t always seems like the things you have to wait in line for are never any good. I wait in line to pay for groceries, to renew my license, or to handle my bills. None of these things are particularly rewarding. I wait for the doctor, the dentist, and to file my taxes, and I grow defiantly impatient as I eek closer to that which I would rather be further from.

My lineup loathing has always influenced my weekend behavior. A club is not to be approached with casual happenstance. If you feel like rocking out, relinquish all desire to be spontaneous, and get on a guest list. Premeditated nightclubbing means you never need line up again. Spontaneous nightclubbing means that you’re back in the queue, just like everywhere else.

I broke my own rule as we let the attractive hangers-on lure us into the line-up at Ginger 62 on Granville. One of Vancouver’s more chic spots by reputation, we worked the corny birthday-party guest list gag to see if we could jump ahead, and were pleased to find that the word Martiniboys is fresh lounge currency, and strict admittance into any joint. Upon being ushered in we learned instantly why so many were willing to wait so long to get inside.

Ginger welcomes its patrons with head butting old-meets-new vibes. The first was an uber-trendy urban loft-party exposed brick and grandmother’s couch vibe that its tough not to love on nights when red wine and house music is on the brain. The second was that winged go-go dancer aviator glasses / brown turtleneck Uma & Travolta kind of thirst that comes from riding around in a limo and drinking champagne. Both tasted great and were less filling. I’m not sure if it was the feathery young thing on a precariously low swing, the clean-lined Mafioso booths and big smiles with golden tooths, or the mix of fashionistas getting their fix of good tequila, but it felt like home.