Its not a lurid foreboding blood red, but more of a mischievous magenta. The all crimson attempt at illumination is the first clue of the recurring themes of licentiousness and debauchery embraced behind the doors of Slippery Slope. Once unto the breach the senses go into overdrive adjusting to the new shadowy color schemes and aural palpitations.
First to eagerly greet are a stack of excitedly flashing skee ball machines. Further in, guarded by elaborate, red vinyl, high back stools, the bar commands much of the southeast wall, with sparkly red booths opposite. In the rear of this temple to Dionysus stands the elevated altar, also known as the DJ booth. Every week DJs are engaged for as many days as there are deadly sins and diligently survey the always compliant dance floor. For the more chaste, confession is taken in the the newly compulsory photo booth across from the altar, and the entire space is ringed with a row or two of benches, coliseum style.
The bar packs a Blackwater assemblage of liquid accoutrements. In addition to the regulation stackage of spirits, the bartesians assemble an array of house made cocktails and then bottle them, not only speeding up delivery, but ideal for reducing spillage on the dance floor. 10oz heavy mugs are filled from taps mounted in to old ice boxes, pouring college party nostalgia with each of the several draught beers, including the always popular $2 Hamms. If neither of those options satiate, a handful of traditional bottled and canned beers are available for the vanilla at heart.
Come here on a mission, not for conversation or philosophical discourse, but for boisterous revelry and to get intimately acquainted with the inner boogie monster.