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I'm totally convinced
that behind one of those curtains lies the strip club that this place
so obviously is. It hasn't revealed itself to me, but all the evidence
(with the exception of the $40 cover and the dancers themselves) is
sitting right out in the open. The mirrored walls, Karma Sutra decorations,
cocktail waitresses all perfumed and slinky-dressed, expensive beers,
cheeseball music and a heavy dosage of gold-colored accents all tell
a tale of sordid pleasures of the flesh that never materialize. Seriously,
it's just weird. And then there's the whole mind-bending happy hour
deal that seems to come and go depending on the person, the group
he or she belongs to and what latitude and or longitude one is standing
at. So I hear a co-worker order a Heineken for which he's charged
four dollars. Not thirty seconds later, I order a Heineken and am
asked for seven dollars. I ask why it's three dollars more for me
than the guy who happens to work four cubes away from me in the building
right next door. I'm told that beers are four dollars for people who
work at the company I work for. I relay the fact to the waitress that
I indeed work for that company and am again asked for seven dollars
and told that maybe next time it'll be four. Next time it's seven
again. See, it is a strip club. [MF]
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