By Jef With One F
By Rocks Off
By Chris Lane
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
"He and his friends don't have on the proper attire, but would like to be a part of the evening."
Zia -- either not understanding the man's country grammar or not being easily impressed, declines to go the extra effort.
"Ahem," grumbles Neatly Trimmed Beard, "Nelly is around the corner and Nelly would like to be a part of the evening."
More words are exchanged in hushed tones and Zia gets on a radio and arranges for security to open a back entrance so that Nelly can get his eagle on.
A stretch Merc slowly approaches and parks close to the door. Four men in basketball jerseys, shorts and sneakers all make their way to the VIP entrance while speaking casually into cell phones. None of them is Nelly.
It's after 10:30, so those wanting to enter will now have to reach into their pockets for a $20. There are three bars located in the club, which, all told, is big enough to house an airplane or two. Tonight all the action is happening at the bar located to the right, where 97.9's DJ Jazzy Redd is spinning the same records you've heard ad nauseam on his station. He reminds us to tip our bartenders and go crazy should the cameras happen to focus their gaze upon us.
"Show the rest of the country how H-town parties, y'all!"
My twin and I have been here for close to an hour and have yet to see any E! crews or the supermodel types that host segments for Wild On. There is one man with a camera. He's just placed it between his knees to light another cigarette in a move so utterly unprofessional my brother -- a radio/TV graduate himself -- can't possibly believe he cashes a check from a major cable network.
He doesn't. A few probing questions unearth that he and the two female hosts (who look less model than "gentleman's entertainer") are from the public access show Texas Live.
It's time for a drink. Of the three bars, only one is open, and it's lined four deep around its entire length. We find ourselves at a part of the bar located by plush couches where "Nelly" and his crew have parked themselves -- still gabbing into their Prime Cos.
There are five bartenders quickly rushing to and fro to quench the growing mob's thirst. Those around me are beginning to complain about the obvious understaffing. After waiting several minutes to have their cars parked by an equally swamped valet earlier in the evening and now waiting even longer to score a drink, it's easy to understand why. Others are giddy upon hearing the news that -- somewhere in the crowd -- Nelly lurks.
I ask a young woman spilling out of her top if she's glimpsed him in herre.
"No, but I'm sure he is. Did you see the Pimp Juice car out front?"
Indeed I did. It would have been difficult to miss the promotional vehicle parked out front with Nelly's face and new energy drink plastered all over it. The Red Bull fridges behind the bar are packed with it, which, I'm sure, would thrill Go's Red Bull supplier.
I begin to wonder if this Nelly talk is an elaborate ruse. It certainly would be a somewhat ingenious, albeit sad, arrow of one-upmanship slung in a competitive downtown club scene. You can almost see the ad: "Go -- where rap stars come to play!"
A more likely answer is that these young men pulled a fast one on Zia, who, by all appearances, doesn't seem to be a hip-hop scholar. Halfhearted kudos are in order -- I'm just not sure to whom. Days later, Zia tells me via e-mail that he thinks Nelly was hiding in the VIP section. "I heard he was there and my bouncers told me he came in for a bit, but I personally did not meet him, and others told me he was there too "
We give up on trying to get drinks and stroll around the rest of the cavernous club. In the middle of it all is a hastily built structure meant to house three different voyeur-style fantasies behind Plexiglas in three different rooms. You can watch: a) a girl on a bed dressed in a low-cut negligee, b) a photo shoot for Gloss magazine, or c) a game of Twister.
No one is playing Twister. The window that looks in on the photo shoot is partially obscured by a lighting apparatus that requires awkward neck craning, rendering this particular indulgence practically worthless. The girl in bed? Not being able to imbibe has stripped me of the nerve to do anything more than steal a glance. Besides -- "Nelly" and friends are lined up in front of the display and I'm in no mood to risk them going andele andele mami E.I. E.I. on my ass.