Home Sweet Home. The name says it all. Or does it? Descend down an unmarked staircase on Chrystie Street, just a stone's throw from the Cube, and speak to the dude collecting cash outside the door. The party tonight is $5, and everyone is paying. We're not special. Open the door and survey the scene: low ceiling, taxidermy scattered this way and that, hipster bartenders, and Suicide looking Girls writhing this way and that. OK. The room is wide, then very narrow, then wide in the back. Dumb bell steez. While the music was outstanding and the bartenders attentive, the night just never got going. With just a few couches scattered every which way, it was difficult to find a home base, and in a small room, that's a problem. Its ok, though. These things happen. We stayed for a bit more but realized it wasn't the night, and headed for the door. When we left in the wee hours of the morning, there was a line 15 deep waiting to get in, all of em just looking for a home.