You Can Find Me In Da Club
A belly stuffed with turkey does not make a great accessory to my best party dress and pair of heels. I sported all three, however, as I headed to Chelsea on the weekend after Thanksgiving with an out-of-towner friend. Our goal was to get into the supposedly all-exclusive Bungalow 8, hopefully to mix and mingle with our favorite gal pals Mary Kate and Ashley, or any other celebrities who happened to show that night.
My taller, thinner friend took the lead as we approached Bungalow’s bouncer. She swayed her hips and shook her hair as she imagined only a member of the “members-only” joint could manage. “We’re on the list,” she told him as I tried to stifle giggles in the background. Somehow, trying to make good with bouncers always reduces me to the behavior of an embarrassed fifth grader snickering in the corner while my best friend tells my crush that I like him.
“Name?” the bouncer asked tonelessly. He reminded me of the large, wrongfully convicted death row prisoner with powers in The Green Mile.
“We’re on the list with George Watson,” my friend stated confidently, going with the made-up name we had previously concocted. Actually, Mr. Watson was our Media Research Methods professor in college — a middle-aged, balding man with several Jack Russell terriers.
But by the time our bouncer had informed us twice that good ol’ George was not on the list, we had already started to work our magic. In other words, we were gettin’ our flirt on. “It’s just so upsetting that George isn’t on the list, because he said he would be, and we came all the way down here and got all dressed up,” I crooned. (Go ahead and complain about how my manipulation of my “feminine charms” sets the feminist movement back hundreds of years — we wanted in at that club!)
Our bouncer friend whispered for us to come back an hour later. Jackpot! When we did, we were whisked right past the literal velvet rope. “A promise is a promise, ladies,” World’s Best Bouncer told us with a wink. Finally, the promised land was ours.
But the promised land sucked. MK and A apparently couldn’t make it to the Bungalow that night. There was no place to sit — every last black-and-white striped booth was marked ominously with a “Reserved” placard (a.k.a. “Don’t even think about sitting down unless you want to pay $400 for a bottle of Absolut.”) When it came down to it, Bungalow 8 was just another lounge for hipsters with high-priced drinks — exactly what we had expected, and yet, so disappointing.
Enough with this nonsense. Next time my friend comes to town, I’m taking her to a wine bar, a local dive, or that sports joint around the corner. Too bad our bouncer friend won’t be able to come along.