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Editor’s note: It’s good to see an observant, informed, somewhat balanced, yet slightly cynical club-goer in Atlanta willing to voice an opinion on the city’s growing nightlife. Hell, this guy’s not even getting paid and he’s getting more in-depth on a specific subject than I have yet. I’ve got to tighten my game!
Thanks...keep it coming!
-- Nightshift Editor Tony Ware

?Velveteen Rabbits Hop To It
Last Friday I was returning from a family function when I drove by the Velvet Room and noticed a small line of “beautiful people” waiting between velvet ropes. Intrigued, I decided to check out the place.?The security people were pleasant; one guy who looked at my ID even mentioned I was beautiful, although it was too dark to see if tongue was firmly planted in cheek. Anyway, I was about to open the door myself when he rushed ahead of me to open it himself. Goddess forbid if a patron has to exert energy to open a door himself, but I understand that’s the kind of establishment the impresarios want — to cater to every client’s need; that is, to blow some serious smoke up all the patrons’ asses.
The cover was $10, which was kind of expected, and I was subsequently handed a receipt which I was to hand to another member of security down the hall. As he was perusing it, I suddenly realized it said something along the lines of “member of the great unwashed — deny access to the VIP area, but let him come in and enjoy the festive atmosphere.” After walking in, I saw security members with their surgically attached cell phones guarding the VIP section. They looked quite menacing, so I made certain to avoid them.?
My first destination was the men’s room where, lo and behold, there was an attendant to help me turn on the faucet and hand me paper towels! I felt like telling him that I would still tip him but I could do all that myself. Personally, I feel bad for those people. I know they need to make a living, but it’s somewhat degrading.
Anyway, after making sure my hair and appearance were at their optimal level, so as to garner looks of interest from the dames, I headed straight to the bar where I ordered an Amstel Light ($4 — kind of surprised me, I thought a place like that would charge higher), and subsequently headed to an area where I could scan the place and provide some personal judgment. Er, also to try to make myself stand out so the women might look at me as a desirable piece of meat.?It was kind of disheartening. I felt like I was in the Buckhead Village of the Dammed circa 1996. It seemed like all the guys had short hair, cocky disposition and lack of humility. And the girls seemed to dress themselves so as to attract the men of money and stature. Perhaps I don’t exude those qualities because I got the impression they found me as scrumptious as a can of Spam. Furthermore, the music was yet another bland mixture of overly repetitive “house” beats.
After 30 minutes I decided to head home for the evening. The place was just another Plush, Rendezvous, etc. In retrospect, I was naive to think this place would be enjoyed by me, what with my acrimony towards the bourgeois, but I had to check it out.
Being in my mid-20s, I recall the wonderful days at Boys & Girls, Plastic (before it was overrun by the high-top and backward baseball cap crowd) and Velvet. God, I think I’m getting too old. Maybe, I should start going to Johnny’s Hideaway with the rest of the old flatulents.?’’
’’?Philip Limonciello


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