New Year's is one of those holidays that amateur revelers own. In order to avoid the cram-packed, price-jumped "Marcy, it's 11:58. Where is Susie?" crowd a private party is usually a better option. Hosted at our own home, our small group convened from nine to five, ending when a guest had the audacity to request food. (A few pictures to come soon.) Everyone went home to reconvene five hours later (New Year's Day).
By eleven a.m. we were at Crobar to enjoy the stylings of Victor Calderone. Whisked through the door and a quick security check, we picked up our will-call tickets and proceeded to coat-check. Coat check was filled with straights checking out and gays checking in. Our timing was perfect.
After ridding ourselves of our extra layers we proceeded straight to the dance floor. The music, lights, atmosphere and crowd were perfection. As more time went by, more shirts came off (including mine, thanks to the MO Workout Plan). Coy smiles under designer eyewear flashed across the floor. Lights would come down and you were dancing with a stranger, back to back, ass-cheek to ass-cheek. With a new year always comes the thoughts of aging, but for some reason some of the most beautiful men in the room were grooving and groping me. As time went on, one had gotten too frisky, wanting to make out (which I wouldn't do) and pressing a vibrator against my ass. But wait, it was my phone doing the vibrating as Mister Offender was calling me to come to the front bar as our friends were tiring and ready to go (the fools). As it was only five, my protests came but were met with the reminder that we were going home to walk the dog, refuel, and then head out to Pacha.
By ten we were en route to Pacha, refueled and ready for the hugeness of the Saint-at-Large party. Our quest was met with several operational issues upon arrival. The queue was divided in two lines, splitting the well-prepared, with ticket crowd and the ill-prepared, sans ticket crowd. It pays to be unprepared at Pacha, as the group without tickets entered quickly to pay for their tickets and go to the large entry-level coat-check. We with our tickets in hand waited in a slowly-moving line leading to a slowly-moving elevator in turn leading to a parking lot of boys wanting to dispatch their coats to the small, closet-like forth-floor coat-check. After waiting over one-half hour at coat check, we then searched out the ATM's (one near the entry and one on the third floor) to find that both were out of order. The space (formerly the 'uptown' Sound Factory) has flow issues with poorly placed passages between floors. The once immense dance floor is now smaller due to a well-equipped, but intrusive DJ booth. Once again boys were all over us, but in all the wrong ways and for all the wrong reasons. Determined to make lemonade of this lemon, I encouraged my entourage to dance, but having been entranced by Victor earlier had spoiled the group; they just weren't feeling it. After an interminable wait (over 45 minutes)at coat check (the interior of which was a shambles by this point) we were out by four, vowing to never attend again.
My vow of not attending 'franchised' clubs has been broken by their ability to turn out top talent. CroBar has created a great space and is well managed. Pacha, not so much.
