I'll preface this with the fact that Tribeca isn't my sort of spot. And I don't think many, if any, of the suits present at the VIP opening on Friday, February 8, will be returning. It surely doesn't seem to be the sort of place you'd run into Mayor Duffy ever again. But, if it were my sort of spot, I'd be pleased. It serves up every flash and fashion a meat-marketing discotheque should have, from its projection of geometric designs above the main bar to its water falling bowl-shaped sinks in the ladies room.

Getting into the place was a trip in itself. Black lanyards, surrounded by big burly brutes, lined the sidewalk to control the expected crowds. Once inside the vestibule, they took my police ID and swiped it through some high-tech machine where it displayed my age. This seemed a bit silly to me -- I mean, can't they count? -- so I asked the big guy what other info it gave him. He told me it hooks up directly to the DMV and tells him if I have any warrants out on me, if I've been in any trouble recently, etc. I'm not sure if this is true, because as soon as I began asking more questions and expressing that it seemed an invasion of my privacy, big guy shut up. Asking some other employees later only got me mishmash about how it protects the club from troublemakers. Huh. Somehow, I'm still leery.

Inside, it's huge. The main area has a large horseshoe-shaped bar, a dance floor with DJ station above, and on two sides there are private curtained-off booths that you can rent. Each booth has a theme. One looked to be Laura Ashley or Martha Stewart, one Marilyn Monroe, a Salvador Dali, and I didn't pay attention to the rest. Every once in a while a video would begin above the DJ stand introducing us to Tribeca, like it was in NYC, with a Florida time-share sounding spiel, all the while pumping out the Verve Pipe's "Bittersweet Symphony." Very strange.

In the far corner is a stairway that leads up to the open-air Martini Lounge, where you can easily survey the crowd. The steps are easy to walk up, but the lighting coming down is begging for someone to take a fall. Below the Martini Lounge is a doorway to the Cherry Lounge, a somewhat quieter space with its own music and dance floor lit by dozens of overhead disco balls, black leather booths lit by red glass chandeliers. My friend said it looks like where a guy brings a girl after he's slipped something into her drink. It seemed a bit David Lynch-y to me.

The scene was a bit crazy with the half-priced drinks. The dance floors began to fill up and I filed out.

Next up: Lakeside Winter Celebration