December 31, 2012
Amateur Night 2013

Ready for the worst going-out night of the year?

Ugh, kill me.

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.

Pray for me tonight. 

June 3, 2012
Veselka in the East Village

As a resident of the East Village for nearly a decade (save for a brief spell on Water Street in the crusty Financial District while at NYU) I frequent a Ukrainian House of Deliciousness on 9th Street and 2nd Avenue called Veselka.

You’ve got to know about Veselka if you consider yourself any kind of decent New Yorker.  Even if you’ve never been to Veselka, you’ve probably noticed it because it is so brightly lit, and packed at the strangest times, and open 24 hours a day / 7 days a week.  

It isn’t a traditional 24/7 diner.  It specializes in Ukranian food and most people I know go for the Borscht and Pierogi.  If you don’t know what a pierogi is, smack yourself hard across the face while naked and standing in front of your computer camera while on Chatroullette, then get dressed and wikipedia that shit you dumbdumb.  

It’s only a fucking dumpling of heaven that’s traditionally served with onions, butter, and sour cream.  

By the way, I’m part Ukranian and I think that’s what makes me so damn attractive and body-hairless.  If I didn’t have any Ukranian in me, I think I’d be a much hairier and chubbier Italian girl.  Thank you, Nanny-in-Heaven.

Any who, Veselka is also thought of by some (some being me) as the perfect destination for practicing your mean Ninja Moves.

What’s a Ninja Move?  Clothes off, Hand ready, Chatroullette on!  Okay!  Now I’ll explain:

Sometimes, Nightlifers make mistakes.  Oft, these mistakes are prompted by too many glasses of that sweet, sweet nectar.  Mmm.  All of the sudden, a pretty young Nightlifer might find herself in a taxi zooming eastward to her abode for suspicious naked activity with stranger or coworker or unemployed cougysnack.  Perhaps Nightlifer doesn’t like this new friend in that way, or perhaps Nightlifer has to be up at 6 am and really cannot have a friend over.  Fear not:  there’s a way out that doesn’t involve any awkward banter!  

Steps for pulling a Nightlifer Ninja Move:

1.  Ask your new friend to bring you to Veselka because you are so hungry that you are about to pass out.

2.  Order two glasses of white wine, a large order of mixed peirogi boiled with sour cream and onions on the side, and a large bowl of Borscht.  

3.  Eat as sloppily as possible.  Really mush that Borscht around on your face and chew and talk with your mouth open.  Throw a few peirogi in with the Borscht for a “pus in blood” effect.  Practice the table manners of your spiritual guide, Eloise:


4.  Your new friend will potentially be disgusted by this and regardless of whether or not his wine has induced his urge to take a wee, he will excuse himself to use Veselka’s facilities.  When he does, move on to step 5.

5.  Ok, he’s in the bathroom!  Make a Ninja Move!  Chug your new friend’s wine and run onto the corner of 9th and 2nd!  QUICK!  Hail a cab.  If he comes running out cursing the day your were born slam the door and quickly text him CUS I’M A NINJA - POW!

Good luck, aspiring Nightlifers!

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