June 16, 2005
GNO
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

On the ‘wheels’ of many adorable Indy car drivers’ recommendations (featured in Intake) my sister and I decided to investigate the new Downtown club “6”.

We hoped against all hope that it would be a loungy hang-out where we could converse with fascinating people and maybe flirt a little bit (no harm in flirting, right?). What we found was so much, much less.

6 is a continuum of the overused pick-up bar theme, of which I’ve happily aged-out. The agenda in this minimalist-decorated bar sputtered along spilling pretense from expensive martinis. It seemed a popular place to “shop” for someone, but I was asphyxiating from hairspray and cologne.

Men lined the narrow interior, but my sister and I, Double Trouble, cocooned inside the walls of hilarious inside jokes that only sisters understand, or think are hilarious.

A few (dare I say, yes I will) cheesy men fiendishly took not-so-secret phone pictures of their potential captors, us included.

What happened to subtlety, conversation, intrigue and respect? Remember: Mr. Goodbar wasn’t just a piece of chocolate.

Amidst the cast of characters, our people watching skills gained speed and accuracy. I couldn’t help staring at a woman channeling my favorite childhood TV action hero, O’ mighty Isis, wearing neon gold lamé shoes.

These unbridled replicas were mesmerizing even without three gin and tonics. My sister tapped me saying, “I believe these cute guys behind us are trying to gain our attention.” In a trance, I uttered, “No time for them lest we interrupt these shoes.”

The woman left, taking her shoes with her; I searched for something else upon which to transfix. This dilemma was settled by another woman wearing—I kid you not—a wrestling jersey, the kind boys wore in high school, only with rhinestones.

I was speechless.

What finally tossed us out on our ear was the music, erratic and bad. My sister, the parent of a five-year-old, nailed it: Radio Disney.

In Indy, you’re guaranteed to run into someone you know, no matter where you are, and we did. We joined our male friend heading to Howl at the Moon. We gave it, its seven dollar cover charge and five bachelorette parties, thirty seconds before we confirmed our “no way.”

We left the cartoon network of South Meridian and responsibly took a cab to the Chatterbox. We blended with relaxed people; people staring only at the band; people appreciating Jazz standards; people who don’t even own camera phones.

Enchanted, we waxed soulful, sipping our wine in time with the beat.