A soft and rhythmic humming tickles your feet as you exit Beer City with a six pack of Miller Chill slung beneath each fist, a humming that seems to originate from Arthur Avenue, Tribar, perhaps, but completely unbecoming of Howl, Mugz, or Ziggy’s. Blinded by a fluorescent quantum of solace, an effect produced by gas stations on either side of a road, each sporting a metal façade lined with white lights that plays umbrella for patrons buying gas or gambling for teddy bears or small animals and that leaves you completely unawares of life in the darker more naturally lit surrounding areas, you stand oblivious of the happenings beyond Fordham Road as the night on Arthur Ave fades into a sloppy darkness. But the humming beckons, and the allure of loud music and all its vibrations coupled with images of alcohol-soaked bodies writhing in an Eden of decadence challenges your previously planned night of Miller Chill and Wes Anderson movies. Some shit’s going down somewhere, and you’re about to stick your goddamn foot in it. (Aren’t you?).
A quick stop by the pad, the bachelor’s pad that is. Your roommates are watching The Royal Tenenbaums (fags) while drinking Sparks (doublefags). You schlep the beers into the kitchen and leave them on the table as you hurry into your room, the humming, breathing beat that assaulted you in the street now coursing through your incensed body. L.A Lights styling gel. AXE Chocolate body spray. Shirt, Brooks Brothers, Christmas last year, black and silver stripes. Nice. You hurry out of your bedroom so fast that you nearly forget to slip on your gator-skin loafers, but luckily at the last moment you saw your John Cena poster and remembered your gator-skin loafers after all. No worries, the Miller Chill hasn’t even begun to perspire once you finally whisk through the kitchen and out the front door.
The beat, which you once craved like Marijuana, and then craved like cocaine, then ecstasy, now teases your body like a fresh hit of the freshest heroin ever. It’s a drug. The beat is a drug. You curse God for not affording you more hours in the day, so that you might stop by a tattoo parlor and get a big fat tattoo on your bicep because the beat is so intense that, like the headhunter of the Pacific, only the burning stab of an inked blade will ease the rhythmic tension that threatens to shatter your very bones.
Back on the main road now, the beat seems almost to grow fainter as you draw closer to its origin. The beat seems to grow fainter but you swear the sidewalk shale dances to and fro in time. The Quantum of Solace lies before you, and you need only to pass through its evanescent realm to reach your paradise. Images again fill your head like epileptic fantasies. Foam parties. Brazilian Carnival themed parties. K.Y Jelly wrestling matches. Ladies. Ladies everywhere. Perhaps of the black or Latin-American persuasion. Patron. Silver. The excitement is tantalizing. The excitement is tantalluring.
The fluorescence fades, and a building appears before you. It’s doors open to a room vast in multi-colored splendidness. Alone, you delve into a fortress of hard bodies and cheap leather and proceed to have the best. night. fucking. ever. You make love to several women, each of a different racial background. You are pretty sure you’ve eaten some ecstasy and might have done a shitload of coke but you’re not sure. You smoke a blunt with a man who looks like Fat Joe.
“Audentes fortuna iuvat,” he says to you.
“Sic transit Gloria” you respond.
And then you both listen to Brand New.
“The Candy Lounge is the Bronx’s first quintessential lounge and event venue – where some of the the world’s most renowned DJs and Performing Artists create a balance of stylish and high-energy performances. The lounge’s striking Old World Stone archictectural design and contemporary decor produces a seamless vibe of New World Chic. With its distinct and cosmopolitan clientele, the Candy Lounge is the venue for embracing what Nightlife and the Arts is all about”