I don’t belong to any secret societies, private clubs, social fraternities, or anything like that. Never saw the appeal. (Of course, nobody’s ever asked me to join, which might explain my disinterest: Spurning invitations you haven’t received is pretty easy.)
Once, I did PR for a pair of high-ranking Scientology filmmakers. I figured, “Aw, man. I hope they don’t pressure me to join their stupid cult. That would be SO awkward! Ugh, I’d have to let ‘em down easy, I guess: Sorry guys, but this is just a gig.”
And then, when they didn’t pressure me, I was even more offended: What, am I not good enough to join your cult?! C’mon, at least pressure me a little bit! Gimme SOMETHING! What kind of low-effort cult is this?!
Which might explain why my only experience with private clubs was with the one I promoted.
See, in the early 2010s, I did PR for a billionaire who bought a fancy-shmancy private club in Tampa Bay. He hired the ex-marketing head of Caesar’s Palace to oversee it, and that guy brought me in to run the club’s publicity and marketing. For about four years, I had a lovely office by Boca Ciega Bay, overlooking the tennis courts, a few stories above a gorgeous 48-slip marina.
Talk about culture shock…
At the time, my frame of reference for private clubs was Caddyshack, so I figured it was gonna be replete with snooty, self-important schlubs who craved ego-gratification — and/or a feisty gopher. This particular club was filled with millionaires, politicians, ambassadors, business leaders, and more. There were all kinds of VIPs and muckety-mucks: Rep. Paul Ryan hosted a fundraiser here after Mitt Romney picked him as his running mate, and celebrity chefs — including Emeril Lagasse, Wolfgang Puck, Donatella Arpaia, and Scott Conant — staged dinner parties. Met all kinds of interesting people.
At our inaugural New Year’s Eve party, ownership hired KC & the Sunshine Band to help us shake our booty — and we covered our junior Olympic-sized swimming pool with (reinforced) plexiglass, so guests could dance on water.
I understood how lavish and over-the-top this stuff was, so PR-wise, I leaned pretty hard into that angle: Everything was about opulence. I got pretty good at highlighting our exclusivity.
It took me a few months to figure out the rest.
Turns out, most people don’t join private clubs to soothe their egos. (Not even the ultra-elite clubs.) The opulence and exclusivity were added benefits, but not the primary driver of membership.
Instead, members joined because they were lonely and wanted friends — or more social opportunities for their spouse and/or kids.
I’d say about 60% fit into that category. It was, by far, the bulk of our members.
A smaller percentage were in it for the business networking. (Or to impress an important client by holding meetings/dinners there.) Some joined because of the amenities, but they were in the minority: If the amenities are all you care about, there are almost always more cost-effective options than a private club.
For an even small number, it was a way of life: Because certain clubs have reciprocity with other clubs, you could build your entire calendar around club events all over the country. These folks would dock their yacht at our club for a few months — and then spend the rest of the year at other clubs within our network. It was like a (rich man’s) trailer park, only with multimillion-dollar yachts.
What I found especially interesting was how private clubs train their staff:
My boss hired the culinary team that rebooted Trump’s properties. They staged elaborate photoshoots for every dish on the new menu — complete with lighting and close-ups — and had the chefs make every dish on the menu over and over again. Repetition was key because consistency was super-important.
That was fun, ‘cause every few minutes, someone would come by my office, asking me if I wanted another plate of filet mignon, lobster tail, or whatever. (Naturally, I tried to be helpful, so I stuffed my face like a pig.)
The club restaurant was my favorite perk because I could eat whatever I wanted for free. I was especially gaga over our pastry chef, who whipped up ridiculously elaborate cakes, desserts, and chocolates. She was a magician!
The staff wore uniforms and were trained with pillar cards that they all had to memorize. Each card had a dozen pillars, or brand guidelines — one of which was, “We are Ladies and Gentlemen serving Ladies and Gentlemen” (which I’m pretty sure we stole from the Ritz-Carlton, but hey, a good idea is a good idea).
Most of the staff were good-hearted, fun-loving guys and gals, but there were lots of issues with drug use and inappropriate sexual relationships. (Not exactly an uncommon phenomenon in the food/hospitality industry.) I honestly liked 99% of the staff, but only trusted maybe 20%. We had to Baker Act two of ‘em, including a guy on our grounds crew who kept hearing sinister voices.
From the club’s perspective, there were two main financial streams: First, we wanted to grow membership, because dues and food/beverage minimums helped keep everything afloat.
Membership numbers were our #1 indicator of financial health.
Second, we tried to squeeze as much money from our members as possible, mostly by upselling various club services (dinner parties, concerts, amenities, personal training, massages, etc.). Weddings, special events, and banquets were another cash cow.
Because I knew so little about the industry, ownership had me attend a few different networking events at private clubs in Florida, Chicago, and elsewhere. That was VERY cool, but also a little strange, because the private club industry is heavily female. As a goofy-looking bald guy, I didn’t exactly blend.
(Let’s just say that not all attention is positive… and leave it at that.)
For the first few years, we won a slew of awards, including this one:
But it didn’t last. We were voted “Best Club in Tampa Bay” three years in a row, yet never turned a profit. Ownership created a financial model based on concerts and live entertainment, but our overhead was insane: These performers weren’t cheap, and one of our membership perks was low-cost tickets ($20 or so) in an intimate venue. For most events, we capped attendance at 250 people.Many performers cost at least $10K — plus travel/lodging — so the math didn’t make any sense.
Plus, ownership had a record label (Big3 Records) and a production company that hired all the entertainment. Not all of ‘em were good fits for our demo.
Eventually, our owner got tired of losing money and got rid of my (now ex-)boss. Before I knew it, I had to leave the club — and say goodbye to all those delicious meals — because ownership moved me into my ex-boss’ old office, so I’d be right down the hall from him.
(That was a promotion, I suppose, but I sure missed those delicious meals.)
A few years later, the club was gone — one of the 1,500 golf courses and private clubs that have closed their doors since 2014. It’s too bad, but the private club concept just isn’t as popular as it once was — and post-COVID, the attrition has escalated.
It’s a shame. Being a snobby private club guy was kind of cool. I get the appeal now.
My only regret: Never got to meet the gopher.
