Standard Procedures

Hello dear avid readers! I know you’ve been missing the weekly stories, and frankly, so have I because it means I’m too busy working to go out and have a life, and even when I do, I’m too busy to write about it weekly. But enough bitching on my end, let’s get to the good stuff.

Let’s start with the setting. Saturday night at the Standard hotel by the highline, in meatpacking. For a lot of you readers I know that says it all, but for those of you who don’t recognize any of those terms, I’ll explain further. The Standard hotel is one of the fancy ass hotels in NYC where it costs a fortune to spend even just one night. You can go into the lobby at 9am on a weekday and women are walking around like they are ready to go OUT. I’m like bitch, it’s 9 o’clock in the morning, take off your fucking heels. But anyway, there are two rooftop bars at the Standard. The Boom Boom Room (I kid you not, it’s actually called that), which is so exclusive it’s often rented out for private parties (a celebrity birthday or some shit) and you can’t even get in. Then there’s Le Bain, (don’t be fooled by the fancy name, that just means “the bath” in French. Suddenly sounds less appealing right?) which is the other rooftop bar. It’s also selective in the people it lets in, but if you are a mildly attractive girl, you’ll probably be fine.

So, here we are. The story begins before we even set foot inside, because obviously, there’s a line. We’ve been standing in this line for about 15 or 20 minutes, not terrible but we are definitely committed. We’ve almost reached the part in the line where there’s a metal rail alongside the line so people can’t “join” in with their friend’s party (the polite version of cutting). Just before we got to the no-more-polite-cutting point, this guy comes and stands almost right next to us, but a little bit in front, not saying a word. On his phone the whole time, he sneakily (not at all) slides in, right in front of us. For a hot second I thought he was with the two guys who were waiting ahead of us, but no, turns out he was just straight up cutting three fourths of the line. I almost let it slide but I heard the girls behind us bitching about such a dick move and decided not to let it go.

“Sir, sir, excuse me.” No response.

“EXCUSE ME, Sir.” Still nothing.

A polite tap on the shoulder finally brought him out of the iPhone world and back to real life.

“Did you really just try and cut basically the whole line, really?” I asked sassily.

“I’m just trying to get to my friend’s party, they didn’t let me in last time, I was at the end of the group. I’ve been here for over an hour” was the excuse I got.

First of all sir, sorry to hear about all that, but that’s not really my problem is it? I mean, if you had told me your sob story BEFORE you tried to cut, chances are I probably would have had a bit of sympathy. But now you’re just another asshole. Second of all, there’s probably a reason they didn’t let you in the first time. Just saying.

So I replied, “But really now you’re just that asshole who cut us.” To which he attempted to tell me that “he wasn’t an asshole”, which just verified that he was, honestly. By that point the two guys in front of him had reached the security man and were being asked if they were “on the list”. They were not and were asked to step away from the door. Next up is Mr. Asshole. The doorman goes through the same routine, asking if he’s on “the list”. He’s scrolling through his phone going “Wait, wait, let me find the invitation”. The doorman is obviously not about this and tells him to step to the back of the line and basically shoves him out of the doorway. Being two cute girls, my girlfriend and I are asked how many are in our party, and then immediately ushered inside. Sometimes being a girl does have its perks.

Whew. So now we’ve actually made it inside. It’s obviously crazy loud, with crazy lights and my friend and I b-line it for the bar (to buy $15 mixed drinks, god help me). Once we had gotten our expensive ass drinks we went over to one of the windows to enjoy the nice view. It took us several minutes to notice Mr. Pukey. I’m guessing you can’t imagine where he got his name. He was sitting in an armchair by one of the windows, slouched over the side. For a second my friend and I thought he was just passed the fuck out, but turns out no, just vomiting his guts out. Classy Le Bain for you right there. After watching horrified but transfixed for a few moments wondering if we should tell someone, we ended up just making our way to find a new, less gross view.

We made our way across the dance floor (a real challenge let me tell you) and found another window to enjoy the view from. By this window there was a large-ish party who had a table and bottle service, but get this—no one was fucking drinking anything. There were three bottles just sitting on their table. It’s like seriously you paid well over $1000 to have this bottle service and no one is even drinking the fucking bottles. Good for you. Maybe if I was rich I would understand but alcohol is alcohol right? Who’s with me (I know you’re all thinking, god get this girl some help, but don’t worry about me too much, I’m basically a well functioning alcoholic and I have a theory that most people in NYC are, although there are varying degrees to the “functioning” part)? So anyways, we finally decided to make our way onto the dance floor. Now don’t get me wrong, I love to get down, however when a guy I’ve never met comes up behind me and tries to hump me passing it off as “dancing”, I’m not really all about that. The most noticeable thing about the dance floor was the people trying to shove their way in and out of it. Men and women have very different ways of accomplishing this. Men get incredibly handsy, apparently thinking it’s appropriate to touch you anywhere to get you out of the way. Although that sounds bad I’m pretty sure I actually prefer it to the approach of the self entitles ladies of the Standard who just shove their way around.

We had only been on the dance floor for a short while when I noticed the Lurker. He was completely bald, much older than the general crowd and generally just creepy. Not even trying to dance, just making his rounds, looking for some poor girl to prey on. The first victim was a girl who clearly already had a drink in her hand AND a guy with her. Double no no. But the Lurker still asked her if she wanted a drink to which she held up her drink, pointed at it and then pointed at the guy. The Lurker moved on. Unfortunately a short time later, he moved on to me. Instead of asking me if I wanted a drink he just creepily stood behind me, as if waiting for his chance. I tried moving to the left and right to shake him, but as quoted by my girlfriend “I think he’s following your ass”. Bad news for me. I tried the left and right tactic a few more times but to no avail. Eventually my girlfriend and I sneakily swapped places entirely, which stumped him, and after a brief pause he was forced to look for his next victim.

I’m sure you are getting tired of me rambling on. I promise I’m almost done. One more, the Australian. I noticed him watching me dance for awhile before he made a move (creepy). He came over and asked if I wanted to dance. Sure, why not? He was in front of me and not trying to hump me from behind so he already got kudos for that. Also he was somewhat attractive so it’s like sure, let’s dance. He had the Australian thing going for him except it was so fucking loud I couldn’t even hear his accent over the music. So there we are, I’m dancing and he’s attempting to dance. Then he starts trying to actually talk to me. Normally I’m not opposed to that but in a club it’s basically pointless given how many times we had to repeat ourselves to hear one stupid get-to-know-you question. Basically what I got from the conversation was that he was in town for just over a week. Which is code for, you just want to fuck, and I’m not really about that. He started asking me what I could “show him” of the city while he was in town and I knew it was time to get the hell out while I still could. I made the excuse that I was “going to the ladies room” (classic), he told me about eight times that he would be waiting right there (oh good, I was super worried), I grabbed my girlfriend and we got the hell out of dodge.

Now I’m hoping that after reading this I haven’t forever  made you want to avoid the Standard at all times, I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s a fun place every now and again when you wanna have a great view of the city and get your jam on. Unless you have a thousand bucks a week to blow on bottle service, which by all means do your thing, but for those of you more average spenders, save it for a now and again kind of night.

Happily providing you with great stories and a good laugh since 2013 (just wait a hundred years when I’m still kicking it and writing badass stories, that will have more effect). Look for new stories coming soon, though I’m not promising weekly posts unless that one reader wants to give me the $1000 instead of going to the Standard? No, well then I’ll just be squeezing the posts in whenever I can manage.

Yours truly Sylvia

 

The Roof is on Fire: Rock Master Scott and the Dynamic Three

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Turtles and Bows

Union Pool. Need I say more? If you live in Brooklyn, anywhere close to Williamsburg you probably already know, but for those of you who don’t, let me explain. Union pool is the bar where guys go when they want to get laid. Or if they have friends and town and they want to get their friends laid, Union Pool is always the answer. It’s the notorious “pick-up” bar. The irony in this is that on a general Friday or Saturday night, I would say that the guys outnumber the girls 5 to 1. Now that may be a slight overstatement but really, not that far off the mark. Everyone and their mother is drinking Budweiser out of a can, cause it’s the special and it’s $3, which I admit, is hard to beat (and really I have to applaud anyone who can stomach such piss beer). So, now that I’ve set the scene a little bit, let’s get on to the actual stories.
I was leaning on the bar, chatting with my girlfriend who was out with me when this guy comes up behind me trying to order a drink and asks me “Are you wearing cat ears?” Mind you, I was wearing a black bow barrette in my hair, however I would like to say that it looked like a bow, not cat ears and I tried to explain to the guy that it was a bow but he seemed to be stuck on the whole cat ears thing and then proceeded to ask “If you have cat ears, then where is your tail?” Really just not a good pick up line (if that’s what it was supposed to be, honestly not sure about that one). To avoid cat-man, I went to hang up my friends jacket as well as my own. There was a row of hooks and I went to hang our coats, accidentally stepping on someone’s coat which had fallen on the floor that I didn’t notice. No sooner than I had stepped on the coat on the floor this guy swoops in on me, “Don’t step on the coats. You wouldn’t want someone to step on your coat would you? That’s not my coat, but my coat is hanging up here too, that’s all I’m saying.” and then, without skipping a beat, “So what’s you name, sweetheart?” So you go from berating me about stepping on peoples coats (which is a whole other thing, this is Union Pool, not some fancy place with a coat check and shit. So by hanging up your coat you should half expect never to see it again, just saying), to trying to learn my name and calling me pet names. Sir, if I may, fuck off. Which is basically what I said to him as I walked back to rejoin my friend at the bar (also sir, you are wearing a scarf indoors, at a bar, I cannot take you seriously).
Next we had Mr. TriBeCa. He approached me complimenting my hair bow (props to not asking me if it was cat ears, however those are the ONLY props he received) and asked me where I lived. I told him I lived in Bushwick and he didn’t know where that was. Now that wouldn’t have been too bad except we were in Williamsburg which is literally right next to Bushwick. Like so close. Then of course he tried to bullshit his way through, being all, “Oh, that’s like north of here right?” No, Queens is north of here, Bushwick is east. “But it’s like NORTH-east, right?” No, still just east. So then I asked him where he lived and he replied saying TriBeCa and then condescendingly asked, “Do you know where that is?” Fuck off sir, of course I know where TriBeCa is. “So if you’re so smart, where does it start then?” Sir, go jump off a bridge and kill yourself. I may have been a bit ruder to him than necessary, but really?
Then to break up the assholes, we met a new lovely gay friend who complimented my bow (but I actually believed him, I mean what straight man is [without motive] all, I really like your bow barrette?) and then had a whole conversation about how you could make cool hair bows with actuals bowties. Lovely, just lovely.
However next there was a man who felt that shoving me into the bar to try and order his drinks was totally appropriate. I asked nicely (I could have been a total asshole, but took the high road) If I could order him whatever drinks he needed. He told me what he wanted, waited about .5 seconds until I apparently took too long and then said “Do you mind if I squeeze in here myself and get that drink?” and without waiting for an answer, proceeded to shove me into my friend so that he could have a space at the bar (where he easily waited at least 10 minutes to get the attention of a bartender, way to go buddy, you really sped up that whole process). Just after that, another man introduced himself and started pulling all of these beaded turtle bracelets out of his jacket pocket and gave us both a handful explaining to us that his brother and him had started this company where they made turtle bracelets. He said they gave them out to nice people and after watching us get accosted and pushed around at the bar by everyone and their mother, he felt we deserved some turtle bracelets. He also told us that we should give one or two away to the next person we saw doing something nice. Sweet thought, right? (once again nice to have a break from the generic asshole). One of the bracelets broke almost immediately and my friend and I were so sad, whereupon the guy stated “They cost us like 5 cents to make, what do you expect?” Well put, sir. At least you are honest.
Now there is one person that I just cannot leave out. Flannel shirt. When my friends and I arrived at the bar it was probably about midnight, so late but not crazy late. We found a spot at the bar and stayed there. Sitting about two seats down the bar from us was a guy wearing a flannel shirt and drinking a Budweiser. He had a book with him although it was closed just sitting on the bar the entire time we were there. Let me just say that I fully believe that there is a time and a place for reading a good book at a bar and enjoying a nice beverage. However, Saturday night in general is really just not that time, particularly not at a bar like Union Pool. Possibly if he got there early enough, but that would mean he sat at the same place at the same bar for at least eight hours, presumably also by himself. Even to me, that’s a bit much. Like I said before, the book remained closed the entire time that we entered the picture and he just kept ordering Budweiser after Budweiser. Even stranger, I did not see him exchange a word with anybody, but he was very interested in the goings on of my friend and I and he just kept on looking in our direction. Creepy or what? He also stayed at the bar as long as we did (practically until closing), never said a word to us, just watched. I mean how weird is that?
That ends the stream of interesting persons at Union Pool for the night. My friend and I decided it was time to get the hell home and go to bed. But hey, I woke up with turtle bracelets the next day from trrtlz.com and thought to myself, at least there are a few people who still go around doing heart warming things.

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Jolly Good Fellows (except not)

Today we are in Frat Town, USA, throw back to college. The funny thing about the bar though is even with its generic college party bar vibe (literally you walk in and think, am I back in college, did I fail that last exam?), I’d say at least three quarters of the people there are actually not in college, just trying to relive that feeling, for whatever reason.

Anyway imagine prime time on a Saturday night at Hair of the Dog (even from the name, you know it’s gonna be a shitty time, am I right?) on the lower east side. It was a mess. But it was also too cold out to try venturing around and there was no line (because apparently they just let everyone in until you’re packed like sardines in a can), so that’s where I ended up with several of my girlfriends. After getting drinks we found a tiny nitch to tuck ourselves away in. Beside us there was an extremely drunk and obnoxious group of about six people, half boys and half girls. They had this great corner table, except instead of using it; they were just storing all of their crap on it while also taking up room next to the table dancing annoyingly. They were doing a lot of terrible grinding (just go fucking bang somewhere and don’t make me watch). What made it even worse was that the guy behind me was pretty much grinding on me as well as the girl he was actually dancing with, because we were so tightly packed in the place. Gross. I even heard one of the guys saying (to the girl he was grinding with), “Don’t be too naughty; you know I have a girlfriend.” Wow, that is some stellar boyfriend material right there. Thankfully they cleared out after we hadn’t been there for too terribly long. Right before leaving however, one of the guys (the same one who had a girlfriend and still was grinding with another girl all night) came up behind me, stuck his face right next to my ear (and when I say right next to it I mean he was practically breathing down my throat) and told me that I looked like Emma Watson (which I don’t, at all, but cool) and (getting even closer so that he was nearly kissing me) told me I was “so beautiful” and then left. I might have appreciated the sentiment if he had presented it in a slightly less creepy way so as to make me feel good about myself instead of violated.

Next up we had the Irishman. He came up and started talking to me, the usual “Hi, my name is…” type of crap, asking me what I did and where I was from. He thought it was very cool that I was a dancer and when I asked him what he did he said he worked in boring old finance. Which really would have been fine except he must have felt awkward because he started off on this weird tangent about how he wished he did something cool with finance like “manage hedge funds for orphans”. Ah, this would be news to me as I’ve never heard of a single orphan who had a hedge fund, much less one that they needed to hire someone to manage, but maybe it’s more common than I think (doubtful). Eventually he ran out of orphan hedge fund nonsense to talk about and asked if he could buy me and all my friends a drink. I said sure, and he asked us all what we were having. After we told him, he made me pinky promise (and we’re back to being five year olds) that I would still be there when he got back. Ha. So he left and my friends and I waited for him to come back with our drinks. However, a short while later when he had failed to return I realized that he hadn’t made it past the table caddy corner to ours, where he had started talking to a different girl. Classy. I made my way over to the bar to fetch us more drinks as he had obviously failed us. Waiting for a chance to order at the bar, the three people in front of me ordered nine shots of whiskey. I obviously assumed that they had a larger party to which they were bringing all the shots back to, but no, they proceeded to take three shots of whiskey each, back to back. I kid you not. Now if that doesn’t sounds like the worst thing ever, I’m really not sure what does. Once they were done, I decided to ask them what the occasion was, just to help me understand why exactly they had just taken three consecutive shots each. I was expecting a good fucking story, cause let’s face it, for me to do three whiskey shots in a row there would have to be a really fucking good ass reason. Like a million dollars say. However their answer was an extreme let down, “We haven’t seen each other in a really long time.” I don’t care if you are my best friend who died and came back to life 10 years later, I still would not agree to take three shots of whiskey back to back. Maybe that makes me a terrible friend, but then again, you’re a terrible friend if you are trying to get me to take three shots, just like that. Anyways, I digress. Finally after the shot-happy people left I got a spot at the bar and ordered my drinks. A girl came and stood next to me and also ordered something from the bartender. Then she turned to me and asked, “Do you have a minute?” I uncertainly said yes, as normally when I hear that kind of phrase it’s in the context of the people on the street who are trying to get you to sign this or that for whatever cause. However, she just signaled the bartender to pour a shot for me as well. Oh joy. Love taking shots with random girls. I asked her what she was doing/who she was with and she proceeded to tell me that she was there with her business partner but that she was trying to ditch him. And thus she was taking shots with the bartenders and random girls? I mean, whatever floats your boat. I thanked her for the shot and headed back to my table, drinks in hand.

There was also that group of crazy girls nearby to us. The ones that loved, and danced wildly to, every song, but when a song came on that they were particularly in to, they of course had to get everyone around involved, particularly us, since we were also a group of girls. Hilarious in the most terrible of ways. Although, even worse than the girls was the guy who was standing creepily near our table. He didn’t appear to really be with anybody. It seemed more likely that he was just standing near a group or party, but had nothing to do with them. He was mostly bald, with just the sides still left and a little bit in the back. You know what I mean. If you’re that bald, just embrace it. Fully shaved bad head looks better than tiny patches, I promise. Anyways he looked more out of place then a penguin in California in this extreme college bar. Mega creeper right there, you couldn’t help but notice him.

Fast forward to the wee hours of the morning, its last call and I headed to the bar to pay my tab. Low and behold, who did I see again but the three long lost shot-happy friends. And what were they doing this time? You guessed it, taking more shots. Only this time they were only taking one shot each (guess they weren’t as happy to see each other anymore), however this time they insisted I take a shot with them. Oh good, free shot number two. Shortly after that, still waiting on my tab, a guy came over and started counting $20 bills beside me. He looked up at me mid count and said “Don’t worry, it’s all drug money.” Then he clarified saying it was to buy drugs, not from selling them (good to know, I actually don’t give a shit). After that clarification he proceeded to order shots for himself, me and the couple standing next to me whom I assumed he knew. However the girl in the couple asked if we were together and I replied by saying no, we’d just met and that I thought she knew him. But apparently he also had that shot-happy streak and needed to buy shots for everyone around. After my third complimentary shot I managed to leave the bar without having any more ordered for me and went to find my friends, who were waiting on me to leave. The drug guy came over to our table for approximately one minute in which time he introduced himself as Skylar and then almost immediately excused himself again noting that he need to go buy drugs. K, bye. Good luck with that.

After he disappeared my friend and I decided that it was time to get the hell out of the bar (I mean, basically the bar was closed and we were just getting kicked out with everyone else). Upon getting home I checked my face to make sure there wasn’t a sign on it that read “Hi! Let’s take shots!” but there wasn’t. Apparently I was just giving out the shot vibes. Anyhow if I can give you any advice it’s don’t go to Hair of the Dog unless you are itching for the shitty college frat vibe, shitty music and shots galore.

But then again, if that’s your scene, hey great, I don’t judge. Oh wait, yeah, I totally do judge. 

 

This weeks theme song, so fitting: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNtTEibFvlQ

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A Nippikin of Prosecco

Another week of short stories for those of you who have been brainwashed by technology and can’t pay attention for more than a few minutes. You’re welcome by the way. First of all I would like to start off by saying I had friends in town this week from London and therefore ended up going out way too much. You know how it is when you have company, every night of the week is game for going out, you spend way too much money but you have a good-ass fucking time and subsequently, at least for me, lots of stories.

So here we go. I’m at a nice cocktail bar in the west village enjoying a delicious cocktail with a party of three friends and we are having a great time. We are sitting at a table in the back of the bar and next to us there’s a table in the corner where two guys and one girl are sitting. The girl is sitting in the middle and to the outside observer it would appear that both men are simultaneously trying to make something happen with her (always fun for the girl, not at all). I don’t pay much mind as I’ve already been drinking prosecco for about 4.5 hours at this point and am having a fabulous time with my friends. That is, until I see something in the corner of my eye on the edge of our table. I look over and see that it’s a napkin with “Hi, how are you?” written on it. Oh good, we’re back in grade school, writing notes to each other, ‘cause who doesn’t want to relive those good ‘ole days (oh I forgot, just about everyone)? This goes back and forth for awhile, mostly because it was so ridiculous that I decided to humor the guy for a little while. However, after only a bit of note passing, I got bored and switched to writing in French which stumped him a bit, after which point we paid our tab and departed. And that was the end of the note passing, a good taste of youth.

Let’s fast forward a few nights. Setting: a quiet bar in Bushwick where going out for “a glass of wine or two” turned into a bottle or two with us closing the bar, obviously. There were three of us to start, all girls sitting at the bar together chatting and bantering with the bartender. Shortly after we got there a guy and girl walked in and ordered a drink. I assumed they were together which soon turned out to be very false. Literally minutes after they came inside (I could be exaggerating slightly but I swear to god it was no longer than five minutes after coming in) the guy looked prolong-edly in my direction. I didn’t pay it much attention initially, however throughout the evening I would catch him staring at me. These weren’t the quick little flirty looks that are generally accepted, this was blatant, impolite staring and it got worse and worse. In the beginning it started out only being a few moments at a time but that amount of time continued getting longer and longer and longer. Really uncomfortably so. A bit later we had a few more friends join us and we moved to a table. He continued staring so much that even my friends started to notice and get creeped out. At one point I got up to from our table to use the ladies room and had to walk past him and he stared at me THE WHOLE TIME. Shortly after that he and his friends were getting up to leave and he kept shooting meaningful glances at me as if hoping I would come over and stop him (fat chance of that, creeper, I was counting down the seconds until he was out that door) but finally he had no choice but to follow his friends out, giving me one last creeper stare. Never even said a word to me. Not that I in any way wanted that, but I feel like one awkward conversation would have been better than a whole evening of creepy stares.

After creepy stare left, my girlfriend and I went to the bar to order a drink. The bar was pretty empty at this point except for our party, but there was one guy sitting by himself at the bar. He was well dressed (although it was more like well dressed in cheap clothes rather than actually well dressed), all in black, slacks, button up, tie and blazer. The whole she-bang and he looked extremely out of place in the quiet neighborhood bar in Bushwick. I told him he looked very spiffy and asked why he was so dressed up (just making small talk while waiting for more wine). He told me he’d been at an important meeting for work and after I asked how the meeting went he introduced himself to my friend and me. Then our umpteenth glass of wine arrived and our new “friend” announced to the bartender “I’ll pay for these”. Great, no qualms on my end. We chatted for another minute and then went to rejoin our group. A little while later however, he came over and basically invited himself to sit with us (only slightly rude). This wouldn’t have been as bad except that he also had terrible social skills. He was the kind of loud person who loves to talk but doesn’t really understand the concept of not talking over people or interrupting (so basically, the worst). To make things even better, eventually he began subtly (not) rubbing his knee against mine. EW. I was definitely not giving off those kinds of signals (I’m not even sure what kind of signals you have to give off for someone to creepily start rubbing knees with you), it seemed to me I was mostly presenting the opposite signals, really. Like, please-get-the-fuck-away-from-me signals. But to no avail. Luckily one of my Londoner friends suggested we sing the Barley Mow, a fabulous old English drinking song (which if you’ve never experienced it, make it your mission to find someone British who knows it and will sing it with you, you won’t regret it [until the next morning, that it]), and we moved out of our corner table to a more appropriate table for our drinking song needs. During this time the seating arrangements changed and I managed to stay as far away from Mr. Spiffy as possible. Shortly after we finished our rowdy drinking song we were offered complimentary house shots from the bartender (who was more than likely just trying to get us the fuck out of the bar) and we stumbled home parting ways with Mr. Spiffy.

Anyway, that brings this week’s adventures to a close. I sincerely hope that you’ve had a good laugh or two and all I can say is, come and visit NYC. There’s always a good fucking time to be had (and always a creep or two). 

This weeks theme song, The Barley Mow! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqrNsAfyu4M

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Cupcakes and Flannels

This week we have a montage of stories, so as not to get bored. It was throughout one night however, and it was quite an eventful one. It was a Saturday, probably after midnight so the time had passed for there to be an abundant amount of attractive women at the bar. The men far outnumbered the women, a real sausage fest. Every time I turned around there seemed to be another guy just waiting to pounce.

I had arrived at the bar and had just been served my drink when two men came up to the bar next to me to order. The one closest to me turned to me and said, “So you’re doing a shot with us right?” Considering I was on my way home from already being out, wanting only a nightcap, had just arrived and gotten my own drink this sounded like a terrible idea so my response was pretty quick, “Ah, no.” The guys immediately turned to their other side where two other girls were standing and said, “So you’re doing a shot with us, right?” Ha. Classy. However, the girls after me agreed to the shot so I guess the attitude try try again works out occasionally. A little while later (they had all taken their shots but were still standing next to me) a great song came on and I caught the eye of one of the cocktail waitresses that I knew and we had a little dance party across the bar for a second. The same guy who had earlier offered me a shot turned to me and said “I appreciate that you’re down to party without shots.” Yes sir, yes I am. Since when did shots become a necessity for being down to party? A nice cocktail, mixed drink, or even a beer can’t cut it when you’re down to party? Maybe I would understand if I were a shitty frat boy. Like yourself.

The next offer I had was straight to the point. No small talk or frivolous formalities. A guy had just paid his tab at the bar, turned to me and said “I’m about to go, but I’d like to take you out on a date sometime.” Would you now? The problem is, I don’t want you to take me on a date ever. He was fairly unattractive, uninteresting and unfortunately the small talk and frivolous formalities like buying a girl a drink, sometimes go a long way. Needless to say I declined this very tempting offer of going on a date with Mr. No Name.

The last attempt of the night came in three parts. A group of guys were together at the bar. They had come to this particular bar because they knew the (rather shitty) DJ who was playing. The first one of them to approach me asked if I was sitting alone at the bar, because he “absolutely did not condone” that. Prior to his arrival I had been sitting with another regular and the cocktail waitress I knew who had just gotten off her shift. Also worth mentioning, at some point while I was using the restroom one of the bartenders gave me and the other regular I was sitting with, cupcakes from a private party that had been held earlier at the bar. The other regular ate his cupcake almost immediately but mine was sitting on the bar next to my drink. Vanilla cupcake, white frosting with rainbow sprinkles. Quite enticing but I planned to eat it after I had left the bar. Mr. Flannel shirt then asked me where I had gotten the cupcake. I said it had just appeared (true story) and he asked if I would share it with him. I said no, sorry but I don’t share my cupcakes with strangers and he started going on about how I wasn’t a good “sharer”. Excuse me, do I look like I’m six years old and also, are you my mother? Yeah, no. Kye, bye bye. After the cupcake kick he tried to convince me that I should go with him and his friends to wherever they were going afterwards. By this point it was after 2am—all I wanted was to finish the drink I was on and go to bed, which is generally what I told flannel shirt. He seemed incredulous that I didn’t want to “do it up” on a Saturday night. He eventually trailed away and his friend took his place. Out of the group of four, he was the oddball. He apparently hadn’t gotten the red flannel memo that the rest of his friends had gotten. Also instead of being the generic bro type, he was the ethnic friend. He was also interested in the cupcake, or as I suspect, he used the cupcake as a way to get the ball rolling, a conversation starter of sorts. However, conversation with him left much to be desired and for this reason, didn’t last long. After he tottered away the third guy from the same group wandered over. Can you guess what he was interested in? You got it—the cupcake. He took a different (and rather annoying) approach and kept trying to stick his finger in the icing so that I wouldn’t want it anymore. I think the ulterior motive behind this however was me pushing his arm away from the cupcake every time he tried to stick his finger in it (ew, if you want it that bad, go get your own damn cupcake, this is NYC so you can find anything at any hour if you search hard enough). He didn’t go away of his own accord but instead by his friends who were still trying to “do it up” on Saturday at 2:30am. Flannel shirt number one came over at that point to urge me to come with them (again) but weirdly, the later it got, the more ready I was to go home and curl up in my cozy bed. The four friends, three in red flannel and the oddball middle eastern friend reluctantly made their way to the door, all the while trying to convince me to keep the party going but that wasn’t happening at all, particularly with that group. I mean three out of four? Not bad, right? Definitely a classy group of guys right there, taking turns hitting on the same girl. Now that’s what you call chivalry.

Shortly after they left, I made my own exit, and if you can believe it, now comes the best part. Being tired and mostly just lazy I hailed a car. Not a taxi but a car service (because as I’ve mentioned, taxis hate going to Bushwick). I got in and told the driver I was going to Bushwick and gave him the cross streets. The car ride went smoothly and when we had reached my destination, I asked the driver what I owed him. He seemed confused and said “You’re all taken care of.” Now it was my turn to be extremely confused. Free ride home and not kidnapped? Way too good to be true, so I asked what he meant by all taken care of. He said, “You called uber right?” (uber, the new craze. An app that allows you to call a car or green taxi and know exactly when it will get there) and I replied saying no I just hailed the car. At this point the driver got extremely anxious and started muttering things like “Oh, no, this isn’t good at all”. All the while I’m just trying to find out how much I owed him so I could get out of the fucking car and go to bed. He was preoccupied by being worried about how much he had just fucked up his job, and asked me how much I usually paid for the fare. I told him, paid and got out. Maybe it would have been better for everyone if I had just accepted that God had pre-paid my cab and gotten out. Although the driver should probably realize that if he’s working for a company such as uber, he might want to ask the people who get in his car at 3am on Saturday night if they ordered a car or are just trying to hail one like everyone else and their mother at that time on a Saturday night, but then again, maybe that’s just me.

You wanna know the worst part? When I got into the car I took a bite out of my much longed for cupcake and it was terrible, just terrible. 

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Serbian Affairs

Employees Only. If you’ve never been there, I have only one thing to say. Go. At least once, it’s a guaranteed great, albeit extremely drunken, time. This is a bar in a prime West Village location, meaning most of the people there have plenty of money and, to put it politely, think highly of themselves. It’s a beautiful bar, always pristine with polished countertops and an extremely impressive display of liquors. The bartenders are some of the best you can find, effortlessly making one delicious cocktail after another. The bar is always packed no matter what night of the week or how awful the weather is. People always find their way to Employees Only.

Now that I’ve set the scene and done my pep talk for EO, let’s get on with the story. It’s Sunday night and my friend and I got there early enough to get a seat at the bar which can be a tricky thing at EO. We both ordered different cocktails off the menu and were enjoying ourselves very much. We were probably just starting our second drink when the smell of cologne hit me. I almost gagged at the sheer amount of it, practically not able to breathe for a second because the smell was so overpowering. I am not exaggerating, I thought someone must have taken a bath in cologne. Two men sat down next to me and I had to turn my head away from them towards my friend to escape the smell. Finally I got used to it, as you tend to do with any smell no matter how impossible that seems at first, and eventually forgot about the two who had just become our “neighbors” at the bar and continued the conversation with my friend. Let me take one second to clarify that this particular night it was a guy friend that I was out with. We were chatting, enjoying our drinks until the guy next to me started to lean against me, as if using me as the back of his chair. His back was to me and I doubt he realized it was a person he was putting all of his weight into but needless to say, I was less than pleased with the seating arrangement. After several meaningful bumps on my part which he didn’t seem to notice I gave him a slight, less than subtle shove, at which point he sort of turned and frowned slightly but also stopped leaning on me. Great, I thought, problem solved. Little did I know the problems were just beginning.

It was shortly after that when one of the men got up and they ended up switching seats. Space was a little tight moving in and out of the seats at the bar but I gave a friendly smile at the man trying to climb into his seat next to me. He was older (saying early fifties would be generous) and well dressed, like most people who frequent EO. A little bit later I caught him looking my way and we exchanged pleasantries. I asked him where he was from because I couldn’t place his accent and he told me he was from Serbia. He also told me that he was a photographer/photojournalist here doing some work and that the younger gentleman he was with (the one who had earlier used me as a backrest) was his assistant. I told him I was a dancer and he asked me (quite creepily I might add) if I had my own personal photographer (implying that if I didn’t, he would be happy to do the honors). I said I did not have my own personal photographer. Let me stray off topic for just one second. Who approaches a girl sitting with a guy? Guy friend, gay friend, boyfriend, doesn’t matter, or am I mistaken? Because how is the outside party supposed to know what relation it is? Mr. Serbia obviously couldn’t gauge the relation and asked if the guy I was with was my boyfriend. To make things easier and after his creepy ass comment about a personal photographer I felt like having a “boyfriend” was the safest bet and replied that it was indeed my boyfriend. However it did not seem to faze Mr. Serbia. Instead he happily introduced himself and shook hands with my friend. Great, if that didn’t deter him then there wouldn’t be a whole lot more tricks to pull out of the bag. He told me how beautiful he thought I was and asked if my boyfriend was jealous of us talking and I replied saying no, he wasn’t the jealous type. He seemed pleased about that but it was only later that his true craziness started to come out. He told me, as I was talking, that I had such a beautiful mouth and that he’d like to “try it”. EW. Absolutely disgusting. By this point, I had informed my guy friend that he was my “boyfriend” and he started playing along, trying to help me out of the situation, holding my waist, that sort of thing. However whenever Mr. Serbia talked to me, he felt the need to invade my personal space by, one: talking directly into my ear, and two: also putting his hand on my back at which point the two guys would end up touching hands. My friend made a joke about how he felt like he should grab the Serbian’s hand and just hold it for awhile. Mr. Serbia bought a round of shots us, my “boyfriend” included. How thoughtful, right? Apparently after that he thought we’d known each other long enough to just go right in for the kill. He said, word for word “You are so beautiful and I want you”. Wow. No need to beat around the bush here. I said I didn’t think my boyfriend would appreciate that and he let it go for the moment. Shortly thereafter I was talking to my friend and Mr. Serbia got up to use the bathroom presumably. I started talking to his assistant who was considerably younger and less creepy. However we only had a  brief chat as Mr. Serbia came back far too quickly. He started talking about Serbia, asking if I had ever been. I said sadly no (wanting to add that after meeting him I never wanted to go there, ever). I said my only experience with Serbia was the exchange students my parents had hosted (true story) and I stressed that they were all so nice, hoping he would get the hint and tone the creepy down, but no such luck. He told me that he had worked for the president of Serbia until recently as his photojournalist. Now, I have zero ways of knowing if this is true, or instead, complete bullshit, but it really wouldn’t have been surprising to me. Such a creep must have somehow been involved in politics. Weird, creepy, backwater, Euro-politics. Anyhow, we are getting close to the best part.

“Would you like to share with me and my friend and your boyfriend?”

Yes, he propositioned a four way with one girl and three guys. If that doesn’t sound like the worst thing ever, I’m not sure what does. If I were ever to be involved in a three way, or more (which honestly I have nothing against) the girls most certainly need to outnumber the guys. What is one girl supposed to do with three dicks? That’s some crazy scary porno shit right there which I want no part in. After this proposition I gestured to my friend saying I was already going home with someone, thanks but no thanks (that sounds terrifying) and he replied saying “Yes, but sometimes you need two.” Incorrect sir. At this point I had already had about eight drinks too many plus shots on top of that. I decided it was time to just get the hell out and that’s exactly what I did, leaving Mr. Serbia and his assistant behind to find some other poor “beautiful lipped” girl (guys, just a hint, never ever lead into a compliment by saying a girl has beautiful lips, it will never be anything but creepy as fuck) for their orgy. 

Thanks EO for a good story every time. 

 

Just for funsies this week’s themesong is the themesong for Three’s Company, enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMVj-_zVkL8

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It’s a wonderful world

So I know I’ve been painting this horrible picture of NYC since I became a true New York hipster and and started blogging but I am here today to tell you that it’s not always the worst. I thought I would share some of the good experiences I’ve had as well and hope that I haven’t already scared you into not ever wanting to visit NYC (for those of you who live here, you already know). Although no one that I am about to write about was anyone that I was remotely interested in, they were all very nice people, had good intentions and made my evening just a little bit better. 

Let’s start with Justin. See, already it’s starting out better because I actually remember his name. Normally, with the usual douchebag, the name goes in one ear and out the other. I was sitting at the bar one Friday evening at one of my local favorites. It was a Friday night, but a quiet Friday night, the best kind. The bro’s and hoes were not out in full form. I was sitting at the end of the bar by myself, enjoying an extremely well made and delicious cocktail. I had to work the next morning so I was most certainly not trying get crazy. Two men had been sitting at the opposite end of the bar for quite awhile and I’d been noticing some glances in my direction but didn’t think anything of it until one of them got up and headed in my direction. He said that he had noticed me and couldn’t leave the bar without coming over to say hi (although some guys have said this to me before in the absolute creepiest ways, this was actually the opposite of that, and I felt flattered). He said that he had bought a Groupon for dueling pianos and wanted to invite me to go with him the next evening. I told him that while it sounded great, I already had plans. He took the declined invitation extremely well and we continued talking. We discovered that we were both from Southwest Virginia (for those of you who read my post this week where I bashed the guy from Virginia, take note, this was the exact opposite). We knew the same places, and laughed at people who said they had been to Virginia when really they just meant Northern Virginia and the greater D.C. area. No offense but it’s completely different. After a lovely conversation Justin said he should rejoin his friend, wished me a very pleasant evening and left without any hints on my part. It was a revelation after so many terrible guys.

The next night, Saturday I met a girlfriend of mine in the West Village. We met at a neighborhood joint called Corner Bistro. It’s a great spot with cheap burgers and even cheaper beer. A gem in the West Village where any drink normally costs a fortune, instead you walk away with a $25 dollar tab for two people. Unreal. Anyhow, my girlfriend and I were sitting at a table together, and let’s just say we were there for awhile. The tables around us were always full but changed occupants somewhat frequently. At some point later on in the night, two guys came and sat at the table next to us. They ordered food and drinks and seemed to be doing pretty much the same thing as my friend and I. Enjoying cheap food and drinks and good company. They sent a few looks our way but picking up girls was not their goal for the evening. When my friend and I had had our fill of drinks and sleepiness started to settle in we discussed giving another bar a try but in the end decided it was time to call it a night. The guys also paid their tab and made their way out slightly before us. Upon exiting their table they stopped and chatted with us for a few brief seconds. They said they had overheard us saying we were leaving and had decided that since the best part of the bar was leaving, they thought they would too. As corny as this may sound, late on a Saturday night after several drinks, it’s cute and exactly what you want to hear. Instead of trying to convince us to come with them to a different bar, or try and get numbers, they wished us a great night and then went about theirs.

My friend and I walked to the train station together and parted ways as she lives way the fuck in Washington Heights and I had to make my way back to Bushwick. On the train I ended up with a seat (saturday night on the L train heading back to Brooklyn, this was practically a miracle) and sitting next to me was the sweetest old man. We exchanged smiles when we first sat down and then he proceeded to tell me that he thought I was extremely beautiful and some man out there was very lucky. He guessed that I lived in Williamsburg (maybe I am turning into a hipster, God help me) and when I corrected him to Bushwick he was ecstatic. “Beautiful and with an actual personality!” he said spiritedly to me as if excited that young people still wanted to push the boundaries and not be complete sell outs (not saying that’s what I think about myself, or anyone in Bushwick, but that’s what the old man seemed to believe). We chatted happily until it was my stop. The chatty old man wished me “A beautiful night to a beautiful lady” and smiling I exited the train. 

Even in NYC you have experiences which make you feel good, individual and happy in the place that you live in. None of these men tried to get numbers or force anything on me. They were generally nice humans, giving compliments in the right places and knowing when enough is enough. Weeks like these make me believe that there are still good guys out there and that it’s not just creep after creep that I normally get stuck with. Not that I actually believed good guys were going extinct, but sometimes you just need that happy reminder and a boost in your day. 

 

This weeks song, just a little corny: Louis Armstrong; What a Wonderful World: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3yCcXgbKrE

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Creep No More

Today we are back to the usual. Setting: Pianos bar on the lower east side. For those of you who don’t know it, it’s a hip live music venue with a seemingly young vibe. Bar in the front with a DJ, live music in the back of various genres and an upstairs playing all the hits for your pleasure. Like I said before, and let me stress this, a younger vibe. I walked in one very cold night and was waiting for a girlfriend who was meeting me there. When I arrived there weren’t any seats at the bar so I was awkwardly standing around for a hot second before squeezing in at the bar to grab a drink and while I was waiting for my drink, a seat opened up at the bar, you know how it goes. I sat down, made myself comfortable, sipping on my drink. Shortly after, my friend arrived and we started chatting away. We’d already been there a little while when another friend showed up and surprised us. And now there were three, which is apparently easier to approach than two. 

The first man leaned right in between my girlfriend and I and asked if he could squeeze in to order drinks (mind you he’d already actually barged his way in, so he wasn’t really even asking). He tried to make small talk with me as he ordered his drinks. Then as he was paying he decided he needed to buy me a drink “for my trouble”, although I noticed he wasn’t eagerly buying my friend a drink for her trouble. Anyway, I said sure to the free drink, fine by me. I mean who says no to free drinks? Certainly not the poor dancing nanny that is me. As my drink was being made he feebly tried to make a joke. “I’m going to drink all of these,” he motioned to the two beers and a mixed drink that he had just purchased, “one at a time.” I looked blankly at him until he felt the need to say “I’m joking”. As you can tell, things were getting off to a great start. My drink comes but creepo keeps hanging around. He asked if those were my friends, the people I was with (nah, just some random people I decided to wait for, and sit with, and talk to at the bar. Yes dickwad, those are my friends). He told me that he had noticed me when I first came in and that it looked like I was waiting for someone. Cool story bro. I wanted to tell him that I had noticed him when I first walked in also. It’s hard to miss an older indian man, dressed in a suit drinking red wine, straight up creeping at the bar by himself. However I didn’t think he would appreciate hearing this and therefore refrained from telling him. He then started asking me what line of work I was in and I told him that I’m a nanny. He replied to this by saying, and I quote, “You’re a nanny? That’s amazing because I’ve been looking for someone to babysit me. This is a happy circumstance because I can get into a lot of trouble.” EW. This has to be at the top of a rather large list of gross things guys have said to me. Like, do you really think I’m going to respond in a positive way to that? Oh yeah, I wanna babysit you. Never. His level of creepo went from about a 4 or 5 to an 8 or 9. That’s a lot of creepo. He said that maybe he was in the wrong line of work (which he stressed was finance, cool bro, don’t care) and he was going to consider becoming a babysitter. “A male nanny, what would you even call that?” A manny sir, it’s not that hard and it is definitely a thing. Luckily at this point his friends whose drinks he had ordered and were still just sitting on the bar started shooting daggers at him and he said he needed to bring the drinks over to them (thank god), but that he would be sure to come back and check on me (excuse me, are you my babysitter sir? Ew, also please don’t ever talk to me again). 

Now I thought that I had exhausted my suitors for the evening and went back to enjoying my night out with friends. No such luck however, The next guy plopped himself down right next to me and introduced himself as the boring geek. Not really, but would that be great if he actually had? No he introduced himself as Bob or Jim  or Ted or one of those boring names and didn’t have a single interesting thing to say. The only common ground we found was that we were both from Virginia, which is all well and good except that usually when I talk to someone I want to talk about more things than the state that I grew up in. Not that I don’t like Virginia but there is a reason why I don’t live there anymore and instead live in NYC. It’s just not that exciting to me at the moment. Exchanging a few words such as “Oh cool, you’re from Virginia, I’m from Virginia too” is about all the time I want to spend on that topic but no, Mr. Virginia kept going at it until I literally wanted to punch him. I didn’t though, don’t worry. Luckily my friends caught on to my distress signals and (not so subtly) drew my attention back towards them and a short while later we headed upstairs for a change in scenery, conveniently avoiding any attempts from Mr. Babysitter to come back and check on me. Dodged a bullet right there. 

The rest of the night proved uneventful and fun in the best of ways, just as it should be when you are out with friends enjoying yourself instead of being accosted by strange men. To the men out there trying to pick up women, first of all I wish you the best of luck. Second of all, don’t be a huge creep. If you are asking yourself right now if you are a creep, bad news, you probably are and should try to avoid creepy situations such as going to bars where you don’t blend in with the average person and standing around by yourself (also scenarios like lurking in dark alleyways and owning windowless vans, but I hope that goes without saying). Third and finally I would say, be prepared to have something interesting and funny to say, if there’s nothing interesting about you, make something up and if you can’t even do that, well even I don’t know what to say. So basically what I’m saying is, if you’re trying to pick up women don’t be a boring creep. Boom. 

I suppose in a sense, when men hit on you it actually is comparable to babysitting. They will annoy the shit out of you but it’s still not polite to tell them to fuck off. Maybe next go around I’ll see if a timeout works. 

 

Creep TLC: This weeks theme song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlZydtG3xqI

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Hey Mami

Today’s story is a little bit different than usual. It didn’t take place in the normal bar setting, but it is a fact that men will hit on women in any situation no matter the inappropriateness of the situation. This particular time, it was in a taxi cab. However it wasn’t one of the bright yellow or green city cabs, it was a car service. The kind that makes you sometimes wonder, while getting in the car late at night by yourself, if it really is a car service or if you are willingly getting into an unmarked black car with a stranger. Maybe I’m the only one who has those kind of thoughts. The worst is when it’s a black unmarked SUV and you’re getting in thinking, yes I might definitely get abducted tonight. Anyways, let’s get back to the story, shall we? 

I’d been working late one evening (so I haven’t even been at the bar drinking, instead I am stone sober and tired as fuck) and the parents got back from their date night, or whatever it is that rich people do when they go out, and they called me a car (as per usual). The car arrives in the normal “five minute” (insert the appropriate foreign accent) time frame and I get into the car, greet the driver and tell him where I’m going. Now I know I’ve mentioned this in a previous post recently but it is one of my pet peeves when the driver doesn’t know where to go. In this case he just asked me to repeat myself about eight times (I could barely understand him so maybe the feeling was mutual). He looked confused for a second and then headed off. Now I obviously knew where I was going as it was from work to my house, both places that I know surprisingly well (shocker). Every driver has their own route that they prefer to take and all the various routes are usually the same distance and take about the same amount of time so I don’t interfere and just let them do their thing. However, with this particular driver, after about the fifth turn in the wrong direction, I spoke up, telling him he was going the wrong way/taking the very long way around to which he responded “Don’t tell me I’m going the wrong way”. I was slightly annoyed (wouldn’t you be?) and told him that it was my neighborhood, that I had a car and was very used to driving in the area. To that he replied by saying:

“Everyone drives.”

First of all sir, that is not at all accurate because this is NYC and if everyone did indeed drive, you probably wouldn’t have a job. Just saying. I didn’t push it though and let him continue on his weird back alley way. Then out of the blue he asked me “So when are you going to pick me up and drive me around?” I was somewhat unprepared for this type of question and jokingly replied, “Next time, for sure.” hoping he would leave it at that. I bet you have already guessed however, that he did not leave it at that. His next question was “How about you pick me up and we’ll go to the movies sometime soon?” At this point I had no idea if he was joking or serious but either way I was feeling more awkward by the second. I tried to avoid the question by mumbling something like “Yeah, sure, maybe”. The driver then asked me how I was gonna pick him up if I didn’t have his number (real smooth, sir). I said I guess I would have to call a car and hope it was him who picked me up. He wasn’t too pleased by this answer and kept saying, “Don’t say yes if you don’t mean it. How are we gonna see a movie if you don’t have my number?” I was feeling extremely awkward by this point and kept laughing and joking trying to keep me from actually giving him my number. I mean we were stuck in a car together, what else was I supposed to do? We kept going round and round until finally we got to (sort of) my apartment. Apparently giving him my street and the cross streets eight times wasn’t enough because he took me a block down from where I needed to go and told me that’s why he had taken the weird long way around (still not a thing that needed to happen, even if I did live where he thought I told him I did). I paid him and got out of the car and he rolled down his window trying to ask me for my number one more time. This was the first time I got a good look at him, graying, easily 50 year old black man who spent almost the entire car ride (which was probably easily twice as long as it needed to be) trying to convince me to go to the movies with him. Don’t I feel special? I thanked him and practically ran to my apartment (in hindsight, thank god he didn’t drop me off where I actually live so he doesn’t know where it is). I think the worst part was that in a bar setting at lease, it’s expected and not at all unusual for guys to try to pick up girls. In a taxi however, not so much. Even better, now every time I work late I have to hope I don’t get the same driver. I know odds are slim but even in NYC you run into weird “small world” scenarios. And with my luck, I’m sure I’ll see him again. 

This week’s theme song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuip8KUSt6U

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Goodbye my roommate, goodbye my friend

Another week, another story. Don’t be too excited now. I know everyone is just sitting at home and waiting for the next story to come out, right? Like a full time job. Anyhow, let’s get started shall we? Ready, action. It’s Saturday night and I’m at the last bar of the night. It was a goodbye party weekend for one of my dearest friends, so you know what that means, lots of shots. Whenever there’s an actual reason for going out, aka birthday, going away party, etc. shot are always non-negotiable. Otherwise you just look like an asshole. Oh, I know it’s your special day and all, I’m just not feeling it. Shut the fuck up and take your shot. Sorry, getting sidetracked. So, let me say again, it was the last bar of the night, it was late and I’d probably already had too many before I even got to the last bar, because really when you get to that point where you just want to keep going, it’s actually the ideal time to call it a night and go home. But let’s get real, who has the self control to do that? Certainly not me. 

Now I was with my roommate whose goodbye party/weekend it was, so she was obviously in even worse shape than me and kept wandering off. So I’m sitting there by myself and I see a guy by the bar scanning the room and I knew automatically he was looking. I tried to busy myself and look anywhere but his direction but to no avail. He was a lion on the hunt and I was the perfect pray. He b-lined it straight to me and introduced himself. I tried (and probably failed) to look enthusiastic but he didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He offered to buy me a drink (those bonus points got him out of the red, maybe) and he went back to the bar to get my drink. Meanwhile two girls came and sat next to me, taking his seat, which I wasn’t terribly concerned about. He came back with my drink and decided the best thing to do was kind of, hover over me, not cute, while asking me the normal get-to-know-you (bar version) questions. He was boring and not particularly attractive with no game, so weirdly enough, he wasn’t drawing my full attention. Particularly since I kept needing to scan the room and make sure my dearest roommate wasn’t passed out somewhere. He left to use the men’s room and a blond, long haired Australian took his place. The Australian got obvious bonus points for his accent and for being attractive. However, he then told me his name, the same as my ex and completely killed any chance he had. Although not his fault and possibly unfair, but really, it’s just weird, right? Also he then started telling me that he was in a band and that they had come to New York and were planning to travel the U.S. for three months to try and make it. I told him I thought that was great and asked him where his tour was taking the band. He replied saying they weren’t actually on a tour and they didn’t have any shows lined up, just that they were gonna travel around to the big cities for three months trying to “make it”. Far be it from me to give anyone career advice but it seems to me that if you really want to make it in the music industry you should probably have a bit more of a plan then going on vacation.

Anyway, at this point the first guy came back and was somewhat outraged by the fact that I was now talking to someone else. He seemed to be under the impression that since he had bought me a drink, he had exclusive rights, or some shit like that. Sorry pal, not quite. I mean one drink, we’re practically dating right? Yeah, no. Mr. One was so persistent in barging into my conversation with Mr. Australian that eventually Mr. Aussie gave up and went to find easier fish to fry. Not that I was all that heartbroken to see him go, but now I was stuck back with Mr. One again and he was way worse than the Australian. The conversation was terrible and he wouldn’t take any of my hints to leave, so eventually I struck up conversation with the two girls who had sat down next to me. They were friendly and we proceeded to all become best friends (the kind you never see again of course). Mr. One kept trying to take part in the conversation but none of us were really having any of that. Finally Mr. One asked me:

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure” I replied.

“Are you straight, lesbian or bi…” he kind of trailed off as if me being bi was his last hope. 

“Oh, I’m a lesbian,” I replied matter-of-factly “I thought you realized that.”

He paused for a moment before asking “Are you sure?”

Ha. Am I sure I’m a lesbian? Either you are dumb or just extremely unobservant with no common sense. Obviously I’m not a lesbian which would mean, or at least hopefully point to the fact that I am not interested in you, at all. Mr. One finally took his leave at that point. I chatted with the two girls until last call and then went to find my roommate, who had been bobbing in and out all evening, and we left. However the evening wasn’t over quite yet. On the train a guy came over and sat next to me, introducing himself as “Grits”. Being drunk and at that point also rather tired, my filter wasn’t working quite as well as usual and so I replied with “Grits, like the southern breakfast cereal? Like cheese-grits?” He was good natured and said yes, exactly like that. I was wearing a bow barrette in my hair, one of those classic american apparel ones and Grits said, “I like the bowtie in your hair.” I laughed and thanked him. What better place to wear a bowtie than in your hair? My roommate and I got off a few stop later and I said goodbye to Grits. 

Needless to say, sometimes you do need to save the best things for last, because that definitely saved my night. A few annoying suitors can be easily remedied by something entirely random which makes your night a bit better. Occasionally you need those silly chance encounters to remind you that New York is a great place, full of a mix of bad and good people who can annoy the shit out of you, or bring a smile to your face.

 

This post is dedicated to one of my dearest friends jkramey. 

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