Return to the Clermont

Let me just warn in advance that I concede that these observations are probably nothing new to the average reader, and certainly the average patron of the Clermont Lounge. Still, I couldn�t help but notice the difference in vibe at the ironically legendary hole on Ponce. I hadn�t been there in about five years, and after some nudging by curious out-of-town guests spurred on by other attendees of a conference, I figured even with my fianc�e in tow, seven months was a long time to have lived in Atlanta without having attended the church of camp. She seemed game at the suggestion, which certainly helped.

So we get there, hi-five our friends, and I notice with approval the dance floor away from the stage, the DJ keeping people happy without having to noddingly wink at the strippers onstage. Good call.

But then I made the mistake of trying watch the action. The door bouncer approached, flashlight ready. “You’re going to have to stop leaning on the jukebox and move along,” he said, to which I replied, “Well, first off, I’m not leaning on the jukebox, I’m standing next to it, and secondly, why do I need to move?” “The path,” he replied, “Gotta keep it clear or there’s a fire hazard!” Ah, yes, even if Great White wasn’t performing, there was still a fire hazard what with all those people who paid $10 and were ushered in. Crowds apparently are no problem at the Clermont; long as they know how to behave.