I've been to SO many discos in L.A. and quite frankly, most of them suck, suck, suck.  The proprietors don't seem to understand one simple fact - IT'S THE MUSIC, STUPID.  To be sure, some of these establishments compensate for their woeful lack of danceability with hip fetish/S&M displays and other trappings of the demimonde (we'll get to that later), but if it's serious booty-shakin' you're after, look no further than The Garden of Eden.

I'd long lamented to my disco darlings, E. and D., that the music in L.A. clubs is abominable.  I know house and techno are the thing to the all-important, trend-setting, post-rave crowd, but really - house schmouse, techno dreckno.  You simply cannot dance to that shit.  And believe you me, the dance drugs do not help.  Fatboy Slim notwithstanding, "dance music" (for those who actually know how to dance) means disco, funk, hip-hop, salsa, what have you - anything with a fat, sexy beat and some semblance of songsmithery.  If you can't bump and grind, it's not dance music.  Exhausted by this unremitting commentary, E. and D. insisted Alex and I get ourselves back to The Garden.

Conveniently situated at the corner of Hollywood and La Brea (a stone's throw from Grauman's Chinese, as it will always be known by me), The Garden of Eden is a lovely, roomy, well-appointed nightclub (and at 15 bucks a pop, it oughta be).  The line had already formed outside by the time we approached at 9:45.  Resplendent in white vinyl go-go boots, aqua vinyl short, short skirt and matching, psychedelically brilliant, stretch polyester shirt (with snaps, no less), pigtails with aqua ball holders, and MAC's cool/hideous green/purple nail lacquer Haze, I was initially horrified by the sea of little

Of course, making us wait outside was a ploy to up the club's cool quotient - "oh, they're standing outside that place in this stiff wind; it must be unbelievable" - because when we entered we quickly realized the joint was practically a ghost town.  Still, all empty tables were marked "reserved" (again typical of Hollywood's deplorable club scene).  We thus retired with our cocktails to the smoking patio.  E. and D. couldn't have looked more delectable draped atop a well-cushioned rattan divan, inhaling elegantly, exhaling elegantly (yes, smoking is cool - but only if you're attractive and well dressed).

Making the scene al fresco is all well and good, but as I said to my fellow revelers, GOTTA DANCE.  Alas, only wallflowers were in attendance at that point in the evening.  Clever minx that she is, E. knew about a little overflow dance floor to which we immediately beat a path.  We found a trio of crazy betties dancing in there, so we joined them and began our own little circle.  As too much fun was being had, however, a bouncer came in and threw our gyrating asses out.  O! the ignominy of it.

Managing to maintain our composure, we returned to the main dance floor, where still the morons were not dancing.  (Speaking of which, these were generally appealing, though somewhat generic, disco denizens - I tend toward the freakier set; these were clearly junior film executives and assistants

My hat is off to the fellow on turntables that night.  He was a master of scratching, even ripping a few sterling solos while spinning the latest platters.  The dude rotated Les Nubiennes for Chrissakes (to which I danced with my shadow while E., D. and A. were otherwise engaged).  All the while, he managed to read from an instructional paperback imparting the ins and outs of poker.  I must admit, I didn't recognize most of the tunes because he generally stayed away from Top 40 fare, but the beats were choice, and we let our backbones slip.

After a few hours of ecstatic waggling, thrusting and rubbing up against one another (with sporadic trips to the ladies room to blot and plot good-evil things to foist upon the boys), we reached that critical juncture where we realize we're having more fun just hanging out with each other and should leave the night's entertainment to those who enjoy being summarily ejected at 2:00 a.m.  Thus we sashayed off to E.'s cozy pied-a-terre for a nightcap.

So there you have it: The Garden of Eden is a gem among the tedious laser emporia passing for discotheques in Los Angeles.  I will certainly visit it again and recommend that you do, too.  After all, you know I got to boogie, but really, dears, so do you.