January 11, 2014
Milady’s in Soho - Goodnight Sweet Prince

If I had a penny for every time I hysterically cried on that stoop, I would have almost a dollar. I frequented this dive back when I was dating a chain-smoking, philandering, old guy. After many a vodka soda we would go back to his ex-wife’s massive loft and I would find someone else’s underwear in his bed and then throw expensive antiques out the window. It was so romantic, watching those old pieces of crap (just like him) shatter on the Prince Street sidewalk.

This happened two or three times a week. After our fights, he would go back out to Milady’s to drink until they closed and I would wander around his loft and pretend all of his things were mine. The time I spent alone in his huge loft was my favorite part of our relationship. The time I spent with him at Milady’s I enjoyedless.

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I haven’t entered into that kind of relationship in a few years now, and I haven’t walked into Milady’s, either. That shit doesn’t fit into my life, just like Milady’s doesn’t fit into what SoHo has been for quite a while, whether you like it or not. In 2006 I saw a man break a wooden chair over another man’s head in Milady’s, but at the time I was unmoved, because that same month I’d quit a shitty job by throwing four roasted chickens across a crowded patio. Now I like nicer things - and more importantly, nicer people, so the nostalgia I feel for the ratchet period of my life is baffling. 

This city has a way of chewing people up and spitting them out. The Milady’s regular I used to date finally settled his divorce and got forced out of the Prince Street loft that was rightfully his ex-wife’s. He moved to some insanely rural place with one of the nice young ladies who left her underpants at his apartment. Milady’s is on its way out, and while I’m feeling incredibly, confusingly nostalgic about this place that I frequented during the Dark Ages of my life, I also feel roughly 15% like “LOLz I’m still here!” 

December 16, 2013
In “Marvin’s Room” with JoJo

We all know that Drake The Type… but did you know that JoJo, the early-aughts teen R&B sensation, took his lame ass song “Marvin’s Room” and made it into the ultimate party-girl-scorned song without any bullshit or frills? I KNOW - I’M SO EXCITED! After I discovered this song, I decided I liked JoJo, because she reminds me so much of my female friends who make poor life decisions, especially when it comes to the opposite of sex. So, yeah. She reminds me of me.

Here’s the song:

If you haven’t heard this gem, listen and learn. I’ve posted JoJo’s sick ass lyrics in italics, and my responses to her lamenting in normal text. This conversation is theoretical, I don’t actually know JoJo. That’s probably a good thing, we’d likely get in a shit-ton of trouble together.

"I’ve been up three days…Adderall and Red Bull.”

Girl! That’s such a ratchet combination. Was the deli outta Sparks or something? Are you trying to combat a hangover or are you afraid to call your dealer for other stimulants? Wait - is your nose bleeding? Jesus Christ, you’ve got blue boogers. You’ve been snorting it?? That’s so…sophomore year of high school.

"This call is a mistake…"

I don’t want to be a party-pooper, but I’ve gotta agree with you. Maybe we shouldn’t be calling your ex-man right now, you’ve been awake for three days on some ratchet faux-caine and you’re buzzing like a cheap vibrator.

"There’s something strong in this water bottle."

Sweet – can I have a sip?  You have to pull yourself together. Hanging out with you when you’re all bummed out like this reminds me of the time I got hung up on this philandering ginger bartender with an IQ of 72. All of my friends still make fun of me for getting so worked up over him, but good dick will imprison you, TRUST.

"I hear you got a new chick…"

No. No. No. Don’t talk about the other chick. It always makes you look jealous and petty and like a yappy-ass chihuahua and those are worse than cats.

A dancing little Barbie doll

Dude, forget about basic Barbie-ass blondes. They physically age at like triple the rate as thick brunettes, my literal plastic surgeon told me that. Don’t say that - shh! Unless you can find a way to tell him that without sounding crazy. Maybe send him a pic of Renee Zellweger alongside Penelope Cruz? Our skin will stay supple and I’m willing to bet that our vaginas stay juicier. It’s because we eat so much olive oil, we’re gushy. Has anyone done a study on that? We’re gonna look fresh in our caskets and Basic Barbie is going to be melted wax like a peach crayon left on a radiator. Don’t say that to him, though. Just know it.

I feel so pathetic!

Don’t say that to him either!! Didn’t I just make you feel so much better about yourself? Even if you feel shitty you have to pretend to be confident - that’s like in the How To Be Rejected #101 Primer. 

But you still haven’t heard it all.

I hope you aren’t going to keep dissing his new chick. Diss her to me but don’t call this bitch and talk about his bitch. Makes you look jealous and petty.

Fuck that new girl that you like so bad…

She’s not crazy like me, I bet you like that!

I said fuck that new girl that’s been in your bed

And when you’re in her, I know I’m in your head.

(Evil cackle)

Wow. You really went for it, huh? I have to say, it’s good that you didn’t resort to making fun of his new girl’s physical appearance, and now that you’ve made the suggestion that he’s thinking of fucking you when he’s fucking her, it’s going to happen, at least once, and possibly on a regular basis. Maybe you should take adderall, red bull, and vodka together more often.

I’m just saying you can do better

I always turned you on every time we were together

Once you had the best, boy, you can’t do better.

Baby, I’m the best, so I can’t do better.

JoJo, I have no idea what kind of lay you are but since you were a child star and you seem to have more than a little life experience I’m going to assume that you’re at least an 8/10 in the sack. If his chick really is a Barbie-doll type, it’s probably safe to assume that she puts very little effort into blow jobs, unless she’s a Barbie-doll type that also goes to Burning Man because those blonde chicks are generally more sexually adventurous than your garden variety “I went to Williams College” retardlican blonde. AMIRITE?

I run into your homeboys

I didn’t even know people still used the term “homeboy” anymore. I think it’s so unhip that my dad uses it on a regular basis.

They’re all fucking idiots

You’re not even my boyfriend

But they’re tripping cuz I’m in the club.

Wait – JoJo – no disrespect, but this fool wasn’t even your boyfriend? And we’re calling him and leaving him a longer-than-10-second voicemail? Voicemails are intimate.  If this was just a hook-up situation, you should have just let me help you with a text or two or three tweets…or maybe one vaguely evil Instagram. This whole Voicemail thing is a little agressive.

Yeah that’s right I’m dancing

And something cool is in my cup

A good rule of thumb is that when you aren’t sure what cocktail you’re drinking, it’s time to stop drinking. Not that I know from experience.

…Imma send a sexy picture

To remind you what you giving up 

NO! JoJo we can’t go into the club bathroom and take a picture of your boobs. Stop making duckface. You’ve been pounding CVS-speedballs for the past three days - you aren’t looking your best. Jeez…

Look, this has been fun and everything but Imma walk you to the deli and buy you a coconut water and catch a cab. Text me and let me know what happens - and don’t send any selfies. Promise?

Fuck that new bitch that you like so bad…

She’s not crazy like me, I bet you like that…

My Uber is here, but before I go, one last thing: Once you admit to being crazy you can never use the “I’ve got my shit together and you don’t” card ever again. Is admitting to this fool that you’re crazy worth it? It’s seriously like cutting off your nose to spite your face. And we all know you need dat nose for the addy, homegirl.

September 26, 2013
Pomodoro on the Upper West Side

897092138742 Avenue of My Nose Is Bleeding

Upper Worst Side, New York

Before we begin, I need a few mysteries solved that have nothing to do with the Upper West Side, but rather, Westchester…why do all these basic ass broskies from my high school keep snapchatting me selfies at, like, 2 pm on a Tuesday? I thought snapchat was for scoping out dic pics and sending hilarious semi-naked pics with your pug after you get back from Electric Room at 3 am. Isn’t that how you’re supposed to use it? Why are people sending me these random, random, random G-rated selfies? I don’t really want to see what the guys from my high school look like while they’re sitting around, thumb in ass, picking up Xany bars in the local CVS parking lot. I’m not going to respond with a selfie of any sort at 2 pm on a Tuesday. I work in a goddamn open loft. I’m not going to be like “Oh, hold on everyone at work, I’m snapchatting with this basic ass dude who was cooler than me in high school. Back then he wouldn’t throw water on me in a fire but now, but now, since my face hasn’t fallen and i don’t weigh 200 lbs, he’s sending me a poorly lit selfie from the drivers seat of his mom’s car - GOTTA TAKE A FEW PIX FOR A MINUTE! LEMME SEND HIM SUMFIN SEXY BACK.” 

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The chances of that happening are slim to none, so if you went to my high school and you’ve been snapchatting me and you’re basic, you should probably give up. Probably. There’s a slight chance I may become so desperate that I actually respond to your sad CVS parking lot selfies since last night this male person who probably has an assistant pick up his Xany bars for him (read: this broskie ain’t basic) took me to dinner on the Upper West Side.

Why would anyone invite ME - someone who is perhaps a wee bit of a downtown snob - to the Upper West Side? In his defense, I was already up there for a meeting, but he invited me to dinner afterwords and I kind of just wanted to get it out of the way so I could use my weekend time to frolick, do squats at the gym, and eat bacon with BJ the pug.

So Male Person selected Pomodoro on the Upper West Side for a post-meeting bite, and then when I arrived promptly, he made the massive mistake of telling me it was the best Italian food in the city. 

Red Flag. That’s a mega bold statement. Obviously, some restaurant on the UWS is more than likely not going to live up to my expectations because I’ve grown up in an Italian household and my mother’s cooking and my nonna’s cooking is gonna be worlds better. Also, we’re talking about a restaurant that is named TOMATO. I’d say the odds of a restaurant with that lame of a name serving up the best Italian food in the city are slim to none.

Also, if you’re going to be so bold as to make such a claim to an Italian woman, do yourself a favor and make sure there’s no fucking pasta that contains chicken on the menu. THAT’S NOT ITALIAN FOOD. That’s blasphemy. That’s TGIFridays food. You can have chicken. And you can have pasta. But you can’t mix the two together. What’s next? Hot Dog Rustica? It amazed me that Male Person has been a resident of NYC for ten years more than me and this was the best he could come up with on the Upper West Side. Is the Upper West Side truly that bad? Or am I biased because I live in food heaven down here in the yeast willage?

July 30, 2013
See ya later, skater: MAX FISH

OMG STFU about Max Fish already!  The Lower East Side has not been the destination du jour for some time now.  The last time I invited someone to meet me there the text I received back was “ARE YOU DRUNK? WHY ARE YOU THERE?” Also, the last time the Lower East Side was considered hip, living off of Lorimer was still considered edgy and if I’d told you that I thought Justin Beebz was hot you could’ve locked me up.  

In 2008 - 2010 I spent some time skulking around the LES but it was only because I was going through my “I only date bartenders who are 50% covered in tattoos” phase.  Everyone else hanging out on the LES was from the UES except for the staff of every bar, and that was three years ago.  

See, I missed the actual cool era of the Lower East Side because I was A) very underage - that was a decade ago - and B) I was hanging out with a dude who had a loft in SoHo, and a loft in SoHo with ultra high ceilings is better than the LES on any day of the week, and also, he was partial to Milady’s when he was in a dive bar mood. Milady’s is a better dive than Max Fish will ever be by virtue of it’s angry old lady bartenders, many of whom are missing their teefs! #glam  

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So, let’s get over it.  Max was open since something like 1989, if you’re reading this blog you likely missed the hey-day, and that’s that.  The only decent thing that ever happened to me at Max Fish is that this one time I made out with a skateboarder dude who had a tattoo of the batman symbol on his face when I was there at about 2 am on a Sunday after being at Sway.  That’s a story I can tell my grandchildren.  

Proceed with your regularly scheduled program of hanging out at bars you actually like, or if you want to recreate the Max Fish experience, feel free to invite a bunch of semi-homeless barbacks to your apartment and serve $2 PBRs to them over a rotting log.

June 28, 2013
Pig Roasts & Dive Bars

Hey I’ve got an idea.  Let’s look at the face of the animal we’re about to eat!  Doesn’t that sound like fun?

No, you guys!  Just.  No.  I’m all about annoying our vegetarian friends but it’s macabre to the max, yo!

Unless you don’t have any friends or you’re old as dirt, you’ve probably been invited to a pig roast by now.  It’s almost July! I went to one last weekend and as a result of looking at the animal I was about to eat I was unable to consume very much pork.  Why must we have pig roasts in the summer, Brooklyn friends?  Wouldn’t it be easier to just go to Momofuku Ssam Bar and order a Bo Ssam Pork Shoulder and spend hundreds of dollars on our food addictions, like self-respecting self-indulgent New Yorkers?

Needless to say, I didn’t consume very much of the above pig.  Because I was essentially drinking on an empty stomach and hanging out with Pouty Pirate (look her up on Instagram if you’re into blondes) I wound up at Lit later in the night.  Lit is a disturbing metal bar that smells like spilled beer, vomit, and broken dreams.  Even the people on their website look like they have Hepatitis.

One night a couple of years ago, I made out with a guy at Lit that looked like sexy Jesus but with tattoos and a wallet made of duct tape. (Generally speaking, guys who carry wallets made of duct tape are not successful or able to buy you dinner or even a drink.)  It was not one of my finer hours.  Lit is on the same level as Mars Bar. (THEIR YELP PAGE IS AMAZING.) Mars Bar was teeming with end-of-the-line alcoholics that were almost cartoonish in their wastedness, and fruit flies. 

Fun fact: when you see fruit flies at bars it means the fruit flies are taking little poops in your drinks.  Would you like a lime with your poop and soda? 

Let’s stop pretending we’re tougher than we are and quit with all of this pig roast / dive bar bullshit.  Let’s stick to being the kind of grown-ass women that purchase tiaras from Patricia Field and force our pug to model our $200 bikinis on instagram!

June 4, 2013
Berry Park vs. The Ides at The Wythe Hotel

The bartender at The Ides @ The Wythe Hotel was a total sourpuss, but who could blame the hip young chap?  Judging from the detritus that remained at his feet, he must’ve had a terribly busy Sunday Sunset shift.

Sunday Sunset:  The last socially acceptable time to indulge on the weekend in NYC if you have a typical nine to five, best done on a Brooklyn Rooftop.

My gang of idiots (none of us work typical nine to fives, presently) didn’t arrive at The Ides until well after dark, having spent the duration of the beautiful sunset at Berry Park. 

 Berry Park is a rooftop bar that has been a favorite of mine for years because they have pink wine on tap.  Also, I can usually find an ample supply of Cougiesnacks wandering around the semi-sportsbar interior, but on Sunday I felt that the tides were turning on this Billyburg rooftop.  The only interesting strangers I could find were clearly on Molly.  They were jamming out hard to late nineties R&B, and sweating, and looked like they’d been awake since Thursday night.  Also, one of them was wearing a Grateful Dead shirt…I had to deal with enough pseudo hippies growing up in whitebread Westchester so engaging this group was a no-go.

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Just. Stop.

The crowd was better at The Ides, not to mention the view.  I’m basing my opinion of the crowd solely on the fact that a couple of 7 outta 10s hit on me.  Also, the unisex bathrooms at the Ides are far nicer than the toiletpaper-less cave that you have to wine pee in at Berry.  Bathroom layout is important.  Case and point:  Le Bain.

 With that having been said, this summer is off to a slow start in the snack department.  If things don’t start looking better I’m going to open a faux modeling agency call 5M: Miss M’s Mens Model Management.  I had the idea on the downtown N/R today, where I “discovered” two 6’2” wonders of chili lime boy-jerky toting their adorable little comp cards.  I wanted to be like: “How was your casting, I’m a really big agent,” but I chickened out when I realized I didn’t have any business cards.  One of them was complete Euro-trash and was wearing a windbreaker around his waist and he looked wide-eyed and new to New York.  I bet he regularly gets lost on the A Train.  You know what that means?  MISSED OPPORTUNITY.  

I’d write a missed connection for Windbreaker BeBe Zoolander on Craigslist if I thought he knew how to read… and wasn’t born in the 90’s.

 

May 25, 2013
Slow Your Roll, Amanda Bynes.

Unless you live under a rock, or in a veganism bubble in East Williamsburg, you’ve probably noticed that Amanda Bynes is death-spiraling ala 2007 Britney Spears and the tabloids are soaking this shit up.

2007 B. Spears shaved her head, and Bynes has a similar hair situation happening currently.  But what disturbs me most is the condition of Bynes bed as revealed in photos by undercover agents from the notable and trustworthy publication, InTouch.  

Homegirl’s sleeping on a bare mattress.  A.  Bare.  Mattress.  Not only is this practice uncomfortable, it’s also unsanitary.  When you sleep, you sweat.  If you’re drinking and using controlled substances (I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that Amanda’s doing both) you sweat even more.

I’m not posting any pictures of Bynes and her 99 cent store wig because that’ll make me feel like one of those Victorians who used to go to Bedlam to laugh at the crazies, so pretend this boozin’ kitty is Amanda if you want an idea of her sleeping situation:

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InTouch also claims that Bynes is a pothead but this doesn’t make sense. If she were a pothead, wouldn’t the condition of her bed be VERY important?  Potheads, like depressed people, need ultra comfy bed situations.  I’m neither, so my bed’s comfy but not OVERLY comfy.  Makes it easier to get the fallen mormons and the bike messenger cougie snacks out of the apartment in the morning/early afternoon.

I do, however, keep sheets on my mattress at all times.  Doing laundry is not an excuse for not having sheets, BTW.  Amanda Bynes has Disney money.  Spring for a second set, homegirl!  You can afford it.

April 18, 2013
Lafayette on Lafayette & Great Jones

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.

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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

 

March 26, 2013
Ode to Uber

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?

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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.

February 22, 2013
What New York can learn from Las Vegas

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.  

#glamlife

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.

werqitgirl!!

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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. 

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(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…

I’m an activist.  

So is my pug, BeeJay. 

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