The location of Club 218 is rather elusive. It seems that Philly has chosen to tuck the place out of the view of casual South Street strollers. Maybe this is due to the fact that it is truly an abominable hellhole.
Still, for those vagrants who wish for a chance to witness the iniquity themselves, the entranceway is within Malokais. From there, follow the rude sounds of subpar punk upstairs. Patrons are encouraged to be cautious on the outrageously steep stairwell. And when close to the crumbling walls, please do not digest any stray pieces of stucco.
Once inside, the most common reaction people have is horror. Shirtless, sweaty sinners wielding spear-like guitars come dangerously close to ramming innocent passersby. On account of the absurdly awkward placement of the stage, everyone who enters the club must walk directly in front of the maniacal musicians, who flail their bony, tattooed limbs in haunting unison.
Customers who even manage to find a seat will probably opt to stand, for the chairs are dangerously wobbly and the tables are filthy. Plus, it is a bad, bad idea to order food (i.e. "What are these dead minnows doing on my pizza pie?"). Standing up, however, is equally uncomfortable, for the "music" is relentlessly deafening and the crowd may best be described as freaky and freakier.
The club's one redeeming quality is that the drinks are cheap. This was no doubt a conscious move on the part of management. Only while wearing prescription beer goggles will anyone be able to ignore the decidedly ghoulish surroundings.
