Contrary to popular belief, I do not divide all of my waking time between sitting at my desk answering sputtering e-mails about articles I wrote four goddamn years ago (glory be the Internet), hanging out at the Cha Cha, and going to rock shows. While most of my time is consumed by those three very options, I do regularly attend the opera. Surprised? A year or so ago a friend took me to a party on top of the Space Needle put on by something called the BRAVO! Club. I imagined that any party involving the opera would be filled with blue-hairs and Barcelino devotees, but since I do so love to roll my eyes, I went. When I arrived I was nervous about my tattoos and vintage attire not fitting in, so it took a while before it dawned on me that the party was some kind of Logan's Run take on opera patrons. Finally my friend confessed her ulterior motive for bringing me to the party: The BRAVO! Club is restricted to opera fans between the ages of 21 and 40, and she wanted to show me that there are alternatives to hanging out at the Cha Cha. Soon after that night I became a member, and oh the places I've partied high-society style! Highlights have included a formal ball at the Ruins, and just last week I was smoking Cuban cigars on a private floor atop the Columbia Tower. The view was spectacular, and my heavily tattooed companion enjoyed glass after glass of free wine. What impressed me most, however, was the ladies' restroom. I am a snob about ladies' rooms--probably because I spend so much time in cruddy rock-club toilets--and I will crow for weeks when I find one that suits my fancy. I absolutely adore the lounge in Barça with its fresh flowers and upholstered seating area, and loath though I am to admit it, I'll even give Graceland points for having a velvet couch in theirs. But let me tell you, the lounge at last week's BRAVO! shindig takes the cake! The seating area rivaled that in The Women, and each stall featured floor-to-ceiling windows so you can gaze upon the city from 75 floors up while you do your business, after which you can freshen up and swish mouthwash at your own vanity. But goddammit, some things stay the same no matter where you go. When I entered my stall, I was chagrined to notice that the lady before me had pissed all over the dang seat! Christ, all of you out there! If you are so paranoid about catching something that you must do the hover pee, PLEASE be so fucking kind as to wipe off the seat when you finish. Since when did every toilet in the city become a Honey Bucket? ANYWAY... the BRAVO! Club costs a mere $55 a year to join, and that gets you into at least six fancy parties, plus half off a pair of tickets to every opera of the season. If you're interested, e-mail me and I'll get you in touch with the people who want you in their fine club.
Also impressive last week? The fine owners of Double Trouble, who hosted a show in their popular vintage store featuring the White Mice, New Mexicans, and the A Frames. I live in the neighborhood and I'd bitch if they were anything less than courteous. However, I was thoroughly charmed by their professionalism and dedication to the rock scene. Just don't ask me about the bathroom...
