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I ventured out to the east side of town this week with my best friend Kayce. Rarely am I adventurous enough to try clubs or bars out of the five-mile West Hollywood radius, but wanted to see what all the kids are talking about. A new Wednesday nightclub, called Booby Trap, opened a few months back. Now I venture to Silverlake or Echo Park or (gasp) Glendale on rare occasion to see friends, but a club, never. This place is located at 5100 Fountain, at the intersection of Normandie, so it was on the borderline of too far. I also figured clubs are always best when they first open, before the riff raff catch wind, so now was the time.
We headed over after dinner and arrived at 9:45 pm to find it not open yet. That should have been the first sign to turn back. This is not New York, after all. We decided to wait it out in the car until it opened at 10:00 pm. We filed into line with about 20 other girls that had seemed to appear out of thin air. Immediately I had that feeling of, "one of these things is not like the other." They had giddiness about them, a youthful fervor I hadn't seen in some time at the lounges I frequent. They were texting away in their skinny jeans and mini skirts.
When we got to the clipboard-toting doorwoman, we were asked our name for the list. Now I knew damn well my name was not on that list. There is no way it could have been since I know no one associated with this place, but I played along and gave her my name. Confused, she declared that she couldn't find it and asked if I had RSVP'd on Facebook. On Facebook? Is that how they are doing it these days - through a social networking site? "Um, do I have to do that EVERY week," I asked. "Yes, every week," she replied. I claimed I hadn't realized that I needed to do it each time, which must explain the absence of my name. The line was getting restless behind us, so she just ushered us in.
I liked the space immediately. The low light and dark walls felt sexy. The interior was a relatively simple, open space with a decent amount of seating along the walls. We claimed a section near the door and headed to the bar for a drink. I chose the end of the bar with an exceptionally cute, young brunette bartender. She seemed a bit distracted, but I figured it was fine, and I was willing to wait a few extra minutes. I've been a bartender and I know how a flood of people can be a tad overwhelming. I also know that a good bartender scans the bar to take inventory of who needs a drink and who arrives when. Cute brunette kept her eyes down and she struggled to get two glasses of champagne filled. In the meantime, two other girls sidled up to the bar on either side of me.
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Cute bartender helped each of them before me. Now I can forgive her because I reasoned that she simply hadn't kept track, however they might have had enough class to say I was there first. However, seeing as how the average age of the girls in the bar was about 22, I suspect they lack the sense of consideration I was thinking a given. I actually thought for a good 30 seconds that the woman to my left was Kate Moennig. Super thin with jagged hair that completely covered the side of her face, I had to crane around to confirm that it was, in fact, NOT Kate, but damn close. As I scanned the room, I realized there were a whole lot of Shanes in the room, actually...
Finally, after almost 10 minutes of waiting, it was finally my turn. I asked if the margarita she had just poured for the Shane look alike had been made with simple syrup. Her reply was an annoyed, "What is simple syrup? No, it's made how a margarita SHOULD be made." Umm...last time I checked simple syrup IS how a margarita is made, but that's just me. She poured me a weak drink and accidently topped it off with cranberry. Frustrated (seemingly at me) she started over and poured it just as weak. I think she was punishing me for asking the simple syrup question. Then she took my card and disappeared. My friend returned to our coats as I attempted for another 5 minutes to flag down cute-turned-hated bartender to get my bill. When she came back she couldn't remember the name on the card anymore (it had been 5 minutes) and seemed flustered to have to close it. The irony of this saga is that I still tipped well her for the drinks. And I acknowledged to myself that I did so not out of courtesy, but out of FEAR. I don't want to be ignored or poured even lighter drinks in future. Dear God.
We settled into our seats to watch the flow of hipsters stream in. We noted just how YOUNG and free they all seemed. The new generation of lesbians comes into the scene with a different perspective than we did 15 years ago. They have girl club options every night of the week and grew up with out icons. There are also so many more femmes too, something I rarely saw in my early 20s.
An hour in, I noted that of the 100+ girls at the club, I knew exactly 2. That was weird considering A. I was only three miles from my home and B. the hoards of gay women I know in the city of LA. However, I think we realized through the trappings at Booby Trap, that there are countless new girls coming out in our city daily, and the bar scene has really become theirs.
