As I sit here and attempt to recover from last night’s revelry, I realize that I have been remiss in my duties as the East Coast correspondent. I have been steadily hitting the hot clubs (and the hot ladies), and have not been allowing you, my loyal viewers, share in my exploits. I realize that many of you rely on me and my fellow journalists to do the research on what is hot, and I have been hitting the books like it was finals week. That being said, allow me to let you in a “typical” night of excitement in the Big Apple. . . Although I work outside the city, every week I perform a little ritual: First, I gather my crew. My typical crew consists of “Jersey” – a guy who’s been around the club scene for a while and knows how to handle himself – and “VA” – a traveller like myself who hails from the backwoods of Virginia. Let it be said that VA may be a hick, but he uses it to his advantage and has absolutely no shame – he will talk to any person in the place and inevitably comes away with the digits. After my crew is ready to roll we stop by our local Quickee-Mart for a few 40’s. Personally I opt for the Foster oilcan or a big ol’ bottle of Corona, but only because they don’t carry big enough cans of Pabst. By now, the proprietor of this establishment knows us quite well and is always ready with the bottle opener. Once we are fuelled up we’re headed into the city. Now for the night in question, Jersey was unavailable (a fact he will eternally regret), so it was just VA and myself. It was a Wednesday night (yes, partying on a school night is not the best form, but coffee is an amazing thing) and we hadn’t received hook-up for any major parties*, so VA and I decided to check our usual haunts. The city isn’t the hottest on a Wednesday night, but we have found that the party follows us wherever we go. Our first stop – the Whiskey Blue in the ‘W’ hotel at Times Square – was a definite hit. As it turns out, the Whiskey was celebrating its first anniversary with a blow-out party. Now, in most places a bar/nightclub in a hotel is a dead give-away for lameness. This place, however, is definitely an anomaly. First, the place is owned by Rande Gerber, who made his money selling baby food** and then married supermodel Cindy Crawford and thus shattered one of my personal dreams. Second, the Whiskey Blue found the hottest women in New York- and hired them to tend bar and deliver drinks. I mean, these chicks are absolutely ridiculous and it’s worth the trip just to see them. The Whiskey Blue is usually a hit-or-miss during the week. Sometimes it is a ridiculous club, other times it is flat out lame. The first time we hit it, it was definitely on, with cranking music and hot chicks everywhere. Let me just say this: you don’t want to miss Whiskey on a hot night. Believe it or not, I actually did some research on the Whiskey. I read some ‘user rating’ reviews on the web, and the people bashed the service and attitude of the staff. In general, the reviewers didn’t appreciate the atmosphere of the place. I have one thing to say about that – those people must have been ugly. I found the bartenders stunning and downright flirty. What more could you want? So here is the low-down on the Whiskey: located below the W, it’s a 7,500-square-foot bar/screening room. It has a couple of dance floors available (one with lit-up liquid tiles that change colors), a DJ, a giant screen showing random movies, and the coolest bathroom stalls I’ve ever seen. The bathroom is unisex – it just has doors on the stalls and the guys can stand and piss while looking through a one-way mirror at all the people who are fixing their makeup or adjusting themselves. There is definitely an after-work crowd here, as some of the business travellers staying in the hotel drop down for a drink, but as it gets a little later the crowd get hotter and younger. I must say, it is fun to watch drunk business dorks jumping up and down on the dance floor to see it change colors. As far as the music - I’ve been to the Whiskey on nights where the DJ was barely awake. He was spinning lame shit with no energy at all. However, on this night, the big anniversary party, some hot chick was spinning and getting the whole place jumpin. Now, the night in question had a decent crowd at the main bar, but it was quite obvious that the real action was in the VIP screening area. We walked up to the bouncer and I introduced myself. Surprisingly, he had not heard of Admiral Triq Nastey. As a general rule, if the bouncer doesn’t know my name I figure the club isn’t cool enough for me. So naturally, I was immediately on the phone with C. Alexander Parish, giving him a royal dressing-down for not having made the phone calls to clear my way into the VIP section. Luckily, my boy VA found a photographer who had heard of me and was willing to guarantee entrance into the VIP section in exchange for a snapshot of us working our magic with a couple of beautiful babies. When we entered the VIP area, we were immediately introduced to none other than Cindy Crawford. I gave her my best line, “Holy shit! It’s Cindy Crawford! You’re even hotter in person!” She graced me with a dazzling smile and shook hands with VA, who impressed her even more with his Southern manners. Unfortunately, it seems that calling a beautiful woman “Ma’am” could be construed as an insult to a supermodel, so he spent the next few minutes apologizing. Luckily, VA does have a certain way with the ladies and she was soon mollified. In fact, if her husband wasn’t at the party (and her kids weren’t waiting back at her place) I am quite confident that VA would have left with her. Now, I must take this time out to say that Cindy may be a little past her super-modelling prime, and she may have a few kids, but she was hands-down the hottest thing at a bar full of hot women. It was definitely no accident that this woman became a supermodel. All eyes were on her at this bar full of beautiful people. And, of course, all eyes were on us because we were talking to her. Needless to say, after everyone saw us hanging with Cindy - who am I kidding, after everyone saw us - Period - we found ourselves surrounded by the beautiful people who are inevitably a part of the New York VIP scene. (As a side note, one of the more interesting conversations I had revolved around a woman telling me that she enjoyed hanging out in the “regular” part of the bar every once in a while because she found the normal people interesting.) The crowd in this area was definitely cool – but they knew it, and that got old quick. Shortly thereafter, Cindy left and we decided it was time to round up a crew of lovelies and head for the next stop – Sessa. The line to get in at Sessa –at least for this after-party - was insane, and I would imagine the cover charge was enough to support a small family in Detroit. Luckily, we were in the company of Coco (the jewellery designer) and Patrick (the promoter), who explained to the bouncers who I was and we were spared the indignity of waiting in line and paying cover. Sessa is a cross between a harem and a Polynesian tiki bar. It is definitely different and just as definitely New York City. There are curtained alcoves for hanging with your crew (and late night hook-ups), tables for the taking, and a dance floor for getting your freak on. If you want to be a true pimp you gotta call ahead and reserve a table or a booth. The DJ was spinning mad tunes from Old School to New School and everything in-between. One thing about this club is that you will definitely meet some interesting people. We saw a couple of New Jersey Nets (Richard Jefferson and some bench-warmer), which lent an air of legitimacy to the place. (Granted, two years ago seeing a NJ Net player at a Denny’s wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow, but Jason Kidd, and a run at the championship last year, has made these players newsworthy.) At one point, my booth was assaulted by a coked-up rapper who stood on our table and rapped in German, Italian, and Turkish (although I strongly suspect his Turkish was limited to three words). Also, the new “No smoking in public buildings” law doesn’t seem to apply to NYC, especially for pot. It seems that NY Vice doesn’t often hang at this place considering the amount of people openly smoking their blunts and the nonchalant nature of the dope peddlers making their rounds. In general it is difficult to properly rate the nightlife in New York City. Comparing a sportsbar to a pub to a singles bar to a club is just not fair. That being said, Whiskey Blue scores a B+ and Sessa scores an A+. If you disagree my ratings, then you must be ugly- so don’t even bother to write me and complain at tnastey@paperbagreview.com. Admiral T. Nastey _________________________________ *For those of you not “in the know”: the clubs in New York are only hot if there is a “party” being thrown. These parties are just a way for promoters to earn a living and a reason for the bouncers to prohibit ugly people from entering. **I have no idea if he is in any way related to the baby food people, and I’m too lazy to research this, so feel free to e-mail me with the truth.
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