The dive my friends dragged me to last weekend, faced premier shopping haunts, and was next to a budget hotel that offered massages as well. Yes, it was that kind of place.

"This is where real Malaysia hangs out," my friends told me.

Not at Zouk, not at Zeta Bar, not at Starbucks; oh no, my friend, not everyone had the money. This outing would be good for your column, they said.

Expecting a burlesque show, I was disappointed to see watered down cabaret performances, and vulgar jokes that had seen their time. The band that played during intervals yowled like tomcats in heat.

I turned to observe the crowd. Who knew, there could be a story here.