Lakewood's Last Call is oddly out of place. Wedged between a karate dojo and a produce stand, the bar occupies strip mall space typically reserved for family-fun pizzerias or tanning salons.

But inside, the club more closely resembles a swanky Seattle nightspot than the sandwich shop that's adjacent to it. Everyone is extremely well-dressed. Woman in their 30s wear heels and slim dresses. Men wear collared shirts and fresh sneakers.

Although my crusty V-neck doesn't exactly fit in, people seem relaxed and friendly enough as I make my way to the bar. Perhaps this has something to do with the slow jams I hear DJ C-Luv cranking out in the other room. Or, perhaps their docile mood has more to do with subtle hint of marijuana my nose detects as I pass certain ultra-mellow individuals. Impossible to tell.

After a bubbly bartender serves me a tasty whiskey coke, I stroll over to the dance floor. Last Call has done right to separate the dance floor and the main area with a wall, allowing chillers near the bar to sip their martinis and converse at a normal decibel. I lean against the wall, doing my best to imitate all the other men watching the dance floor. Being a wiry individual, I can never get my lean right, and my chillin' doesn't carry much force. But no one seems to care, and I eventually get caught up in the mellow vibe, sipping my drink lazily, my eyelids drooping so low I nearly nod off.     

Around 11 p.m., DJ C-Luv starts spinning more rap than R&B. The women on the dance floor move to Rick Ross and Gucci Mane with swagger and power, dropping their shoulders and wiggling their hips. These women could give dance lessons, teaching those hussies at other clubs the dance floor isn't just about booty shaking, getting low and dry humping.  

I stay for the anti-climactic last call, watching the chillers on the wall casually peel off and grab their mates. Soon I'm alone in the parking lot, wishing that Quiznos over there was open 24 hours.     

1 p.m. to 2 a.m. daily