We made it home from The Underground in one piece, with only the slightest hint of club disease.

The place was decked out in hanging red gauze, some of which looked like flames turned upside-down. (Since the club is on the basement level, the parallel was either intentional or laughably coincidental.) Other than that, it was military-chic indeed. Like early Crate & Barrel gone martial law, tables were made from stencilled wooden boxes and the bars and banquettes were uplit with cheeky practicality. We were essentially partying in a bunker, complete with a pinpoint-lit map with which to construct our plans of world domination.

The mojitos were strong, the vodka tonics surprisingly not. Most conversations had to be yelled. If you didn’t yell loudly enough, there was a lot of nodding and smiling in response. We weren’t able to visit with (or yell at) everyone we’d have liked to. Sometime around 10:30, a few of us took the festivities to Tuman’s for some good old-fashioned anti-“see and be seen” goofery. Sorry, Billy Dec, the bad music at Tuman’s spanked yours. Try you again next year?

Those who remained subterranean at Underground rubbed shoulders with the likes of Simon LeBon and David Schwimmer during Duran Duran’s release party for Red Carpet Massacre. (I’m “on the hunt” for pics, so stay tuned.)

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