There are nightclubs and then there are nightclubs.
While many of you might see this as the asinine statement of the evening it has a certain transcendental truth to it. And that is this, some nightclubs are actually nightclubs and some nightclubs are venues. Take Door 44 for example. Door 44 is a nightclub found on 44 12th St in Atlanta. On a busy night or any time after 12pm you will find yourself faced with a combination of baddies ranging from Boris, Dr. No, or even the ubiquitous John Cena staring back at you with all the scrutiny of a Homeland Security agent guarding entrance into the CONUS (Continental United States). After passing your background check (Did you bring Pretty Women?), you get the nod and the wave, and enter into the sexiest club in Atlanta. This club is small by my Compound, Opera, standards, but exudes a sexiness not found in most of its erstwhile companions. In fact one gets the impression that Door 44 might be the slutty friend of Opera, Compound, and Primal that gets excluded from the society outings for fear of how she might behave. Door 44 is the one you take home to your mom, but then realize the tactical error as she begins to trace her toungue around the rim of her glass at dinner or deepthroats shishkabobs. Her scent lingers when she passes, and she hugs others just a little too long. And you're pretty sure she just pinched your dads ass. as you walk further in, the Red Louis Vuittonesque wallpaper reminds you of an old french Brothel, while the glass cased counter filled with assumedly fresh rose petals adds the right touch of romance to an establishment that's one martini away from getting fucked. Add in the metal art on the walls with fleur de lis', and the flat panels with Art Nouveau Backgrounds and scantily clad women in the foreground grinding away against indescribable objects. The VIP is not exactly VIP, its on ground level and clearly within view of the masses, but it is roped off so as to say: this is our side, and that is yours, see our oppulence and despair. This would normally describe a seedy bar until you factor in that the entire entrance is a dancefloor, and in the background behind his podium lies the arbiter of justice himself. Spinning a delighful blend of hip hop and top 40's with snippets of rarer fare, The Judge (that's what I call him) lays down the law with some of the most innovative (albeit premixed) backbeats and transitions to be found in a nightclub (sans visiting DJ's). And who could forget the bartenders? These lovely ladies slither sexily behind their counter delivering deliciously luscious libations to the awaiting masses. They actually interact with thier patrons (imagine that?) and respond well to good tippers. Don't be shocked to see Aphrodite staring back at you from across the counter locking you with her emerald eyes as she hands you your first (of several) comped drinks. This trendier atmosphere attracts a more refined crowd despite its attempted "street" personna, and it shows both in the attitude of the patrons and the interactions. The ladies are plentiful and seem to be outnumbered, which is quickly rectified by the smooth and predatory gentlemen (ahhhm... me) that are happy to part them from their platonic escorts (sorry dude, but she's not taken, although you have been ). I found several of the ladies I... talked?... to that night to be shockingly interesting and not drunk and stumbling like the majority of the Dancehall style clubs. And there wasn't a single butaface in sight(sorry ladies, but guys have different esoteric needs). The end result is that the venue is exceptional, and I will be found frequenting it's red hued heights smiling across from ( not down at) you on a sultry evening here soon. ;)
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