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:


About 25shotsandcounting

My name is Sylvia. I’m a 22 year old girl living in NYC. For reasons I wish I knew, I get hit on a lot. I don’t think it’s because I’m particularly more attractive, funnier or even more intelligent than other girls. I’m convinced that it’s some kind of weird aura that only men can sense. An invisible sign that says, “Well hi there, I’m open for business.” Ironically, I’m usually not. The idea for this blog came about while I was dating a bartender in Williamsburg. I would go his bar and have several drinks by myself while waiting for him to get off work. Like clockwork, it was usually only a matter of time before I had a parade of guys come and talk to me. So much so that it became a running joke between my boyfriend at the time and all of his co-workers, just betting how long it would take before I had my next victim. Sometimes flattering, sometimes annoying, other times like some sort of scientific curiosity, the unelicited attention became enough of a pattern to notice and, free drinks aside, generally dread. I seem to be a magnet for awkward pick up attempts, which sometimes lead to misadventures of one kind or another. I know this is a common phenomenon for young women in NYC, but I figured, why not write about it.
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