Posts Tagged ‘not so VIP’

If Your Name's Not Down…

Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009

 

I’m not much into the club scene. I just can’t stand the whole ‘VIP’ thing. Separate lines. Having to beg someone to get you on the list. Then, are you on the real VIP list, or the VIP list where you have to pay something, which would actually make you not much of a VIP at all? It’s just all to much of  pain in the ass. I just want to go out and dance for God’s sake. 

 

I went out a couple of weeks ago to a popular establishment here in Toronto called ‘The Drake Hotel’. The Drake is a bar/club/hotel and it’s where all the cool kids (read: douchebags) go to party. Not my first choice for a night out, but I had some friends who wanted to go. There’s always a line but we managed to get on one of the coveted lists, so walked straight in. 

 

There are a couple of floors in The Drake. There’s a patio on the upper level, which is where everyone wants to hang out when the weather gets nice enough. There are a couple of staircases that can get you up to the patio floor, but they are always guarded by security and in order to get up there, you either have to sell your first born child or go down on someone. They have all these stupid rules. If you go up one of the staircases and go down another one, don’t try to then go back up the staircase that you didn’t go up in the first place because they practically call a SWAT team to wrestle you to the ground. That’s how precious this frikkin’ patio is. 

 

I have been over this establishment for a long time. So anyway, I’m there a couple of weeks ago and it was pretty busy. A friend and I decided we wanted to get some patio action. We make our way to the staircase, which, as usual, is roped off with some modelesque chick wearing all black and a security guard manning it. The chick stops us and tells us that upstairs is at capacity so we’d have to wait. She takes our names and says it might be a while, so she’ll need a phone number and she’ll call us when there’s some space up there. 

 

So, let me get this straight: you have to call me to give me permission to go upstairs?

 

Yeah, how about you get over yourself and kiss my ass while you’re at it.  It’s a patio for Christ’s sake. And unless it’s littered with hot Brazilian male models, oiled up,  wearing only their boxer briefs, I really can’t see the appeal.

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