If you’ve been reading, you’ll know that I’ve been wildly obsessed with the apparently very fabulous and very exclusive club, Otis, a club I had yet to get invited to and was thus, desperate to go. Thanks to Jackson at SFist, my name found it’s way onto some holiday soiree list and the security at Otis was alerted that for once, I was allowed inside.
Let me just, folks, I was excited. I mean, I was going to Otis.
Otis, the private, members-only club. Otis, on swanky Maiden Lane. Otis, where Chandler Bing washed down his “Tylenol” with “club soda.” Otis!
Berkeleyist and I dolled it up and took ourselves out to dinner beforehand.
“I can’t believe we’re going to Otis. This is fabulous.”
“I’ve said a Christmas prayer that it’ll be packed with wall to wall celebrities.”
“Or at least just fabulously interesting people who think we’re genius.”
“Oh my god, I’m nervous. We need more wine.”
We made our way to Maiden Lane and found the non-descript front door blocked by an array of suited beefcakes. Shocked to discover my name was indeed on the coveted list, we walked through the door and into the foyer, emerging into the low lit bar area. My eyes adjusted and I looked around.
This is Otis?
Otis is about the size of my dining room table, and while modern and trendy and San Francisco Magazine-esque, not exactly what I had imagined. I don’t know what I was expecting, perhaps Lindsey Lohan spinning Euro-records or Jeremy Piven having sex with the Pan-Asian coatgirl, maybe some ornate furniture with Benetton models posing upon it or candle covered chandeliers dripping with diamonds.
Nope. Just a lot of hipsters in trendy t-shirts and peacocks on the walls.
“What do we do now?”
“Um, we get drinks, I guess. And then we mingle.”
While Chardonnay was wildly and unnecessary expensive at the not-so-open bar, I think we were really paying for the hottest bartender in the free world, which, you know, made it worth it. Conveniently, Otis was packed with a bunch of people who didn’t really know each other, so we had no problem finding folks to chat with.
After a while, though, the thrill wore off.
“Okay, we’ve seen Otis. And we can get better wine and more of it at Hotel Biron.”
“Agreed. But first we have to find this Jackson character and say thanks.”
After hearing buzz that he might be upstairs, we shimmied up the tiny stairway to the second floor lounge, smaller than the bar downstairs, believe it or not, and attempted to find the legendary and mysterious Jackson West. We finally discovered him standing next to a bizarre lighting fixture, deep in conversation with people cooler than us. I don’t know why, but when I meet people who only know me from my blog, I tend to feel some need to be hilarious and off-color and wildly obnoxious. So, Jackson didn’t really meet me. He met my impression of Kathy Griffin.
Having made the rounds, thanked our host, and fully experienced the much anticipated Otis, we headed to the car and to the way better, less exclusive, more ambient Hotel Biron.
“So that was Otis.”
“Yeah, that was Otis.”
I spend an awful lot of time bemoaning the fact that other more interesting and better looking people get invited to appallingly exclusive and sophisticated locales, always one step ahead of me in the unattainable cool department. And no matter how many clubs I talk my way into or skinny sequined scarves I throw around my neck, I always end up feeling like a very tall dork and wishing I was sitting at a low key, mildly swanky bar with people I already know or gays…