Newark, Newark

Now there's another reason (besides buying Calvin Klein at discount) for Manhattan potatoes to go to New Jersey: Club Zanzibar in Newark. Newcomers will be nonplussed less by the discotheque's charmless surroundings and metal-detector entrance policy than by the predominantly New Jersey clientele's predilection for dancing rather than posing and the conspicuous lack of suspect-looking blondes in size 14 stiletto heels.

The decor is generic (no deadpan Dobermans or book-lined V.I.P. rooms here), and attire runs the gamut from Nike to Adidas. Tunes run the gamut from New Jersey Club music (an East Orange mixture of Deep Deep House and rousing Music with a Message) to oldies but goldies like the B-52's and Talking Heads, all spun by the fearsome D.J.'s Tony Humphries and ex-Paradise Garage turntable whiz Larry Patterson on a sound system that works on one's joints like a tube of Ben-Gay. Connected to the neon-lit Lincoln Motel (unfortunate sleepover guests can't fail to notice the unyuppieish hours—threeish to nineish in the morning), the Zanzibar is a stone's throw from the Jersey Turnpike overpass. Ex-visitors like Madonna and Grace Jones aren't necessary P.R. lures for this earthy boite that's drawing a bridge-and-tunnel crowd—in reverse.

C.D'S.