Red or Green Pill
Red or green pill, there’s a decision to make at the landing of the dual-floor Bar Nun on Friday nights: what senses do I want to tantalize tonight—the physical/sexual or the intellectual/creative? What do I want to hear tonight—Biggie’s “F*ck B*tches Get Money? Or, wait, is that the original? Strains of the melody cling to the railings leading up stairs. I haven’t heard that before.
You look at your girl, and she peeks downstairs. That Biggie is always hot, reminiscent of sweaty dorm parties—the best college had to offer. But looking back up the stairs towards the door, a crowd of dudes, poised and ready to initiate Mack and Swerve maneuvers at a moment’s notice. You take a quick walk through the familiar, the Biggie you know, mumbles of “Look at that right there,” “That’s what I’m talking about” curl around the cigarette smoke, unfiltered and suffocating. Upstairs beckons.
Cozy and intimate, lace curtains soften the rough exposed brick and divide the long room into nooks for chilling and talking. Against the walls plush velvet chairs and square ottomans. At the end of the room, the bar.
The vibe is sexy in the most understated way. Like the smell of Stella McCartney or Gucci or oil creeping from the collar of a turtleneck. Or a perfectly filed fingernail, round and smooth, with cuticles pushed back… like an unintentional bump followed by a smile—“Oh, love, my bad”—at the bar.
Vibe, says T., is the combination of people, space, and music. Dub Ell is taking care of the music, and taking us there with the music. Old School Tribe for nostalgia’s sake, new Mos Def to remember the mission, Aretha’s original to give props to the elders. We’re grooving.
The people…what the Love Jones generation, lamenting that we arrived after the Renaissance, has imagined and striven to recreate. A few writers, a couple singers, a photographer, a performer. Thinkers. Friends. And a birthday girl. We, friends and strangers, wish her happy birthday, and are rewarded with birthday cake. She smiles, takes pictures with her girls. Dub plays a birthday song for her (not Stevie’s tribute to MLK. Another one I don’t know).
C. and D. cipher back and forth, lyric for lyric. R. sips and sways modestly. They’ve been at another space down the street, where they needed to see ID before exchanging names, where “hooking up” was programmed into everyone’s hips and glances. They were not the ones.
I stare, break out into dance, laugh, and then wonder. Is that the Roots doing Doug E. Fresh?
The space, cozy and intimate, has set a new standard for Friday nightlife venues. If there is birthday cake, will it be offered around the room? Will I hear music so played out it’s background noise? Will conversation stimulate both sides of the brain and the laugh muscles?
Red or green pill.
For JBB.
You look at your girl, and she peeks downstairs. That Biggie is always hot, reminiscent of sweaty dorm parties—the best college had to offer. But looking back up the stairs towards the door, a crowd of dudes, poised and ready to initiate Mack and Swerve maneuvers at a moment’s notice. You take a quick walk through the familiar, the Biggie you know, mumbles of “Look at that right there,” “That’s what I’m talking about” curl around the cigarette smoke, unfiltered and suffocating. Upstairs beckons.
Cozy and intimate, lace curtains soften the rough exposed brick and divide the long room into nooks for chilling and talking. Against the walls plush velvet chairs and square ottomans. At the end of the room, the bar.
The vibe is sexy in the most understated way. Like the smell of Stella McCartney or Gucci or oil creeping from the collar of a turtleneck. Or a perfectly filed fingernail, round and smooth, with cuticles pushed back… like an unintentional bump followed by a smile—“Oh, love, my bad”—at the bar.
Vibe, says T., is the combination of people, space, and music. Dub Ell is taking care of the music, and taking us there with the music. Old School Tribe for nostalgia’s sake, new Mos Def to remember the mission, Aretha’s original to give props to the elders. We’re grooving.
The people…what the Love Jones generation, lamenting that we arrived after the Renaissance, has imagined and striven to recreate. A few writers, a couple singers, a photographer, a performer. Thinkers. Friends. And a birthday girl. We, friends and strangers, wish her happy birthday, and are rewarded with birthday cake. She smiles, takes pictures with her girls. Dub plays a birthday song for her (not Stevie’s tribute to MLK. Another one I don’t know).
C. and D. cipher back and forth, lyric for lyric. R. sips and sways modestly. They’ve been at another space down the street, where they needed to see ID before exchanging names, where “hooking up” was programmed into everyone’s hips and glances. They were not the ones.
I stare, break out into dance, laugh, and then wonder. Is that the Roots doing Doug E. Fresh?
The space, cozy and intimate, has set a new standard for Friday nightlife venues. If there is birthday cake, will it be offered around the room? Will I hear music so played out it’s background noise? Will conversation stimulate both sides of the brain and the laugh muscles?
Red or green pill.
For JBB.
posted by Rhonda Henderson at 2:41 PM
4 Comments:
=)
TAKE THE RED PILL...I'm partial to the color.
-ONE!
Pa-Lease...Rhonda...why you trying to act all sexy...you are a nerd straight up. Period..nuff said...now nerds get to act all hip and fresh...the world is coming to an end.
cool vibe indeed - you captured it quite well - makes me wanna check out the scene - I'll look for ya
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