Since y'all are probably returning home from last night's coke-infested binge about now, we'll start the morning off with some mildy offensive cultural insights about "clubbing." Our current (and perhaps only) favorite bouncer/grad student/blogger describes the most horrifying stage in the metamorphis of a "hot" New York City club:

Then come the Guidos. The previous year, our establishment wasn't yet on their radar. Didn't even enter their consciousness. Grudgingly, as always, I'll give Guidos credit for something here: they know where they're not wanted, and they don't try to go there. My club, at present, is approximately nine months to a year past its prime. When we were peaking, however, you'd rarely, if ever, see a Guido summon the stones to brave the ride from Bensonhurst to attempt entry. They simply couldn't get in. Most top-end New York clubs, ours included, have people walking up and down the line, scanning the potential customership for sartorial and grooming deficiencies. Patrons unaccustomed to such treatment find this obnoxious, but, in actuality, it's a courtesy the club extends to the patronage, so those who obviously won't gain admission won't waste their time waiting on line.

Ah, yes. Those up and down stares are always, so, so courteous. Not sleazy at all, no. Of course not. That's crazy talk. ("Cleavage, me?) Bouncers are decent human beings. Remember that. -KEW

Arc [Clublife]

Earlier: Bouncers, Hookers, and the Requisite Lexus