Saturday, May 20, 1:55 a.m. A very shirtless bar back yanks open a side door and a burst of cold air wafts into our faces as we three follow him with our eyes, our heads and our craning necks. "I totally thought that was, like, a meat locker or something," says Rami, now noticing the bar paraphernalia inside the small room. Meanwhile, Robbi is agog watching the bar back's skin tense into goose bumps as he scans the walk-in fridge for something important. "Oh honey, it IS a meat locker!" Robbi says just as the bar back emerges, the heavy door squishing the chilly cloud that has followed him back into the lounge. "Thank you," he says just inches from Robbi's face. Busted.
I had arrived at Piranha Nightclub and 8 1/2 Lounge's long-awaited grand-opening party alone and in doing so had already resolved to find some management personnel to interview and hole up in a corner, concerning myself with the club's capacity, square footage and other such droll minutiae that I'm so sure you wanted to know about. But wandering around by myself would be a short-lived pursuit, and I would soon find myself up to my ears in boys, bears, butches, Abercrombie-ish pouts, and as Robbi put it, "tragic gays." There would also be a 10-foot python named 69 but that's another story altogether.
From the balcony that overlooks the dance floor I can already see some individuals who might not necessarily have wanted me to see them here, but discretion is an expectation handed out at the door when you get your bracelet or stamp. Receiving that bracelet as I entered, the next gent in line was far more interested in the one I was already wearing, "Well, it sure ain't as nice as that one!" he said. I secure a not-very-strong Bacardi and Diet (only 66 calories, girls!) from another shirtless staff member and give myself the 25-cent tour.
Rounding the corner from Piranha's hallway of three opulently appointed private VIP skyboxes, I am transfixed by the macabre artwork inspired by Disney World's Haunted Mansion. Electric candelabras flicker and seemingly sweet, sepia antique photographs of brides melt into a scene of horror as a quick step to the side reveals bones, and general gruesomeness. Owner Paul San Filipo is very proud of the effect and promises "more is on its way."
When at last I emerge from this haunted hallway, I am relieved to run into Rami and his equally bubbly friend Robbi. They quickly adopt me as their pet for the night and point out La Cage's "J Lo" and "Reba," who is adjusting the lighting for singer Debby Holiday's live performance. Passing through the club's aquatic tank archway into the 8 1/2 Lounge downstairs, I mention that the club's 102 mascot piranhas have mysteriously dwindled to less than 80. I point out one scared-looking fish in particular who is keeping his distance from the malicious pack and Robbi puts a finger up to the glass, "See?" he says, suddenly grave, "the tragic gay fish."
Seated by the fireplace in the stone grotto, there are no looks of "who brought her?"—only those of approval for my cute, preppy outfit and my choice of companionship. Zach, a divinely gorgeous 28-year old Australian dancer from the show Rock Of Ages pauses from his obviously professionally trained dancing throughout the night to pinch my bum. Thankfully, I'm too busy giggling and swatting playfully at his hand to look for those occupancy signs I had thought I would be spending the night with.
Behind the dark limo glass of the DJ booth, DJ Mikey Swift has been imported from Gipsy next door to serenade us with a nonstop soundtrack of hip-hop, '80s and mashups. And here he shall remain as Gipsy will be undergoing renovations this summer, debuting in three to five months. Swift's lineup is so on-point it actually begins to draw the crowd away from the dance music in the house room and into the lounge, with its curtained cabanas, large bar, pool table and mini-stage for putting God-knows-what on convenient display. The Pussycat Dolls' "Dontcha" features back-to-back with the Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps," which is remixed with Laid Back's "White Horse," then flows right into Sean Paul's "Temperature." But all I can say is "Damn!" and throw myself at his brilliant feet. They may just have to drag me out of here.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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