We were walking down the street, when a short man in all white shoved a Ravel Rooftop Lounge flyer in our chests and screamed ""let the rose flow, papa."" Upon presenting the rude doorman with our coupons, we were regrettably granted entry into this dubious establishment. Holy frijoles, all that was missing; Kidd, Play, Stiffler, and a keg of Colt 45. House Party just met Brokeback Mountain on Ikea's finest furniture. Men sipping apple martinis, two-headed chickens, and Fran Drescher clones abound, as the intoxicating scent of Drakkar Noir and Aquanet paralyze innocent victims. Hey, there goes Snookie! Yes folks, overpriced, watered down drinks, horrible house / techno music, guys in leather pants looking like extras from MJ's Thriller video, and a RUDE STAFF sum up the evening’s festivities. OMG, the most poppin' beat they played consisted of Herbie Hancock's Rockit. We were out of there, but unfortunately, I had to take a numero dos, amigos. After negotiating a urine-stained restroom floor and regaining my balance, I noticed that there were no toilets; urinals only, folks; that's str8 up. So THAT'S why they hand out flyers to this place on the streets. On the plus side, the breathtaking view of the hood pales in comparison to the second worst bridge in all of NYC. Ron Artest and Lamar Odom would strap the posse before frequenting this outfit. Proceed at your own risk, ladies and gentlemen.