Over the past six weeks I’ve been JewJetting between Las Vegas, Miami and L.A. to see how these three cities compare to New York.
Here’s how they did:
Las Vegas:
For tossed-salad-style service that Paul Newman would call his “own,” head to the desert (and don’t forget the dressing). For a liter of Belvedere, you’ll feel as big as LeBron at a grade school toilet. In Vegas, hosts are there to make you feel like a valued “John” – fucked in exchange for money or in a stall with a “straight flush.”
Clubs are as organized as a CPA’s sock drawer, but despite the proficiencies there’s a downside: a (revenue) LV door is as blind as Steve Wynn at a LensCrafters. They don’t care if you’re Randy Quaid in a Speedo, or McLovin’, high on Speed – if you’re spending money, you’re getting in. Vegas is all business, it only feels personal. Unlike other cities, patron loyalty lasts about as long as a roulette spin. A Vegas venue would seat Roy's Tiger for a three-bottle minimum the second Siegfried’s card doesn’t swipe. LV has philosophized credit “Cash is King” and revenue exceeds all else. However, this always comes at the great expense of the club’s human capital. The last time I saw this much shit shoveled into a glamorized dark hole was at a Star Jones feeding at a HomeTown Buffet. Vegas might be a nightlife (stomach) staple, but just like Miss Jones, more than two meals and you’ll eat right through it.
JEWced Approved: Blush, XS
Rather drink at a Gaza Strip Strip Club than: LAX, Lavo*
*Note: lifetime ban
Miami:
Women in Miami understand me as well as I comprehend-o a Telemundo telethon. With R’s rolled from tongue-injected Restylane, the feel is familiarly fake and infused with international disease intrigue. The scene lacks the sophistication of New York, with some venues (Klutch) resembling the corner of “Section 8” & W 27th St. However, there is always an exception. LIV at Fontainebleau runs like a recalled Toyota: it’s literally unstoppable. Usually, the only time I’m impressed by something in a club is when I’m standing at a urinal looking down. As the number-one-grossing venue in the country, LIV is the hottest thing since global warming. The place is operated like a federal reserve bank: the difference? LIV’s currency is trading over the USD.
JEWced Approved: LIV, Coco De Ville, Set
Rather drink at a Gaza Strip Strip Club than: Klutch, BED
Los Angeles:
The deep-end of L.A. nightlife is a “City of Compton” wading pool with the pH balance of Lindsay Lohan’s labia. Doors may be as organized as a FEMA-themed party at the Superdome, but this is no excuse for the patrons to actually look homeless. It’s 2010 and the Gosselins of L.A. still wear Ed Hardy and shoot each other in the ass with needles. My Zegna jackets and Prep School haircut stand out on Melrose like Madoff’s orange jumpsuit at Temple. Who’s running these joints? I have received better service at a Klan Diner ordering latkes while wearing my “Do the Jew” t-shirt.
The L.A.-lounging-Lolitas I’ve found in nightclubs just don’t add up… literally. Without a Texas Instrument, or more than 10 fingers, they just can’t do it. Since everyone drives in L.A., clubs should have to provide a Carfax and smog report on the girls they let in. From rear-end collisions to flood damage and odometer fraud, male patrons have the right to know what the vixen you met at Voyeur had to do for that SAG card. Ask yourself the following questions: would the Geiko gecko insure the bimbo’s bumper or would Lloyd’s of London have to underwrite it with Heidi Montag’s red pre-op marker? With very few exceptions, L.A. nightclubs exhibit about as much “Prestige” as you’d find in a lot full of used Mazdas.
Every night is a Hollywood High Holiday, so be sure to follow my mother’s annual Yom Kippur lecture: “practice safe sex.” Interpretation: hide your wallet, scripts, and JEWelry in your hotel room’s safe before sex. JRL’s take: BYOS (“Bring Your Own Shiksa”).
JEWced Approved: Guys & Dolls, Voyeur
Rather drink at a Gaza Strip Strip Club than: Coco de Ville, Hyde
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The comments stated in this column are Justin Ross Lee's personal opinions and do not represent the opinion of Clubplanet.com or any one of its parent companies.
