Under no circumstances should you reject the bread that comes with your meal at Lafayette, the bright and somewhat uptight French restaurant that took over Chinatown Brasserie’s massive space on Lafayette and Great Jones.
If you’re already drinking wine or any kind of cocktail, you’re already consuming carbohydrates. And, in spite of what Dr. Gwyneth Paltrow or your adorable eating disorder is telling you, carbs don’t make you fat. I only bring this up because Lafayette has an entire BREAD PROGRAM. That means there’s an employee who works upwards of 40 hours a week on just the bread. And it shows. Order the butter lettuce salad and a crab tartine (both light, balanced, and filling) if you’re worried about your hot beach body. And go to town on that spectacular olive bread. You can work out tomorrow.
Based on the quality of the starters the kitchen turned out on Lafayette’s fourth night open, I’d go back to see how Chef Carmellini rocks my world with a full dinner - but I’m waiting to find a boy with a real job who’s capable of footing the bill. Prices are steep, but this comes as no surprise. Former occupant of the space, Chinatown Brasserie, boasted some of the most glamorous and expensive mediocre Sesame Chicken I’ve ever eaten.
The cocktails are refreshing but annoying - go with the wine. It didn’t bother me that the barmaster’s concotions were $14 a pop. That price point is to be expected for a place with Per Se and Craft alum on board. However, whoever designed the drink list made it so that the poor bartender had to hit far too many points of service to keep up with the busy bar. You can’t double strain every goddamned drink - that’s ridiculous. And my bartender kept one paw neatly tucked behind his back 90% of the time, reminding me of the butler at The Plaza Hotel from my favorite children’s book, Eloise.
This level of formality is too much – especially when you’re within spitting distance of The Continental, where the Hepatitis-C flows like wine.
I don’t need fine-dining service to feel fancy. I’ve got my growing collection of lace cocktail knickers for that. More often than not, prim and proper service in a restaurant makes me uncomfortable. There’s too much fun to be had with food and drink to keep one paw neatly tucked behind your back, wouldn’t you say?
I know I’ve used paw twice to describe the bartender’s hand. But how cute would it be if pugs could be bartenders? #agirlcandream
The Uber App just might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and it also might be the worst thing that ever happened to my New Year’s Resolution regarding credit cards and how adults should only use them for emergencies. (Like $800.00 Mackage leather jackets.)
Uber is, in their words: “Everyone’s private driver.” In my words: It’s a car service app that means you’ll never have to take a smelly, beat-up yellow cab ever again, provided you don’t mind paying double for a private car service that appears wherever you are in the city in ten minutes or less.
But - wait - how is this possible?!
It’s an iPhone app, that’s how.
The Uber Interface allows you to pinpoint the exact location that you need to be picked up from using a Google Map. When you select your location, you see the Uber cars that are in your area and the estimated time it will take them to reach you. The map doesn’t allow you to pinpoint your address by number, but it does allow you to pinpoint where you’re standing on the block if you take the time to zoom in.
Now, when you’re about to leave your apartment, you can tell whether or not you’ll have time to gag down those leftover dumplings in your fridge, or whether you should just resign yourself to eating everyone’s martini olives for the rest of the night.
Select “go” and a driver is sent to you – all without having to speak to anyone on the phone! It’s the Delivery.com of Car Services! You’re sent what you need without having to endure an actual conversation with a human.
I love technology.
Friends drag you to a loud club that looks like it’s full of rejects from Jersey Shore? No problem. Uber your way out of there! Need to escape your cringe-worthy date while he’s in the bathroom at Veselka? Master the Hi-Tech Ninja: Summon an Uber and pretend to be abducted by the mafia. I haven’t tried this yet, but I’m sure I will soon.
I would say my life was a solid 8 out of 10 before I found Uber. Now it’s 9.999998.
If you’re lucky, the Uber drivers even bring treats! Last weekend, I splurged and took three Ubers over the course of one night. The final SUV that picked me up at Le Baron at 2:30 AM offered me and Le Sam our choice of Peanut M&Ms, Peanut Butter M&Ms, and/or two bottles of water. This kept me from making an order from Bad Burger from my Delivery.com App, so Uber actually saved me money when you factor in the $40 of food I would have otherwise ordered.
Did I mention that Uber gives you options? When you schedule your pick up, you can choose between a black towncar or a black SUV.
Do I even have to tell you this?
SUV FTW, you guys.
Yes, it’s more expensive and it’s bad for the environment BLAH BLAH BLAH, but can you put a price tag on showing up to wherever you’re going looking like you’re this divalicious legend?
I don’t get many chances to feel like Mary J. Blige in my daily life. When I find them, I seize them. And so should you.
Oh, sweet Uber…you’re a glorious, beautiful little iPhone App. I only wish you came to New York iPhones sooner, and your prices were a little more L.E.S. Artiste-chic friendly.
While staying at the Cosmopolitan for my four day “I’m getting older” extravaganza, I found myself more than slightly unimpressed by the following:
1. The concierge staff was rude, but in the wrong way. New York concierges are subtly rude. They’re fall silent when you ask something incredibly stupid, and know how to execute seamlessly sly “judgement eyes.” If you have any questions about what this looks like, go to the Bowery Hotel and ask the concierge where Greenwich Village is in relation to the West Village. Please.
I prefer this delicate New York variety of “Concierge disdain,” because I find it sophisticated. In Las Vegas, however, I encountered a concierge at The Cosmopolitan who was rude in a toddler-like way, and we all know that toddlers are horrible little beings. (Shrieking like piglets at slaughter about not wanting to share their cookies and whatnot.) I have to wash my hands just thinking about it, since they’re also perpetually covered in nasty sandbox germs.
The Cosmo Concierge’s figurative cookie - or, the information he really didn’t seem to want to share - was my suite. For whatever reason, he insisted that I had to check in at 6 PM rather than 3 PM. When I tried to explain that I booked a room that should’ve been ready by 3 PM, he more or less stomped his foot on the ground, made some high-pitched noises with his mouth like some reject from Barney’s Sing-a-long, and put me in a studio (WHAT?!) with yellow dehydration piss in the toilet.
I had booked a one bedroom suite, and it took me all day to get into the right room. So mature, Mister Vegas Concierge.
2. I thought that Las Vegas was supposed to be Sin City? I really didn’t see that much sinning, and I found myself getting into very little trouble in comparison to the amount of trouble I find myself in while in my hometown of NYC. Why is it that I see way worse on a nightly basis in New York? Am I jaded? Should we blame Kenmare? If I continue to type questions will my face get as narrow as Carrie Bradshaw’s? … Hopefully no.
3. Where were all the Jesse Spano style showgirls? The only show I saw was more like a burlesque straight out of The Box. I have no problem with this variety of burlesque, but I must admit, I was expecting something more like Jesse Spano in her devastatingly brilliant Showgirls performance.
Yet, there’s one thing New York can learn from Vegas: their kick-out policy. One member of my party was kicked out of Marquee Mega-Club after she stared at a hot and disinterested bartender for about an hour while taking FULL advantage of the open bar, and then sat down on the bathroom floor, only to later stumble into a planter in an outdoor area while trying to smoke an unlit cigarette. As the bouncer descended to tell us that she was being kicked out, my bestie Le Sam offered to carry her home.
What the bouncer did next was pure genius.
“I think you might need these,” he blocked Le Sam’s exit, and handed him a pair of flip-flops that were printed with the club’s logo for our overserved friend! Dude knew there was no way Drunky McDrunkerson could make it to her room in her Christian Louboutins, and rather than let her turn her ankle on the hotel grounds, he offered us a pair of flats for her.
(These obvi weren’t the exact flippies, it’s a stock image, but whatever.)
Why haven’t we implemented this policy in New York? I have a dim recollection of being at the old Bungalow 8 back in the day, and seeing their notorious vending machine, which was stocked with shameful must-haves like condoms, over-night bags, toothbrushes, and ballet flats. Of course, because it was the old Bungalow, all of these items were upwards of $20 and I was a broke college student, so I just stood in front of the machine with an open mouth, like the little match girl.
While Bungalow 8 offered handy amenities - including shoes - they all came at a price. I’ve never seen a bouncer in New York gift a pair of shoes to an intoxicated young lady merely because he wants her to get home without turning her ankle or playing slip-n-slide on the sidewalk. I have seen little roll-up ballet flats for sale at Ricky’s, but purchasing them and remembering to throw them in your purse would mean planning on becoming indisposed or severely intoxicated. Most people I know don’t plan on this sort of thing happening…it just…does.
Think about how much money could be saved on band-aids, city-wide, if bouncers started helping damsels in distress switch shoes. Perhaps this inconsideration on behalf of New York bouncers is a conspiracy to keep band-aids in business. I’m going to get to the bottom of this…
Pouring Ribbons is on Avenue B (between 14th and 13th), but definitely deserves an A+ for cocktails and staffing!
If you’re as old school as I am, you’ll totally recognize the stairwell that leads up to Pouring Ribbons’ space as the same one that led up to Uncle Ming’s.
Remember Uncle Ming’s? Think back to around 2008. I was whacktressing back then, and I remember it *somewhat* clearly as the dive with the hot bartenders who seemed super partial to cutting the sleeves off of their tee-shirts, and overserving and undercharging my friends. Needless to say, we were there all the time.
At one point, one of my friends was trying to date one of the bartenders, but she never picked up on the fact that he was sober - in spite of the fact that he never poured himself a drink and always refused to take shots with us. She made a drunken fool of herself in front of him on the regular. Fact: Sober guys generally don’t go for the whole I’m-drunk-so-I’m-going-to-bring-these-potato-chips-in-bed-because-I-starved-myself-all-day-and-now-that-my-inhibitions-are-out-the-door-I-feel-ok-about-eating type of thing. Their fling didn’t last very long.
Through the evil magic of Facebook I found a picture of the bartender I’m referencing turning his back on our tom-foolery:
The dude on the left was a mess. Another whacktress-friend of mine subsequently dated him. Here’s one instance where I didn’t accidentally date the cute bartender - savor it.
Anywho, I never think about going back to Ming’s these days. That’s a period of my life that no one wants me to repeat. But, last night, after a fantastic dinner at one of my favorite restaurants in the East Village (a place so wonderful that it requires it’s own post) Le Sam suggested getting a nightcap at Pouring Ribbons. As we were walking there, I soon figured out that we were heading toward Uncle Ming’s.
“Oooh!” I thought, “This is going to get weird.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited. And, perhaps, a little nostalgic for my early twenties.
But…no. It’s almost as if Uncle Ming’s grew up with me and turned into Pouring Ribbons. Back when I waitressed in red fishnets and plaid shorts, Uncle Ming’s looked like the type of place that a girl who waitressed in red fishnets and plaid shorts would be found doing a little after-work drinking.
Presently, I’m way less of a Shady McShadester, and the Pouring Ribbons incarnation of Ming’s old space has matured. It’s as awesome, unique, and classy as I am. Actually, it might even be a little classier.
These days, the space that was once a den of debauchery is certifiably elegant. The torn couches have been replaced with modern oak tables and nooks, and dim lighting, but the design team hasn’t pushed it too far in the sexy direction, which sits well with me.
Not everyone had a Valentine this week, or any tangible success with the opposite of sex.Some of us just need to spend $14 a piece on cocktails with our friends on the Wednesday night before Valentine’s Day.There’s no judgement here at NYNIGHTLIFER!
The space - and the experience - is about the experience of craft cocktails and mixology. Ordinarily, this would strike me as overplayed at this point. But Pouring Ribbons takes itself just seriously enough, and makes it’s own drinks well enough, to be enjoyable and not cliche.
The drink list is out of control, bat-shit insane - in a good way. The bartenders also give you the option of “choosing your own adventure.” In other words, tell them what you like vs. what you hate and they’ll make you something awesome. This is not the type of place where you order a vodka soda, although one of the Stupids I was cavorting with did, of course. (There’s always that one…)
I had the Tropic of Cancer, a spicy blend of Chili-infused Pueblo Viejo Tequila, Coffee-Infused Carpano Antica, and Angostura Bitters. Don’t feel bad if you don’t know what 70% of that means – I didn’t either. But, I found that it tasted like spicy coffee, and it perked me up enough to notice a cute bartender in suspenders that was easily four years younger than me. Thanks, Tequila! Unfortunately, it woke me up so well that I had to order two glasses of what I like to call GoodnightRedWine afterword.
One nightcap is never one nightcap when you spot a cougie snack-pack!
Give Pouring Ribbons a go the next time you fancy an original cocktail in a beautiful room above the teaming streets of the East Village!
It’s 4 PM on a Tuesday and you’re watching the clock while your boss yammers on about something you don’t care about when it happens: you feel a buzzing about two centimeters above your left nipple. That’s your phone, dummy. You’ve been hiding it in your bra again. And you’ve just been texted.
“TONIGHT! Saturday sessions in the sexy lounge downstairs at [INSERT NAME OF CLUB THAT WAS COOL 2 YEARS AGO HERE]. Official Lil’ Romeo Album Release afterparty. Comp cocktails at Midnight. MY NAME AT THE DOOR. Guys, bring girls. No sneakers.”
Good job, moron. You made a serious mistake about giving your number out – either you wrote it down on a list, or gave it to some douchebag you met after too many margaritas, and now you’re part of a promoter’s contact list.
Congrats!Someone wants to give you free crappy vodka and will now contact you on a regular basis via annoying mass texts!
It’s no laughing matter. Promoter Texts are like STDs you catch from passing out your digits with too little discretion. Like a bad case of herpes, they flare up at the most inconvenient times – you’ll be impressing your boss a great app for finding the best authentic cuisine in Southeast Asia and a text from DJ Ricky McSlicky will come through, inviting you to slam back top shelf jello shots on a Wednesday night. “Let’s get drunker than high school girls!” will flash across your phone’s screen, and now any credibility you might have had with your employer is effectively destroyed.
Or, you’ll be in bed with your new boy and your phone will Zzzz-zzz at 3:49 AM telling you where to go to after hours (“Arrive quietly with your entourage! Be discreet!”) prompting a sleepy disagreement that begins with something like “I thought you NEVER go to afterhours,” or “I thought that part of your life was over.”Fast forward to brunch the next day.Thanks to some club promoter, your new dude will silently choke down Eggs Benedict, thinking all sorts of weird things about you…
Promoters and their infectious little texts have been plaguing young New York women since I moved here almost a decade ago.So why are these guys offering to give you free drinks? Some promoter dudes will say the want to “hang out,” but that’s a lie - they’re not hitting on you.The promoter is just trying to make money off of you, like a modern day, poorly paid pimp.
Are you that much fun to party with? Are you that pretty?
I mean, to be honest: not really. The fact that you’re on the receiving end of a promo text does, however, mean that you’re at least marginally attractive. Promoters get paid for bringing “beautiful people” into clubs. Top tier promoters get paid top dollar for luring in model chicks, while the bottom of the barrel promoters - the kind I’m familiar with - get paid for bringing in anything that’s not a total disaster in the looks department and has a vagina.
Most B, C, and D list promoters will posture and pretend that they’re doing big things in this big city of ours, but be forewarned: they likely moved here about a year ago from some obscure corner of the Midwest, are in between apartments but “have a place to crash in the city.” (Read: a couch in South Williamsburg next to someone’s dying but well-loved alley cat.)
And - might I add - anyone needs to posture like a mover and shaker in this town is often employed moving furniture, and only shakes as a result of alcohol withdrawal.
Promoters won’t get you a job as an actress or model or in whatever industry they claim is their “bag.” (“You into acting?That’s my bag, baby.”) I know of zero girls who “made it” because they were knocking into other hoochies while vying for a weak, free vodka cran at two in the morning on a Tuesday. Take this seriously: you have to look good at your casting. Clubrat behavior will made your face all poofy, and Lindsay Lohan already has dibs on those roles.
Sometimes, clubs hire promoters and pay promoters based on the number of the people who say the aforementioned name of said promoter at the door of the nightclub – that’s why MY NAME AT THE DOOR is somewhere in each mass text. The promoter gets paid in the neighborhood of $10.00 per head and gets free liquor for their party – but oftentimes, clubs are stingy, especially if they have enough paying customers and the place looks “hot” or whatever term is being used in the industry these days, and will only pass the promoter two or three bottles for the duration of the party: 4 hours or so. Two bottles of vodka feeds about twenty broke-ass clubgoers – max.
If a promoter doesn’t have enough people show up at the door and say his name, the promoter is going to be replaced by the next guy. Most of these blokes are looking for quantity and not quality, and are so desperate to get attractive girls in on their lists that they’ll:
A ~ Feign a semi-serious interest in dating the girl (“I really wanna see you tonite! LOL…Bring hot friends.”)
B ~ Claim to be throwing a party for an obscure celeb in order to get you to show up, when in reality they were just told by the club that the aforementioned obscure celeb is making an appearance and will be miles away from wherever the promoter and his hos are placed. (“Throwing a party for Fabolous! It’s about to get real!”)
The more successful promoters are usually either very, very attractive, or somehow appealing to the type of girl who you find at a club on a Wednesday night. Take me, for example. Promoters that have been able to lure me to their parties are generally over six feet tall, do a little catalog modeling by day, and are under the age of 24 - because old enough to pee is old enough for me!
Now that I’ve gone and admitted to being somewhat of a promo-ho, as I like to call them, so I may as well take it a step further and tell you the whole truth: There are few geniuses in this city more qualified to write an article on this other than me. I quit clubs from about twenty-four until roughly twenty-six in favor of a short series of decent boyfriends with real jobs who cared about me and didn’t like to see me stumbling around in stilettos. But then something strange happened. I happened upon this weirdo when I was trying to date one of his friends and then I wound up having a massive ClubRat Relapse.
I confess: from July through September I could be found skulking around lower Manhattan like some Lower East Side debutante past her prime. I went from dating a sober finance workaholic with an adorable gambling addiction to dating a pretty, pretty young, super dumb promoter and before I knew it I was drinking free well-vodka five nights a week while surrounded by twenty-two year olds who thought my promoter boyfriend was trying to date them.
I tried to extract him from “da club” at one point to give the whole relationship some sort of legitimacy, but when I brought him to the opening of my good friend’s restaurant in D.C., I had to foot the bill for the trip. To make matters worse, he loudly declared that the pate hors d’oeuvres at the event (which he ate an entire platter of since they were free) “smelled like the inside of his dog’s mouth in Wisconsin” but that this was okay because “he really missed his dog.”
Moral of the story? If you like free vodka there’s probably nothing wrong with being a bit of a promo-ho here and there, but you’re much better off learning how to make enough money to buy your own drinks or getting your butt behind the DJ booth.
And a word of advice: Look but don’t touch. Or, if you can’t help yourself, never bring your dumb promoter boyfriend somewhere where his thoughts are audible above the thumping bass of the music.
I pray that by next year, I’ll be a known writer and someone will say “Darling, can you cover Justin Biebers Cocaine Fueled 2014 K-Hole Nightmare at the Seventh Incarnation of Marquee?!” and I’ll have to say, “Sorry, Darling, as much as I’d love to snack on the Beebz I’ll be prancing around St. Barths that weekend in my leopard bikini with my small army of pugs, who are arriving via yacht ahead of me!”
A girl can dream.
Last year I made the sound decision to attend a friend’s dinner party in Brooklyn, and had a better than decent evening, but this year there were no invites to Brooklyn. So, I’ll be spending New Year’s Eve at one of my favorite bars in the West Village, and I’m frightened. I’m so terrified about what’s about to happen to me tonight, that I had a nightmare last night about having to dispose of a skeleton.
That’s some dark shit! So is NYE.
Allow me to explain: Either two or three years ago, I wound up on the roof of 60 Thompson with this moron who fancied himself a “media guru.” (Now he lives in Amsterdam and spins house music because his “media guru” career didn’t work out. That’s usually what happens to those kinds of people - Expat status and funky, funkaaay beats.)
In any event, it was about to strike midnight and we were ringing in either 2010 or 2011. After waiting for way too long at the bar without a drink, a frazzled girl behind the bar made me the dirty martini I was so craving. Mind you, “Media Guru” had no idea how to order a drink or get a bartender’s attention, so I had to squeeze past him and do it myself. BTW, as a former whacktress, my method for obtaining drinks has always been eye contact and patience. It goes a lot further than waving your hand, or worse, snapping - TRUST.
I barely had a chance to sip on the sweet, briney, boozy goodness before a thirty-something Garnier Fructis blonde (for an example of what this drunken monkey looked like, please see below) in one of those excessively sequined dresses that makes you think they’re in competition not with the better looking women in the club, but rather with the ball in Time Square, FELL ON TOP OF ME.
It was almost as if she’d been dropped on me from above - I have no idea where she came from - but she knocked me and my fresh vat of vodka to floor. For a moment I just lay there, utterly shocked, in the filth.
“Bitch!” Sparkles squealed. This sequin-studded trash-bucket beside me somehow thought I caused us both to tumble even though it was her lack of coordination and composure.
It’s always the one who knocks you over who then wants to hit you, but fortunately, Our Lady of Glimmer was unable to get herself verticle, flailing beside me like a beetle on her back. I stood up drenched in bar juice and “Media Guru” kind of dabbed at me with bar napkins and asked me if I was alright.
My already shitty night was now ruined, and I ninja’d and I left him on the roof, ran downstairs, and almost got into a physical altercation while trying to get a cab since there are never any to be found in the part of town. One would think the Thompson would keep it classy, but at the end of the day, wherever you end up in New York City when the ball drops is no better than an McSorely’s on St. Patrick’s Day.
On Saturday I went to a Holiday Party for a bunch of fancy doctors that was on the 36th floor of the Mandarin Oriental. If you should ever be so lucky to be invited to a friend or loved one’s company Christmas party, and that loved one happens to have a way fancier and more prestigious job than you, by all means, GO. Put on your party dress, get over your fear of the world above 23rd street, and get your ass into a cab.
Before we go any further: NO MOM AND DAD I DIDN’T MEET A NICE GUY. I AM 99% SURE THAT MY VAGINA EXUDES A PHERMONE THAT ONLY LURES IN GUYS WITH NECK TATTOOS AND CRIMINAL RECORDS WHILE REPELLING CLASSY GENTLEFOLKS LIKE DOCTORS.
And nothing says classy like raw bar and free flowing grey goose. Of course, I didn’t touch the food because I get weird about eating in social situations, in part because I still exhibit symptoms of my adorable adolescent bulimia nervosa, and in part because how does one suck on oysters in front of people they don’t know? There were no tiny forks and you can’t eat an oyster with a big fork because that’s so déclassé. Thus, your only option is to suck the briney goodness directly out of the oysters shell. And, if you do this, then everyone knows what you look like when you accidentally have lesbian sex!
Get on that tiny fork thing, Mandarin Oriental!
I avoided the raw bar and indulged in the copious free flowing grey goose. That’s the beauty of being at someone else’s Christmas party – you can really take advantage of that whole open bar thing. I don’t advise this sort of thing if you’re at your own Christmas Party unless you’re planning on quitting your job in the next day or so.
Back to the subject at hand: The Mandarin. At one point, while watching the mad white rich people try to impress one another on the dance floor, I turned to find my parents’ doctor friends standing right beside me.
Nothing makes you feel cooler than running into your retired Dad’s BFF at a party.
I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn’t shitfaced and/or making out with anyone and/or accidentally making out with my retired Dad’s BFF. But making out wasn’t in the cards for me.
No, sir. Too many non-criminals with jobs in one place for me to score. Seriously - I get hit on more at The Boiler Room. Hyuck, hyuck.
WIP is like a messy collage of places where I’ve behaved badly in the last decade.
The layout reminds me of that old club PM over in Meatpacking, where I first met Zelda Kaplan, who was wrapped in tribal gear and partying at the bar. The tables form a donut of dance space, or a race track, if you will. You can race around the tables like a prize pony on a track, searching for a big juicy carrot. Seemed to this pony (moi) that most of the carrots at WIP the last time I was there were potentially crooked, or like those little synthetic nugget shaped baby carrots. In other words, I wasn’t hungry for any of those carrots, if you catch my drift.
Most of the “artwork” (or “works” in “progress” if you will) make me yearn for the second coming of Don Hills. Of course, I bitched about Don’s when it was open (“We’re going there AGAIN? It’s like a parade of my accidental exboyfriends up in there”) and was devastated (for a number of reasons) to see it get shut down following Mr. Hill’s death. The bathrooms are equally wretched. They smell so bad it’s hard to inhale once you enter, if that matters to you.
The unfinished quality, which ostensibly makes WIP a true “Work In Progress,” coupled with the overall shitty and adolescent behavior of the crowd, reminds of me of a high school keg party in Westchester. Mind you, this is the venue where Chris Brown and Drake famously brawled over RiRi, which led to much yammering about how bottle service should be illegalized. And, just like one would find in a Westchester basement circa 2002, there’s always a too drunk girl throwing up in the corner, and a slutty redhead getting to second base behind the couch in plain view of everyone.
FACT: People behave less like animals when they’re in nicer places. You may see people over indulge and behave…decadently…at a place like Boom Boom but I’ve never seen dry humping or over-the-pants-handies happening on the roof of The Standard. People are sophisticated and go to the bathrooms for that sort of thing there.
Throw a bunch of people into a club basement – or any basement for that matter – South of 14th street and you are bound to start seeing people licking white powder off of strangers’ palms and throwing ‘bows and all of that nonsense.
The only basement that was okay was Kenmare, and Kenmare was an alternate universe where nothing that happened counts…
While I don’t really have anything against WIP, I’ve got to tell you that Andy Warhol’s Factory this is not. These are not Factory People, friends. These are B-Listers who rotate from club to club to club. Cuz, you know, a club is a club is a club. Once Fabolous has his MID THIRTIETH birthday party at your “artspace,” you’re a mo’fucking club. When you can literally smell the Gucci Addict perfume wafting down from Greenhouse, you’re a mo’fucking club.
And as for the art, which is supposed to be in rotation, forever in progress, and forever changing? I’ve been to the space three times in the past three months and while a duct tape statue with a tiny chode duct tape penis has disappeared from the entrance, the same creepy head remains as the focal point of the space. And it’s not sexy. Exhibit A:
El (the nosepicker in the above picture) is sexy. That piece of art? It looks like I designed the projections, meaning they suck. (Don’t ask me to design your projections for your next party, I’ll do a bad job but I’ll think it’s good.) Regardless: A giant head with weird projections on it isn’t sexy. It doesn’t make me want to dance. It reminds me of the types of nightmares I used to have as an emotionally disturbed little girl. If WIP is looking for some club-appropriate art, however, there’s something I’m good at:
This is a self-portrait I made from pornography.That’s some sexy art right there.This hangs above my bed by the way.I feel like it really sends the message to potential boyfriends that they aren’t going to be embarking on something normal with me, and that I probably won’t be watching football with them or making them mini hot dogs or doing whatever it is that normal girls do.
One final thought: WIP is a just fine club, but it’s not going to blow your mind. I think poor Warhol is spinning in his grave, but he reportedly had very shitty karma. I once interviewed for an assistant job to this composer who didn’t interview me so much as he told me I was “unqualified.” Then he rambled on about what an asshole Andy Warhol was for about two hours. I only stayed because the story was interesting – did you know some bitch shot Warhol in the stomach? And, subsequently, could eat nothing but boiled chicken? And water? Til he died some 25 years later?!?!?!?!
The moral of the story is to stay creative, but to NEVER steal others’ ideas. Because, if you steal others’ ideas, you’ll end up like Warhol, eating rubbery chicken and then spinning in your grave while a bunch of cheeseball club promoters tarnish your memory with their basement of debauchery - that is merely a copy of a copy of a copy.
I’m not quite sure why my response to potential disaster is “try to look as pretty as possible and go make out with boys.” I see this as a bad thing and a good thing. It’s a bad thing that I wanted to go shoot pool in the East Village with my handsome neighbor on Monday night because I could have died in the process (potentially even before the potential makeout-sesh). It’s a good thing because in the real apocalypse I will likely be taken out in the first round. I won’t be wandering around in the nuclear fallout drinking pee-pee with all of the people who are better at surviving than I am. Or, I’ll quickly wind up “with child,” and thus be cared for by everyone at large because I’m carrying our future, and I’ll continue the human race.
On Monday Night, I was not seeing any of this clearly.
“B-b-but,” I pleaded with my brother, who’d locked me into his Murray Hill apartment, “It’s not that big of a deee-al! He’s really cuu-ute.”
I was sure things were going to be like last Hurricane, the “Irene” one. We had a grand ol’ hurricane in the East Village last hurricane! It involved cheeseburgers, martinis, Mai Tais, Ben Stiller movies, and ultimately Coronas at Destination in the East Village.
Needless to say, I was convince this “Sandy” chick was going to be just like that ho Irene. I even applied make-up while watching last season of RuPaul’s Drag Race rather than the news on Monday Night. I was halfway through my eyeliner when BOOM went Con Ed. Then our power went out.
Rather than wash my face and go to bed, I hung out of the window and waited for it to flicker back on. My brother, being a responsible human and a doctor, sensed that I was plotting to make a run for it. He made me take an Ambien before he ventured to the hospital to see what the damage was. I fell asleep in full make-up at eleven PM - there’s not much to keep you up after you use up your phone battery texting your current infatuation about how he walked home in waist-deep water.
I was even more kinds of irrational on Tuesday morning. I was fixated on how I was going to charge my phone - I NEED TO TALK TO WORK. My brother kept yelling at me about how I had food and shelter and was warm and how THE HOSPITAL DIDN’T HAVE POWER.
But, understand, my brother is three years older than me. He used to make me run obstacle courses in our backyard where he’d change the rules mid-round so that he’d always win. Granted, we were like three and six years of age respectively, but I’m likely going to be a little suspicious for the rest of my life. Because I couldn’t see or connect to anyone else, I was beginning to feel like I was the only person without power. Confident it would be restored within the hour - I needed to work - I put on a pink dress and tights and my leather boots.
Then, my brother made me change into a total refuge outfit - not an ironic one -anorak, rainboots…PANTS - gasp! and I was all like this guy having a panic attack:
I know. How ridiculous and selfish am I? I want to rewind to like 48 hours ago and lecture myself. I’ve got a dry apartment (albeit without power) and my neighborhood has been hurt but not destroyed. Not feeling totes amaze is nothing to bitch about.
Certainly, I owe my brother quite a few thank-yous because he kept me from 1) Staying in StuyTown/The East Village with a boy who went out playing pool and wound up wading through waist-deep, potentially electrically charged water on East 14th Street, and 2) He brought me to a somehow-open Korean restaurant in Midtown after the storm and fed me. (I get even more irrational without food.) Now I’m safe in Greenpoint while my brother does hero stuff being a doctor at a hospital and all, but the most I can do is write about it and reflect on how sometimes the city should sleep - or at least stay indoors - especially when scientists who know more than you are telling you to. It’s silly that what happened in New Orleans in recent memory seemed so far away from me.
When I get back into my apartment, I might buy myself a globe to remind me that we’re on a wet bouncy ball floating through a vacuum. We’re going somewhere, but no one is behind the wheel. It’s got nothing to do with me or my mini-skirt-wearing-boy-crazy-ass, so I may as well take care and not cause someone who does hero stuff for a living to have to put their life on the line because of my lusty idiocy.