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.