Issue #13/94, July 6 - 20, 2000 
PYRAMID POWER
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I’ve been getting a lot of abrogating vibes lately from some of my more ignorant and ignominiously ingrained readers. I really don’t care because it’s all laughable, really. I don’t have to do this club-reviewing job for the eXile. I have all kinds of offers not only from leading Western newspapers to run their Moscow bureaus, but I am constantly in touch with editors from top magazines like Maxim, The New Yorker, Granta and Vanity Fair to write for them. I could leave this job tomorrow and it wouldn’t affect my life in the least bit. I could still sleep with as many model-level babes as I’d want to with or without the eXile club card. So if there really are as many stupid readers of this newspaper as there appear to be, then either more of the cooler readers will have to come out and support me, or else, you know, the hell with it, I’ll go elsewhere. I plan on finishing a novel of mine soon, which is sort of about the themes of identity and sexuality and that kind of thing, which is really big now in places like Granta and so on and so forth, and I have a lot of agents who are just lining up to read it. But if cool readers want me to keep giving them the real inside scoop on what’s happening apres heures here in Moscow, then they’ll need to tell me next time we bump into each other at one of the beau monde tusvoka here, like Tsirk or Tsepelin.
Of course, that means that cool readers will have to actually come out and publicly duel with the uncool crowd, and this isn’t something that they like to partake. Of course this is understandable, and the whole thing is really beneath me anyway.
And speaking of the demimonde, we were there in force last weekend at Andrei Novikov’s newest enterprise, Pyramid. Not quite a restaurant, not quite a discotheque, it’s both in one yet neither of the other. Ancient and super-electronica mix together in Moscow’s first truly Paris-style restaurant-bar, a la Buddha Bar (not the local one, mind you).
As top Moscow DJ’s spin the latest stomach-twirling progressive house and Ibiza tunes, waitresses and waiters like sculptured Cleopatras and Tutenkammens in black cargo pants, orange shirts and berets with shiny triangles prance around the room hurriedly serving the elitny clientele. Hieroglyphics and images of Egyptians mix with a decidedly futuristic feel. Imagine Antony and Cleopatra by way of The Phantom Menace or The Fifth Element (my favorite!), and you begin to understand the post-modern hiero-technica of Pyramid.
The watchword here is see and be seen. Mercedes SLs and Jeeps adorn the parking lot, while inside, the rich and the damned show the world why they are so cool. Sushi is decidedly delicious but a little dear at $5-7 for two pieces, while sandwiches are also on order. Drinks are more in the three-star range, but for the price of being able to mix with the demimonde of Moscow’s coolest, it’s hardly a hefty price to pay.
I unfortunately didn’t get to mack up on any of the women the night I went there, but that’s because the herpes sores on my lips were leaking pus on my chin. They should be cleared up by the next issue, but even if they’re not, I’ll go find some sluts and use my charm on them. I really want to sleep with a girl.
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