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JEWced with JRL is unadulterated no-holds-barred column shtick that shamelessly seeks to scrutinize New York nightlife by "calling out one asshole at a time." Get your dose of Justin Ross Lee's JEWced every week.

Top Ten Most Hated People in New York Nightlife

posted on 03.09.2010

10. Matt Lipman (Promoter) – This image promoter has an immunity to pepper spray and a penchant for sucking straight from the bottle. While actually a human being during daylight, he has nothing to “Hyde” come nightfall. Sleazier than porn, yet less mainstream, he is the Larry Flynt of nightlife. The difference: VS the people, Mr. Flynt won the case. 


9. Sally Shan (Promoter) – Sally is the only “nightlife ninja” in the business who could turn a happy ending sad by way of a Svedka hangover. As the only female Asian promoter in Manhattan, Sally has mastered the martial art of self-promotion, long-time. She exudes confidence not seen since the “Tao of Steve” while under a Tsunami of wrath from hateful critics. Like Buddha, she never fights back.



8. Number 8 has been removed due to technical difficulties.  


7. Adam Glovsky (Promoter) – While harmless and congenial, Adam’s reputation is about as strong as his handshake. It takes FCC involvement to get off his mass SMS list and a week at “Promises” in Malibu to get off of anything else...





6. Jonathan Schwartz (Promotion Director) – When Apple designed the red ignore button on the iPhone, he had this relentless cold-caller in mind. When Jon rings, the best thing to do is tell him “I am happy with my current provider.” Jon Schwartz would try and scalp tickets to Synagogue on a Friday night. I haven’t seen such a pathetic and persistent sale since prom. The difference: I got laid.



5. David Jaffee (Promoter) – David should never have been a promoter; he showcases the social skills of Forest Gump with an Ivy League degree. He’s too fucking nice for anyone to take him seriously and arrogant without cause. He says on his Facebook, “From age 20-26, I was more successful than anyone else my age on Wall Street.” My take: 72.5% of statistics are made up on the spot.



4. Matthew Assante (Promoter) – If nice guys finish last, Matthew must have disappointed a lot of women. It’s been reported that this Bronx-Zoolander compensates his girls so that he can fill his tables with talent. What does a “matured” promoter do once his reign has stopped making it rain? Matthew has as much time remaining as a Blockbuster video store. The best thing he could do right now is “be kind and rewind.” 



3. Me (Self Promoter/ JewJetter) – According to GuestofaGuest: “JRL would show up to the opening of an envelope.” When he’s not attacking Ashley Olsen or feuding with Star Jones, Justin is holding your Facebook mini-feed hostage with his “Jewnoxious” and disgusting antics. This self-proclaimed “JewJetter” would sneak a tripod through TSA if it’d fit in an overhead compartment. Just because his last name is Lee doesn’t mean he has to take more pics than a photographer at Korean wedding. If this fly-by-night character does have a soul it’s lost somewhere on a baggage carousel.



2. Aalex Julian (Rope Rat) – When you tell a girl that she needs to lose 10 lbs. to get into Tenjune, it’s easy to build a reputation as a prick. Aalex is responsible for more eating disorders than Anna Wintour – no wonder every door he works reeks of Roslyn regurgitation. He’s a doorman with the ego of a proprietor. Owners aren't freezing out on the street, Aalex; they're inside groping the waitresses.



1. Rich Thomas (Rope Rat) – Every asshole on this list has at least some redeeming qualities, but Rich Thomas is the sole anomaly to this rule. It is more affordable than ever to hate Rich. Since every interface is at your own expense, it’s become an April 15th write-off. An interaction with Rich Thomas is as easy to digest as a laxative latte. Within minutes he has both his co-workers and his customers running to the stalls – no one can stomach him. Make a valiant attempt at “hello” and be sure to drop my name when you’re back from the loo.


Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every Monday at clubplanet.com/jrl.

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.


Jew-Juxtaposition: Vegas, Miami, L.A.

posted on 03.01.2010

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

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

Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every Monday at clubplanet.com/jrl.

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.


The Promiscuity of Promotion

posted on 02.22.2010

Absolut(ly) Free*

*Some restrictions may apply.

Club promoters may be the sleaziest pimps in nightlife; however, the vocation has great comedic capacity. Days spent spamming via Facebook and BBM and nights spent slinging Svedka to the bottom 10% of the South Shore isn’t all these guys have in store.

Why do clubs work with promoters?
Promoters and their evening prey are the nightlife equivalents of award show seat-fillers. Venues below revenue table capacity hire human scenery under smoke-and-mirror pretenses. These orchestrated tables, filled with the esteemed performers of the B&T Fellatio Philharmonic, start moving to the birthright-beats of a remixed Snoop Dog Shofar (the horn, not the guy who drives me to Synagogue). Now comes the job of the maestro promoter: conduct louder than the “Fiddler on the Roof” to make the revenue tables believe they’re not alone in the concert hall.

In full disclosure, I’ve accepted drinks from promoters, and with the same level of sick satisfaction I get from watching my cleaning lady pick up a used condom. The observation of a promoter’s “work” never gets older than the girls they host. It is the job of the promoter to fuel these repulsive “Manhattan Projects” often followed by an “I-495 E-ZPass ride back to Oceanside.” The only thing sleazier than the pimps themselves are the women who frequent their tables. It takes a certain caliber of girl to show up for a 2 a.m. grain-giveaway.

Who are these boundless bottle bimbettes? They all seem to have the same blueprint. Truthfully, the only time I’ve seen a greater collection of Michelle watches and Coach bags was at 5 a.m. on QVC, just before my Ambien kicked in. From my professional research, I’ve determined that if D.T.F. were a sorority, these coeds would pledge their allegiance as if L.I.U. stood for “Lick It Up.” Promoter partisans are strictly there to serve their purpose: to be “taken down” faster than a Tiger Woods endorsement, followed by an after party catered with lines of “Plan B.” Are all Promoter Pollys diagnosed with “go-down syndrome?” Of course not, but non-revenue buyer beware: at a promoter's table, the only thing free is the HPV.

Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every Monday at clubplanet.com/jrl.

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.


The Downside of Being Hung

posted on 02.16.2010

Beware: A club’s liability is limited to the coat check girls’ limited abilities.

On any given winter evening in Manhattan there is an exchange: I give you $4 and an opportunity not to fuck up, you give me ‘tude and someone else’s shit. There’s a reason we keep coat check girls in a dark closet.

The job is far from complex; it’s the same mundane task repeated each time a coat is checked, but still, the outcome is no surprise. It’s a 500 capacity venue and there is one high-school-equivalency-degree diva armed with ticket stubs and the attention span of an iPod Shuffle. This is why things get lost and create other problems, which radiate throughout the club. Understaffed inefficiencies spawn holdups that lead to a loss of bar revenue and a sadly sobering experience. The problem has gotten so bad that lines forming at the coat check are now longer than “lines” being sucked through twenties in the restrooms.

Similar to checked airline luggage, it takes only one loss to want to switch carriers and start carrying-on. My “grounding” experience was in early ’09 at now defunct, “Citrine.” It was there that some “Ticket-Master-Mind” exchanged my Canali Cashmere for Paraguay Polyester which was sold off of a Nigerian’s blanket on Canal Street. Regardless of brand, there is no excuse to lose a Banana Republic trench when the person responsible literally comes from the Republic of Banana.

The Hustle: who hasn’t caught on to the lone-Lincoln in your jar as your attempt to manipulate ticket-holding patrons by setting tipping trends. The going gratuity rate is $2 per jacket, returned, dry and undamaged, which is more than I can say about how you'll end up at evening's end. Are all of our Jacket Jockettes incapable? Short answer: no. However, coat-check Camilla wouldn’t know Loro Piana from Lands' End and couldn’t care less if you're wearing Couture or dressed like Michael Moore.   

Coat check girls reportedly have the highest suicide rate of all nightlife industry occupations (surprisingly not by hanging), but it’s not a dead-end gig for all. Many coat checkers end up coming out of the closet faster than a Republican legislator. In fact, the legendary Mariah Carey started out working the coat checkroom (this is where her former Sony-Music-Mogul husband discovered her). But back to you Camilla: unless you can sing me the reason as to why you can’t find my scarf, either blow a “Mottola” or get off your Motorola.

Are they all walk-in-closet whores? No – because no matter how “hung” your jacket, coat check girls are satisfied with “just the tip.”

Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every Monday at clubplanet.com/jrl.

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.


"Up In Smoke" with JRL

posted on 02.08.2010

Despite rumors and countless AP articles, smoking is still legal for patrons in New York City. It’s the clubs who are under the carcinogenic fire. But do they care?

I for one am not convinced. As in any business, savvy proprietors make accommodations for their VIPs. For example, if you were a $10M Whale at Wynn Las Vegas, as soon as you blew your credit line at the Baccarat table, Steve Wynn himself would lend you his ADA diamond-encrusted walking stick to cane the strippers sent to your suite (until they’re the ones who can’t see straight).

The same is true for club owners. Smoking is still permissible; it’s just gotten more elite.  Let’s imagine that a New York City club owner was hosting a $30k Arab Sheik one night. Provided his Opec-issued Centurion swipes an approval (or nuclear launch) code, he would have management’s permission to blow Hamas-hookah smoke in all of his wives’ unexposed faces while dancing to Busta Rhyme’s “Arab Money” as if the Wailing Wall collapsed. Another $10k the venue would let Abdul ash on Rabbi Shmuley’s kippah while standing on a VIP roped-off bima. Everyone in the business has their price; fines are merely PR hiccups. Case in point: if one of your Whales flew in on a Citation 5 Jet, you could care less about getting five Department of Health citations.

Who’s contributing to this cloud? Well it’s not me, my Jew-Live-Crew, nor my evening Shiksa Supreme. However, on any given night I end up secondhand smoking four Cipriani Russians, three F.I.T. Freshmen, two Baruch-Bimbos and inevitably a Hedonistic Hofstra Ho (who more than often sucks the filter right off).

The practice is as revolting as it is hazardous. Standing downwind from a “Svetlana” at the bar at Southside is as safe as trying to pay for Falafel in a Fallujah diner with Hanukkah Gelt. The social factor: Kissing “Svetlana’s” repugnant Restylane after half a pack has the sex appeal of making out with the tail pipe of the Camry she’ll drive back to “the nice part” of Brooklyn at the end of her evening. Come on honey, even Aeroflot’s banned the practice! Following Toyota’s lead, her smoke-filled face should be factory-recalled, as I’m sure any pedal would stick right to her floor mat.

Smoking in Manhattan clubs is still widely accepted, now it’s just more exclusive. Let’s hope the egregious offenders’ bottle-popping credit collapses before my once-pink lungs. The only one who wins in this addiction affliction is my Dry Cleaner, who oddly owns quite a bit of stock in RJ Reynolds.

Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every Monday at clubplanet.com/jrl.

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.


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