Thursday, 28 April 2005 | Boytopia

Last night, for a friend's birthday party, I went to a club owned by Jay-Z. The place was striking; it's what I imagine a club would look like if it were designed by a 12-year-old boy. Flat screen TVs everywhere—a large one behind the bar, smaller ones decorating the walls like picture frames, and even screens mounted on poles that could be manually turned to face any direction—all of them playing sports.

There were soft leather chairs suspended by twenty-foot metal poles that hung from the vaulted ceiling. When sitting in them you could move around in circles, as if you were the large end of a spoon being stirred around. (If you swung too violently, however, a man in a dark suit would touch you on the shoulder and politely ask you to refrain. If you sat in the chair with someone else, he would solemnly hold up a single finger and bring you a folding chair to sit in instead.)

The stairs were also equipped with chairs, which were essentially stair-shaped cushions that sat snugly on top, fitting together like jagged Legos. (The stair-chairs faced the giant TV, and by default, the bar, whose colorful liquor was illuminated from below.) Framed sports jerseys lined the walls, most of them signed by the famous men who'd sweat in them, and in the private room where the party was held, there was even a glass case showing the glittery belt of a championship wrestler. Our room also had a pool table, an intercom that pumped house music, and a collection of large, stiff red-and-black pillows stacked in orderly rows.

I didn't see any evidence of Girl in the club anywhere, not even as a sex object; the place seemed to be designed by prepubescent boys for prepubescent boys, ones who happen to have a lot of money. The price of an Amstel Light was impressive ($9) but almost seemed reasonable compared to the $15 gin-and-tonics, or the $45 caesar salad. Really! I mean that. $45. I learned by example and nursed the root beer I'd brought with me.