The World’s Only Illuminating Bottle. Wow. It was like a light saber and a Grey Goose container rolled into one. And I didn’t let the fact that whatever makes the liquor bottle shine will most likely be pinpointed as a cancer-causer ten years from now bother me at all.

Illuminating liquor, art and indie film all in support of a good cause? What better evening-out launch party could anybody want?

I recently found myself at One, the restaurant aside Gansevoort in Meatpacking which is the promoter pre-party dinner hub of the city. To explain what that means, you’ve gotta know that promoters often cut deals with New York City restaurants, bringing their hot entourage to eat for free before attending whatever club they’re herding people to that evening.

Why This Works: A Flow Chart (keep in mind I haven’t made a flow chart since eighth grade):

Generally speaking, it’s a promoter’s job to have hot chicks and guys who’ll buy tables at their beck and call –> For the most part, guys who buy bottle service work all the time (allowing them to afford bottle service) and being hard workers, don’t have a time to socially micromanage a glamorous entourage. –> Since partying at a table alone without a glamorous entourage is considered faux-pas and a major waste of alcohol, the hard workers decide to team up with a promoter who is, for all practical purposes, a species of middleman. –> On the opposite end of the spectrum, those who make up the glamorous entourage most likely can’t afford a table of their own, hence their decision to work with a promoter. –> To further entice the glamorous entourage to come out with them, promoters will offer perks like limo rides or free dinner at a trendy NYC restaurant pre-clubbing. –> Trendy NYC restaurants need good-looking patrons into order to retain their aforementioned status as trendy. –> Since a promoter already has a glamorous entourage that can’t afford trendy dinners at their disposal, the promoter offers their encourage to eat and drink for free beforehand at [insert trendy restaurant here] –> The restaurant gives away free food to the promoter and their group in exchange for what is essentially, product placement PR with humans. –> Theoretically, everybody wins.

I’m sure many variations of this formula exist, but this is its core function as I understand it. Many restaurants (more than I can list) work with promoters in this capacity, but I don’t think any participate as much as Gansevoort’s next door neighbor, One.

One has really uncomfortable seats and tables, insanely loud music, and mediocre food. At some promotional restaurant gigs, you actually see a menu and order whatever you choose. At most however, menus are a never presented and the server just brings out select appetizers and main courses for everyone to share family-style while boozing people up on a lot of champagne. A sample promotional dinner at One consists of:

-Unlimited wine and champagne (dangerous)

-A shared Caeser-like salad (pretty good)

-A shared quesadilla (pretty gross)

-A shared appetizer pizza (pretty satisfying)

-An odd chicken tapas thing (which I think I don’t like) and

-Shared steak with French fries and ravioli for the main course.

Not too shabby.

My qualm with One has nothing to do with the food, but rather the music level, which is so absurdly high you’d think you were eating in the middle of a concert or club, which essentially, you are. Promoter dinners take place at 10 or 10:30 since everyone has to be in the club around midnight. One, which doubles as a bar (hence the importance they be perceived as ‘trendy’) starts cranking up the volume to make the place feel like a discotheque at around the same time the promoter tables are sitting down to eat. You therefore often find yourself in the completely surreal experience of eating in silence with thirteen other people, listening to deafeningly loud party music. Carrying on a conversation is an impossibility and on my last visit, the unthinkable happened.

At 11:30 One went black. Black as in they turned all the lighting off, even in the dining area. The restaurant was darker than the inside of your average club, because at least your average club has fancy strobe machines and an expensive lighting system. Literally, none of us could see. Not each other. Not our food. It was like some creepy horror movie in which you suddenly find yourself at a vampires banquet in a dungeon.

I thought the whole thing was a joke and waited for them to play ‘Thriller’ and then turn the ambiance lighting back up – but no. It was a big finger in the face to anyone who was still eating, and even the non-promoter diners seemed pretty weirded out. I mean, this is New York. A lot of people sit down to dinner at 11:30pm. And I understand that One likes to think of itself as a lounge and therefore wants to create a party atmosphere to sell drinks to wasted people in ASAP, but why then bother having a restaurant?

More nightlife mysteries, unsolved.

Remember that episode of Sex and the City when Carrie goes to some hip, joint-smoking couple’s baby shower and gets her insanely expensive shoes stolen? That’s the first thing I thought of when I entered a party this weekend and the front foyer looked like this:

The de-shoeing excuse the lame couple on Sex and the City gave had something to do with protecting their pristine offspring from New York’s street germs. Funny, because I’m sure when these children ventured into Central Park with their nanny they touched, licked and molested the urban landscape as if it were a candy cane.

At the party I was attending, our bachelor host didn’t have this concerned parent excuse. He also didn’t have hardwood floors, making everyone even more confused as to why our shoes had to be checked at the door as if they were a violent weapon.

What I found most interesting about the party that ensued (a lovely and successful party btw) was the subtle yet intense murmur of complaints steadily voiced by the females in attendance. Perhaps not surprisingly, New York women really don’t like to part with their shoes. Some put on a happy face while bitching below the radar about how without their suede heels, their outfit no longer “worked.” Others complained they felt inferior or “like midgets” without their stilettos. Many commiserated over how the entire situation was just kindergarten-style “unfair.” As one guest pointed out, “If our host can afford this apartment, can’t he afford to have someone come clean the floor?”

“Wow!” I thought. “This could get ugly!” But I resisted chanting “Fight! Fight!” like the people on WWE Wrestling.

I, for one, feel like I’ve suffered enough discomfort via footwear for one lifetime and therefore remain grateful for any opportunity to take my high heels off. The best comedy occurred at the end of the night when all the guests, now drunk on gin and bubbly, had to locate their shoes in this tangled, overflowing pile and somehow retain their balance long enough to put them back on. Many toppled over. Lot’s of shoulders were lent for support.

I experienced a mini panic attack when I couldn’t locate my gold strappy sandals in the shoe orgy. The impossibly frightening was happening: My life was a Sex and the City episode! Someone stole them!

I became especially enraged since I already had one pair of shoes mysteriously stolen at a house party in Brazil. Fortunately, after a little digging, I found my sandals suffocating under a pair of sneakers.

Crisis averted.

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