In the time of instant connectivity, you don't have to wait for some hard-to-find flyer to find you when you want the really big party action. Dial up some kindred souls who dwell underground in far away Tarrytown. Down a dank flight of stairs lies a gin-u-wine Fifties era bomb shelter (complete with original operating instructions) decorated with merry strings of tiny pants. The pants were there when the current residents took possession, so they took advantage of a decorating opportunity. The club was born when 1,500 surplus Jell-O shots needed a reason to be consumed. No cover, free beer, packs of rabid flesh-eating squirrels and possum, capability to burn anything, and a money-back guarantee. The rest will be dimly remembered history. Hey, Holy 8 Ball - where's your e-list?
