Flocking from new club opening to new club opening are the skinny jean knee-deep in debt CLS550 drivers, flaunting those ‘unique’ black rims, of course. Hopping out with beetches in tow, they float through the velvet rope, weed smoke & residue not far behind, and shake hands with the doorman whose weekly coke supply said driver likely dropped off that morning... and disappear into a sea of lights, smoke & bass. 
This weekend at Joyce was no different, and for anyone to describe it as ‘getting the cream from Suite’ would be setting some trusting reader up for a severe letdown. Emphasis on severe.
The chandel
iers in this place are worth a second look – but that would be the only thing that is, other than , of course, the fake IDs of the rampant jail bait throughout this place on Saturday. This is basically the ‘classier’ version of a Walrus crowd, the owner’s former endeavor… and is also the nightlife representation of putting lipstick on a pig.
Call me crazy, call me biased, but while numerous mediocre bar owners in Dallas try and move into the club scene with the hope of capitalizing on the wave of success Mr. Giese has seen with his endeavor just a couple of Octobers ago, they continue to create the end result of what it might look like if Dallas itself got a tummy ache and puked up Affliction tees, silver chains & Fedoras all over the place… hmm, I may have just stumbled upon the next shitty club name… Affilvora. Nice.
The crazy thing is, there is a market for this place. Its over-capacity crowd of douchebaggery & Forever 21-clad, parentally-funded vagina/Future Jobless of America proved that fairly soundly. However, if you compare it to any place that put a little more effort into ambiance than cheap-ass white curtains, chandeliers and pink lights, then you might need to get your Deep-V Clubdar checked.
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