Dub does Miami

Bottles

By Westmoreland

Continuing from last week, we got to The Fifth at midnight. My editor covers her impression, here. I don���t remember having an opinion of the place. But when we arrived (at twelve o���clock) the spot had not yet opened. They opened at midnight. People were not even in line. They were sitting several yards away from the velvet rope like they were waiting to buy iPhones. I took the opportunity to gawk. I scanned each young man and woman in line and smirked. I hate to be judgmental, but how dim must you be to seek competitive selection for night club admission? These guys were not going to line up. They were going to wait to be picked to pay. I am na��ve. I admit that. I live in Washington, DC. There are no exclusive clubs at home. If there are, I don���t care to visit. Our ���beautiful people���, in DC, are not so beautiful. They are senators, congressmen/women and lobbyists. I mean we have beautiful people, but, well, not really. The velvet rope-a-dope just would not work in a town where Al Gore is widely regarded as the height of celebrity. We are smart in the capitol. That is our capital.

Three flavors of gangster. Easy ladies, 2/3 of this crew is spoken for.

But, as I have pointed out, Treva���s friends are good-looking. Since I am one generation away from East Baltimore housing projects, I am genetically predisposed to be blue collar. I couldn���t care less about a velvet rope or a VIP or a bottle service, but it was not my birthday. It was Treva���s. As Neonu negotiated our entrance with the gelled-back hair, guy at the door, I was mesmerized by the notion of these kids SITTING AROUND, WAITING FOR THE CLUB TO OPEN. I wondered if they waited for their offices at work to open, or had they waited for their classrooms to open at school. The females were all barely dressed, and the guys were all overdressed. I have a love/hate relationship with the lazy and unmotivated.

When Neonu uttered ���bottle service���, the world slowed to the kind of dramatic cinematic slow motion that Spike Lee has never used, but should. Every sound was sah-looooowed. Every movement was sah-looooowed. I begaaa-yun to calcuuuuuulaaaaaate what the bottle service would cah-uuuuust.

I knew where that burden would be initially borne.

(Sigh)

We walked into the empty club and my mood steadied when I saw the bartender. Outside of our small group of party-people, the club was naked. So was the girl behind the bar.

The bartender was ���dressed��� in a red tube top over a black (double D) bra. She was wearing black boy shorts, red fishnet stockings, and black patent leather heels. Yep. That���s the kind of eye candy that gives pupils cavities. Sommer was her name. Blonde.

The bottle she served us (after gratuity) was almost double the cost of my flight. Why do people keep claiming that Love doesn���t cost anything? I reviewed the bill, balled up my face, and channeled my inner Frodo Baggins to produce The Precious (my Amex). And oh, how The Precious glowed in the dim lighting of this South Beach night club. Just like the magic ring of the Trilogy, there is power in the use of My (plastic) Precious. Each use makes the next use easier, for I have no discipline. And so there we were more premium vodka then we could expect to use (but somehow did). It is, alas, how we roll.