By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Keegan Hamilton and Francisco Alvarado
By Jake Rossen
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Chris Joseph
By Michael E. Miller
When Rodman's Rehab opened in mid-September as a bar-within-a-bar in Voodoo Lounge, the Night Rider invited herself to the party. When the general manager wouldn't return her call, she decided to go anyway, flashing her business card at the door, insisting her role as nightlife reporter should warrant her entry into the invitation-only portion of the evening.
Access granted, I winced as I passed the speakers of the state-of-the-art sound system blasting such gems as Joan Jett's "I Love Rock-n-Roll" and Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama." No wonder the DJs had on headphones.
The former NBA star's decorators deserve props for rehabbing what was once a mere patio bar. The décor of the open-air club is perfectly in keeping with Rodman's "I gave my wife two different STDs" image. Think: bordello meets vampire lair meets bistro.
The only people dancing were paid to do so. Two chicks worked the stripper poles on either end of the red-lit, red-tiled bar. Bouquets of dead red roses dangled from the rafters; chandeliers and baroque patterned drapes added a touch of class to the empty, red-vinyl-upholstered VIP section. The fractured images of the goliath bartenders were reflected in the broken-mirror tiled wall.
People stood around looking bored, sucking down free drinks, and scarfing the occasional appetizer waved at them by the few roving servers.
Though I'm no sports fan, I'd always found the man an intriguing character. I'd come hoping to get some pithy quotes.
In particular, I wanted to know what else Rodman hoped to accomplish with his diminishing fame. I mean, with Finland's wife-carrying race now checked off his "to do" list, what else was left?
After two drinks and a wasted hour-and-a-half, I think I may have sustained permanent hearing damage (I actually checked my right ear to make sure it wasn't bleeding). Spit flew during attempts at conversation. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and left before the Worm showed up.
In days that followed, I referred to the new club as "Rodman's shit-crappy hellhole." I hated it so much that I had to go back a second time.
Just to see what it was like on a regular night, I returned the next Wednesday, and the blond brigade had assembled at the end of Voodoo's bar beneath the flickering glass chandeliers. As the DJs spun techno and other danceable music, iridescent mobiles and giant yellow-and-orange orbs over the dance floor along with the LSD-inspired videos on the far wall created a trippy vibe.
"We heard about it on the radio and figured 'free drinks!'" said Emily, a kitchen designer visiting from Pittsburgh with her three girlfriends. In their three days here, they'd caught a Steelers' game at a sports bar, a Polynesian show at Mai-Kai, and were now here for ladies' night.
They all agreed they liked the place. None realized that Rodman had opened a new joint or that it was part of the club. Leading the troops through the thousands of square feet of dance floor, I showed them the new addition. The music was still excruciatingly loud.
"It's hot," declared the blond in the cheetah-print dress but she wasn't channeling Paris Hilton; she was just uncomfortably warm.
Her friends agreed, and they about-faced and returned to Voodoo. I followed their lead because even at 11 p.m., the Rehab was empty. Back in the main bar, one of the male bartenders was getting into uniform by getting out of his shirt. Unlike their male counterparts, all the female staff kept themselves covered though barely. And all, regardless of gender, were frighteningly courteous and gorgeous like a Stepford bar staff.
The blacklights offered the perfect lighting to check out the imperfect hair extensions on another blond who was shifting uncomfortably in her strappy red heels. They also rendered her French pedicure as ten purple-glowing piggies.
"It's very junior high in here," I commented. "All the guys are on one side and all the girls on the other."
"That's because on ladies' night 'Can I buy you a drink?' won't work and they probably can't think of an opener," the blond remarked.
Her brunet friend introduced herself as Sarah, a finance manager, who told me they were both vacationing here from Palm Springs, California.
"My name's Holly," the blond said extending her hand. "Holly Wood."
I looked at her sidewise with an eyebrow raised.
"Really!" she assured.
"Is that your stripper name?" I asked.
Seemed like a weird aspiration for a woman who is actually a bank manager, but who am I to judge?
"This is the best music in Miami," a guy in a striped polo shirt interjected and then danced off.
And though I hate to be disagreeable, I almost chased after him to point out that we were in Fort Lauderdale and that Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" shouldn't qualify as actual music.
I was headed back toward Rehab when I was waylaid by some dope-ass break dancing in the other bar-within-the-bar, Envy, which bills itself as "ultra-white." (Meaning its décor, not clientele.) I watched the dude on the floor become a whirring rotary of arms and legs.