V is For Vagina, Burlesque sucks!
TAGS: Crack, Drugs, drunk, model, Music, New York, warBeau is away for Fasnacht (Basel Carnival where he drums for 3 days straight along with about 20,000 other people) thus leaving me all on my lonesome for Valentine’s Day. We aren’t really a ‘hallmark couple’ so truth be told this wasn’t such a big deal. So a friend (whose husband was also drumming his heart out for 3 days) decided to host a V IS FOR VAGINA Valentine’s ladies night dinner. Armed with champagne, a Valentine’s balloon and a penchant for mischief, I went to join 3 other fabulous ladies for a girl’s night.After a delicious dinner and a bit too much wine (and trying to eat what we thought were chocolates but turned out to be bath bombs) three of us decided to go clubbing and we went toone of the hottest clubs in NY for their one year anniversary. Now the thing about hot clubs in NY, they are normally private guest-list-only places where even if you are a supermodel you will probably get turned away at the door. And believe me I am not that cool however one of the Valentine ladies is friends with a bartender and thus we managed to thwart the cocky “Bonnie and Clyde” bouncer wearing liquid liner, a pinstripe suit and a gigantic fur coat who wielded his index finger like a machine gun yelling “you- can’t get in, you three –in, you – no chance, you – get out of here, you – don’t make me laugh…”The bar was decorated with an air of crumbling European aristocracy – with plush, faded velvet curtains, dim chandeliers, faded mirrors and ornate, cracking guild-work. The place was obviously an old theater – albeit a small and narrow one – and the place couldn’t hold more than 250. All the staff are fabulously dressed men in drag, some half-naked wrapped in feather boas and one in only a crinoline skirt and paint on his torso. A woman walked by with her voluptuous breasts exposed and painted, and another with wire cones on and not much else smoking a cigarette.The thing is here in NY if you can actuallysmoke in a club, you know this place exists beyond the mores of normal society and you have to be prepared for absolutely anything. Seriously, only the seediest and/or the most exclusive places let you actually smoke anymore – and somehow I think the line that separates ‘the seedy’ from ‘the exclusive’ is merely the depth of a pocket.Fortunately I didn’t have to pay for any drinks, the champagne kept appearing in my hand from a variety of sources, but I heard that a table costs upwards of $1000 and a booth more in the realm of $4000. Drinks could easily be anywhere from $450 for a bottle to probably $60+ for a glass (certainly not in my budget). I was quickly introduced to some of the staff and met a magician from Moncton, NB of all places – our Maritime connection ensured he gave me his business card, plus it turned out he was the magic consultant for one of the shows for the theater I work at. The people in the bar were fascinating – (I felt incredibly underdressed still in my attire from work) - a girl in a head-to-toe gingham body suit with a gingham bubble on her head, a vampire, a dandy, a spangly looking woman who I would simply describe as mutton-dressed-as-lamb still nursing a hangover from Studio 54 in it’s heyday.Then the stage show started - there was one musical act but the majority of numbers consisted of various stages of undress and sex acts presented in a theatrical way (i.e. fancy lighting, dry ice smoke and fancy costumes). Sort of burlesque-meets-Amsterdam’s red-light district with grotesquely fascinating performances ranging from men with boobs stripping and peeing in bottles to futuristically dressed twins bathed in blue light sticking assorted things into each others orifices. Quite simply put –a theatrical, fantastical sex show – the more outrageous the number, the more the crowd loved it, the more freakish, the more popular. All hosted by an MC with bleach blonde devil-horned hair who apparently left the circus to do this (Cirque du Soleil to be exact).I quickly discovered this club is the kind of place where you might trip over someone famous (and indeed did) but what comes hand-in-hand with celebrity in this country is people whose currency is name-dropping. Indeed, one such dandy wearing a yellow fedora and a yellow pin-stripe suit offered to“take me upstairs to introduce me to Bono.” Now I might have been very drunk but I don’t cheat on Beau and I am old enough to know that “upstairs” in this kind of club is code for sex and drugs - neither of which interests me. Mr. Fedora was persistent not taking ‘no’ for an answer and proceeded to try to fondle me while repeating Bono’s name until I finally snapped “sorry sweetheart, but I am not that kind of girl. Meeting celebs doesn’t impress me and doesn’t really rock my trolley.” (Yes, I actually said ‘rock my trolley’ - I was drunk, those were the words that tumbled out of my mouth.) Mr. Fedora left, I must have ruined his high.Then I met an attractive, tall British guy, Hugh, who was an agent for the band that was playing. It turned out to be his first time in this club and he was a real gentleman and very normal. It seems he had come over to NY with the band because the band’s benefactor (none other than Damien Hirst) had insisted. It seems Damien and Bono were hosting an art fundraiser here in New York and that was why they were all here. Hugh asked us ladies if we wanted to meet Damien- and off he went to find Damien to bring him over to us to say hello. However it seems Damien and Bono were “upstairs” so I didn’t get to meet him and the private room (rumored to have it’s own strip show) was not exactly where I wanted to be.Sometime later we decided to call it a night and we were each handed a poster role – turned out to be a limited edition print for the club’s birthday apparently of some value. I said goodbye to Hugh and the magician and the painted breasted lady and I walked home. I knew I was incredibly drunk when I decided to walk home and had a hard time walking straight. I tried to walk past the doorman in the most sober way possible but I’m afraid walking into the door gave me away. By the time I managed to turn the key in the lock it was 5:30am. I called the ladies to make sure they got home ok, called Beau to tell him I was stupidly drunk and confess I had been hit on but to assure him I really am a good girl then I had a shower and tumbled into bed.I woke up at midday and stumbled into work 2 hours late and still drunk. Oh. Dear. God. Thank goodness my boss was away… that turned out to be a V IS FOR VAGINA Valentine’s Day I will never forget.
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February 20th, 2008 at 2:19 am
i’ve been there twice (once on purpose and the other time because we had to “meet” someone there…but…never mind) and i wanted to put a double barrel shotgun in my mouth. that place is AWFUL awful nasty horrible hell.