So last night I went to this club called Moda in Chicago. I first heard of it when my younger sister and her friends complained "Their website says, 'if you don't wear Prada, don't even bother trying to get in here.'"
Meanwhile, a suave soon-to-be-a-doctor friend told me. "It's totally over the top. It's incredibly pretensious and great and people are going to talk about it long after it's gone." Personally, I think he likes it because a sexy Croatian girl walked up to him there on his birthday and introduced herself as his "present."
But anyhow. There was a line of dudes standing outside, but I got right in. Okay. WE got right in. I suppose my non-Prada self was allowed to pay the $20 cover because I was accompanying a georgous young woman. Let's call her S.
Upon entering, we were greeted by the news that all of the male staff's attire was provided by Barney's New York. The news was projected in hot white light on the wall.
The staff was friendly, the people were generally sexy. Well, maybe not the guys. It was an older (i.e. my age), monied crowd.
After hanging out in the downstairs lounge, watching people watch us watch them, downing martinis and perusing the fashion mags the owners had so thoughtfully laid out for us, S. decided that it was time for us to dance.
Dancing commenced, however I thought that this was perhaps too ordinary for such an OVER THE TOP kind of place, so I decided that it was time to kick the hired quasi-belly-dancer off the stage (did I forget to mention her) and take it for ourselves.
We put on a good show. I put aside my traditional unbalanced flailing and instead proceeded to engange in what the kids call "the forbidden dance." Crazy obscene bumping and grinding with a fair amount of licking thrown in for the crowd. I mysteriously managed to not knock over a single drink that people foolishly placed upon our stage.
Unfortuantely I did manage to pull a muscle getting down from the stage, which has left me a gimp today.
We paid the tab at the bar (now I realize why they're so friendly) and exited into what seemed like a media frenzy. The crowd wating to get in had grown to epic proportions and I felt like an accused baby killer exiting his house into a sea of reporters. Wait... no, it was a little more positive than that. I felt like Britanny Spears, how about that?
Meanwhile, a suave soon-to-be-a-doctor friend told me. "It's totally over the top. It's incredibly pretensious and great and people are going to talk about it long after it's gone." Personally, I think he likes it because a sexy Croatian girl walked up to him there on his birthday and introduced herself as his "present."
But anyhow. There was a line of dudes standing outside, but I got right in. Okay. WE got right in. I suppose my non-Prada self was allowed to pay the $20 cover because I was accompanying a georgous young woman. Let's call her S.
Upon entering, we were greeted by the news that all of the male staff's attire was provided by Barney's New York. The news was projected in hot white light on the wall.
The staff was friendly, the people were generally sexy. Well, maybe not the guys. It was an older (i.e. my age), monied crowd.
After hanging out in the downstairs lounge, watching people watch us watch them, downing martinis and perusing the fashion mags the owners had so thoughtfully laid out for us, S. decided that it was time for us to dance.
Dancing commenced, however I thought that this was perhaps too ordinary for such an OVER THE TOP kind of place, so I decided that it was time to kick the hired quasi-belly-dancer off the stage (did I forget to mention her) and take it for ourselves.
We put on a good show. I put aside my traditional unbalanced flailing and instead proceeded to engange in what the kids call "the forbidden dance." Crazy obscene bumping and grinding with a fair amount of licking thrown in for the crowd. I mysteriously managed to not knock over a single drink that people foolishly placed upon our stage.
Unfortuantely I did manage to pull a muscle getting down from the stage, which has left me a gimp today.
We paid the tab at the bar (now I realize why they're so friendly) and exited into what seemed like a media frenzy. The crowd wating to get in had grown to epic proportions and I felt like an accused baby killer exiting his house into a sea of reporters. Wait... no, it was a little more positive than that. I felt like Britanny Spears, how about that?