(me, in a lil'room. photo by koury angelo) 

Thursday morning sitting at my desk trying to avoid doing work- I get a text from my photographer friend Koury. One of his photos was being featured at the legendary Milk Studios in Chelsea. The invite featured a New Yorker's favorite word: "FREE." Free Admission, Free BBQ, Free Booze, No RSVP and performance by Gainesville, FL "Against Me!" I was there.

Three of my female co-workers (Lindsay, Anna, and Alison) wanted to come with and as they aren't on the town as often as I am, they came back to my loft in Chinatown to change into some of my party clothes, drink wine, and cab it to Milk.

I knew the with the words "FREE" dangling over this event, that everyone and their hip grandma was going to be there. The event was at 7pm and we arrived at 7:30pm to a line around the block and hordes of pretty people w/ 80's sunglasses on pouring in from all sides.

My girls were panic stricken "Omigod! We're never going to get in!!!" Lindsay says.

"Relax." I say pulling out my Blackberry, "I'll text Koury."

Moments after I text Koury, he tells me to come to the 15th Street entrance. This also turns out to be an obstacle course with landmines as over fifty people are waiting to get in this way. The men at the doors are shouting with their hands out "NO ONE ELSE CAN GET IN THIS WAY!!! WE ARE TOTALLY SERIOUS! EVERYONE LEAVE RIGHT NOW!" Fistfights almost ensue. Who would have thought- all this drama at an artshow.

My girls are ready to leave, when I say "Patience. Koury will be here soon."

Koury comes out from the back room. He has a camera slung around his back like a guitar. Koury is a calming presence, light emits from him, and he is undeniable knee buckling gorgeous (sorry ladies, he is so married). He kissesd me on the cheek, meets the ladies and says with a smile and a soft voice "Follow me." He leads us to elevator, up to the third floor, and then down the stairs.

We're in, and even better- on the stage. The crowd is thick, wall to wall, and a Mariachi band plays while skater boys navigate the half pipe in the room. After a few beers and a spin in the photo-booth I am greeted by another crew of girls I roll with.
They want to go to Max Fish and as the party was winding down we decide to hurtle the puddles of water from the melted keg ice and head to the Lower East Side. We jump in Alyssa's jeep and head out.

After a gin and tonic and good conversation with Aly, Alyssa, and Alanna (yes, the A team) I head to my local watering hole "The Stanton" up the street from "The Box." The Stanton is in Chinatown proper as is The Box. Clubs are popping up all up over my neighborhood- which is FANTASTIC for me! I don't have to schlep it to the Meatpacking district as often, and I can actually walk home from these clubs. The Stanton is very good to me. My friend Felicia makes me a mean (and by mean, I mean, knock you on your a$$) Martini. Todd and Amit, the handsome owners, won't let me pay for it. Usually a kiss on the cheek and a smack on their butt will suffice.

After I leave I walk down toward The Box. There are literally thirty guys in button up shirts and jackets outside with their (dare I say) scantily clad women standing with them. All of them are yelling- "I swear I am on the list!!" or "Do you know who I am!?" I stand and watch the circus like atmosphere.

If you walk past The Box in the daytime (as I have done a thousand times) you would never know it was there. It blends in with Chinatowns' bakeries and non-descript storefronts. The only indication that something more might be going on is the small box office window that has a red curtain draped over it. The two doors guys look and me and smile. I talk to them every time I walk home. I have even given them nicknames, "Rocko" and "The Face" (yes, ok, I like the A-team). "The Face" pulls me over. "You going home Maya?" He says holding my hand.

"I was thinking about it. Whatcha got going on tonight?" I say.

"You know...the same scandalust stuff." He says with a smile.

"You talked me into." I say and I walk inside.

It's funny. A lot of people make a big deal about going to The Box. But to me, it doesn't take Jedi mind tricks to get in. It's in my neighborhood. I've gotten to know some of the staff and, well, I am also a girl that likes to wear tight dresses (they're tasteful people!).
I like The Box, not because of the Celebrity element. Come on, you can get that anywhere in New York. I sat next to Parker Posey at a movie this weekend. But, I like how they put it together. It is apparent that the main owner Simon Hammerstein, (who was p.s. talking way to loud on his cell phone in my office last month) put a lot of thought into the club. It feels partially like an old hotel lobby, a cabaret space, and a speakeasy all rolled into one. You walk in and there is an old box office to your left (which is why I think it's called The Box gentleman, and not alluding to female genitalia as some of my guy friends have thought. Dirty Dirty Boys). It's dimily, but warmly lit, and there is a beautiful long bar that leads you to a back room, where there are heavy red theatrical curtains that have the words "The Box" projected through a die-cut gobo light. They cover a decent size stage on which performances range from the beautiful (The Cary Brothers) to the absurd (um, acccording to Von Von Von, there are performers that actually stick their bottoms on patons faces...hmmm).  Upstairs in the balcony there are closed curtained VIP rooms, where I think some sweet make out action takes place (just ask Mickey Rourke. Actually I was told he was in the bathroom getting pleasured. TACKY or HOT? You decide).

I walk to the end of the bar, where a Wallstreet type offers to buy me a drink. I accept. The lovely bartender makes me something thick with Vodka and Chambord in a martini glass (Every once in a while I tell a Bartender to "surprise me" with a drink. This one was fantastic). The gentleman begins to tell me of a tough break up he has just gone through. I don't know what it is about my face that says "therapist" but men in clubs do tend to pour their heart out to me. My therapy session only lasts as long as my drink. I give him a hug good bye, thank him for the drink, and a "Hang in There Champ." I give "Rocko" and "The Face" kisses good-bye.

As I walk away I get frustrated looks from the same men that were standing there outside when I walked in two hours before and I laugh. I wanted to say "Oh honey! There are many other clubs in NYC!" But then again, men are always trying to get into the box.