This place is gayer than a box of birds. No, really, everyone in this place is denying themselves the reality of their sexual ardor; from the c*ckhungry bouncers whose cheap Express suits are actually managing to drape their puny frames like a weakling gang of pin-striped Ciceros; to the hypersexulized female bartenders, who lend their primary attention to the fraction of the clientele NOT ordering drinks (erm, the women who are looking for men to buy their Strawberry-Guava-Valtrex Mojito).
The bar itself is sorta cool. There is a long L-shaped bar and a decent prom-style dance floor, that puts the d*ckheads dancing on parade for your entertainment. But, then there's that damn 90's inspired decor that f'ing Scottsdale can't seem to get over. Freaking couches in the bar, man. Are we supposed to feel important because we're sitting on a g'damn suede sofa drinking a mid-range scotch?
Overall, everything but the booze here sucks. The f-faces out front actually made me and the wolfpack group of 4 dudes actually wait in an invisible line outside of the door for at least 20 minutes so that they 1) could teach us a lesson that 4 dudes should not be rolling solo to Scottsdale clubs (they were right, but we were meeting the rest of the group inside, which included females) 2) give the impression that their club was worth a shite (they were wrong) 3) compensate for years of penis torment with this new-found power while making $8 an hour plus whatever crappy tips the bartenders decide to admit to them that they made that night.
Fucking avoid this place if you know what's good for you.