I'm writing anonymously to save face, but know this: I write regularly at Guest of a Guest and have pretty cool friends. Friends who have been to the Jane Hotel. They think I've been there too, but they are mistaken...
Why did I never go to the Jane before? I ask myself this question sometimes whilst gazing upon the city from the Top of the Standard. Perhaps it's just too far out of my usual bar rotation, hidden as it is along the West Side Highway. But then again, we practically live at the Rusty Knot. Was it a stroke of bad luck that kept me out of that fabled ballroom? Or a penchant for early bedtimes? Maybe (and this is where we get deep) I just didn't want to spoil the myth of the nightspot's grandeur.
There was one evening in late summer 2009 when we made it as far as the long line around the corner, but I, being lazy, couldn't bear the thought of waiting. Waiting in line to enter a drinking establishment is, for me, the night's nadir. So we hopped around the block for cabernet at Barbuto. The scenes were not likely similar. Since then the Jane has remained a mirage, and when friends wax poetic about wild times within its confines, I agree with them. "Yes, it is lovely. I totally agree. My thoughts exactly." I lie by omission, but soon I won't have to.
I'm on the list (plus two!) and will see you there tonight.
[photo via Gawker]