Fog machine. Stripper pole. Amazon/bull dyke security at the front door with rubber gloves. Empty Remy bottles littering the parking lot. Patrons openly smoking weed.
If the service wasn't so atrocious, this place may have held some comedic/people-watching appeal (think standard attire of zebra-print pants and 6-inch heels); however, the slutted-up bartenders were way more interested in sharing a joint with a Shaft lookalike and downing a shot with a Tony Montana dead-ringer than taking my money.
I played a couple games of pool and farted around on the dancefloor (sans drink) with a couple of 50 year olds (who looked 25 in the lighting) until, mercifully, my companion passed out and needed a ride home.