Recession? What recession?

6128_144415063135_610843135_3449127_5333669_nHi, everyone! I can’t believe it’s already the middle of August. Been doing lots of writing and playing and fighting off a few days of 104 fever (HOT!) and all in all, it’s been a good summer. I hope yours has been, too.

No other news, really, so here’s a picture of the crowd at a club I went to this weekend. Yes, a club.  I don’t think I’ve been to an honest-to-god one of those since I was at Boston University—and boy, was this one different. Girls get mighty dressed up nowadays (this picture doesn’t really do the place justice. These people are fairly, y’know, normal and lovely looking). My biggest concern during my clubbing days (and I use the term loosely) was whether to wear my black pants or my other black pants. I’d never survive now! I’m fashion lover, but whoa, nelly. Girls wear skirts that go up to where the sun don’t shine! And they dance on tables! They LITERALLY dance on tables! (Man, I sound old.) It was quite an experience. There were club girls when I was in school, and they were gorgeous and intimidating, but today’s version is much more…polished. They look practically Lucite.

Thankfully, I was there for a friend’s birthday, so we got ushered to the front of the line by the very nice staff (my 20-year-old self is tres impressed with me right now), and the music was pretty awesome (though they only ever played songs in three-minute snippets. We wondered if this was because the clientele had short attention spans, for, um, unknown reasons). Anyway, it was really something. People were knocking back $18 cocktails and ordering bottle service. Can somebody tell Obama that the recession is over? At least on a small strip of clubland in the west 40s.

The NYT Styles section coincidentally wrote up this place for the Boite item yesterday (synergy!), and it actually sounds quite lovely on a weeknight. Nice roof deck, art, less overly douchey clientele. Actch, I shouldn’t even say that—the people were really fine. There were just a lot of them. On top of one another other. And us. Not terribly pleasant on a humid New York night. I’ll take a divey little bar with good jukebox and a Stella instead any day. 

Cheers, y’all.