Issue #11/92, June 8 - 22, 2000 
The Dyev Is Not Enough
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Who is this Anina Birshtein anyway? Is she a real person, or some kind of phantom menace of the club reviewing world, a Carrie Nation of the Third Millennium in the Third Rome? Her review in of the Buddha Bar, one of the hottest and coolest new clubs to hit Moscow in months (since at least the opening of Tsirk, which has gone downhill anyway in my eyes) in the Moscow Times was totally beat, as beat as The Beat. The only thing I can think of is that they're just upset there that they no longer have the Original Club Kid himself, and therefore they're just trying to say the opposite of what I say. But the fact is that they're only hurting themselves, because most people I know really think that the Buddha Club is a cool place with a great future, and I noticed on the expat list that several expats logged in their unqualified support of my review over that Birshtein girl's, and these expats weren't even just part of my fan base here, but just regular people who read my column on a regular basis.
It was said that last week the Clinton entourage was as priapic as it was prurient, having preened its way into Moscow's top nightclub spots during the weeknights. Sightings were reported of Stephonapabees and Clintalikes in everywhere from Voodoo Lounge and Chesterfield's to the Hungry Duck (Fiesta). As for myself, you might have seen me sauntering around the fleshpot havens of Safari Lounge and Night Flight over the past week, as my sexual appetite has reached insatiable proportions of perverse insouciance. More than one time I took a viviparous dyev back to the "dacha" and drove her absolutely wild with my vociferous version of the venerable Kama Sutra.
Last weekend, while the commander in chief of the free world prepared to parry with punitive superspy Vladimir Putin, I visited Moscow's newest disco club named after the Free World's legendary superspy James Bond. The light-bending, dyev-deliquescing disco is called "James Bond Spy-Club", hyphen included. The club opened just a couple of weeks ago, and attracted Moscow's beau monde nightlife crowd, the usual Galereya and Tsirk crew with whom I usually congregate.
It would take a death-defying spy like Bond to muscle your way past the flathead-filled lobby in the Hotel Orlyonok, famous for its Thai massage parlour and Solnstevo flatheads. I paid scant heed to the riff-raff glued to the one-armed bandits in the lobby, or the Korean chelnoki and petite banditousie, and headed straight towards the stairwell for the club.
Once you get past the guards (using the eXile Press Pass doesn't hurt), you come to a heavy safe-like door that can only be opened by putting your hand on the palm-reading electronic device. At that point, the door automatically opens, and before you unfolds a booming disco that would have made Goldfinger blush.
For now, the best thing about the club is the girls who work there. I'm talking model-level babes, two of whom I chatted up. One, a tall redhead who worked behind the back bar, was totally interested in me. She wore a see-through gown over a kind of one-piece bathing suit thing, and I was fiendishly attracted to her. I think I may just take her some day.
Another cool thing about the disco, besides its stomach-twirling house music, is the layout. Although somewhat narrow, the club is bedecked to the hilt with post-industrial accouterments, and features an upstairs labyrinth of catwalks, viewing posts and bar seating. Now that Volodya from Mesto Vstrechi is running the show, and coupled with the super-sexy dance routine complete with flying dyevs who swoop down from the top dance cage onto the dance floor below, you can bet that this club will make its mark on Moscow's burgeoning dance scene. Birnstein be damned.
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