Green Fairies, Flappers, Tuxedos…Oh MY!

I’ve been a bad blog poster this week, but I’m chalk full of excuses, none of which are particularly interesting except one:

I drank an entire bottle of absinthe and recovery time was slightly longer than expected.

Okay…

I didn’t drink an entire bottle. I shared a mini bottle with a close friend. But considering that stuff in like 300% alcohol and I’m a lightweight, the result was still hallucinatory. We’d been drinking rum and coke for two hours when my friend remembered she had a stash of absinthe left over from a recent trip to Prague. It was then that I announced we were going to drink all of it.

“Why?” She said cocking her head. This was just a normal, rainy, New York City night out. There were no great reunions, birthdays or charity events to crash ahead of us.

“Because tonight,” I replied, already tipsy, “I want to be one of those people. Those people who can’t properly walk, those people others look upon in disgust while being secretly jealous because they’d pay cash money to be as outrageously drunk and elated as us.”

I’d been sick and housebound for over a week. I was finally going out, and like a caged animal, was running on overdrive since I’d been bed bound for so long.

I also have a theory that planned party nights tend to fail. Anytime someone says, “tonight’s going to be a wild night,” prepare for mediocrity. Once the expectation for debauchery has been set up, a subtle pressure creeps in and ruins everyone’s sense of carefree relaxation. Predicting outrageous fun is like shooting yourself in the foot before even strapping on stilettos. Because in my experience, the best nights always occur at random. When you’re utterly relaxed, in good company, with no high profile plans and zero expectations. It’s then that you realize you have a bottle of unopened absinthe in your desk drawer. That it’s raining, but you don’t care. That there’s no need for concrete plans when you can just follow wherever the sparkles and Green Fairies you’re now hallucinating happen to take you.

The last time I’d drank absinthe was at age seventeen in Italy. I’d ended up naked on a city rooftop with a bunch of friends screaming obscenities at the Milanese skyline. I passed out in a sleeping bag on the apartment building’s garden terrace. At some point the next morning, my friend and the previous night’s host stole the keys to his dad’s Lamborghini and drove me home.

We’d done absinthe that night the proper way. With sugar (or salt?) – the details are blurry – lighting it on fire and consuming the liquid in warmed shot glasses. This time around, my friend and I forewent all such formalities. We just swigged the whole bottle passing it back and forth – no sugar, salt, or fire aiding the consumption process. We’d scream at regular intervals at the immense disgustingness of the taste. It was like drinking gasoline. It’s a miracle one of us didn’t puke right then and there.

Needless to say, the rest of the night we bounced around like teenagers on ecstasy and my entire prophecy of being those people was fulfilled to the highest extent. We went to D’Or and fueled our inappropriate state with vodka. By the time we went to a club at 2 a.m. I was craving champagne and was sure that a glass of bubbly would help all the liquids I’d consumed that night magically blend together.

Again, how I didn’t end up as one of those people who’s carried out of a club unconscious or one of those girls who randomly begins throwing up on herself remains a mystery. I just danced like a machine all night. And according to texts and phone calls from the next day, I’d apparently run into a bunch of friends and going-out regulars that I know and had failed to say ‘hello’ or make eye contact with any of them. Jumping up and down elated sporting a sloppy grin seemed to be the only activity on my agenda. Or as my friend put it: “We were in our own little Absinthe bubble.”

I almost wish I had gotten sick so I wouldn’t be so blatantly re-craving the experience.

* * *

In other local news, this Wednesday was Goldbar’s doorman Jamie’s birthday bash at Cain. I initially didn’t even recognize Jamie at the party since he wasn’t wearing a scowl and generally announcing, “We can’t accommodate you,” to every non-regular in line. It’s always fascinating to observe door people away from their door, and come to find out, inside a club Jamie is charming, generous, hospitable and frighteningly attractive. Especially, with his British accent and tuxedo (second from the right).


Cain had been completely redecorated for the event with glistening chandeliers (that looked legitimately expensive) and brothel-like red velvet curtains. The safari theme (which we’re all a little sick of after three years) had been stomped out. I appreciated the change and thought the decoration staff deserved whatever a Chelsea nightclub workers version of an Emmy is.




Adding to the already vibrant festivities were the tuxes, pre-mature Halloween costumes, and fabulous flapper girls.

Even as a Halloween hater, I take my hat off to the flapper women whom I believe did a noteworthy job of balancing sexy and chic in their costumes.

This should be a big weekend for costume taunting.

Let’s see what the city has in store…

Bed Bound

Nope, I wish. I'm not ‘bed-bound’ in the sexual way you’re thinking. My taxing going out schedule has finally caught up with me and I’m now sporting a lovely hawking cough like an eighty-year-old man. Sometimes I have to stop in the street and spit (yes, me, the girl who condemns spitting) up phlegm. It’s not very sexy or model behavior-esque.

Basically, I’m an invalid. That’s where we’re at. After Thursday’s outrageousness at Pink, I swung by Made in Italy Friday and gallivanted around Meat Packing Saturday and actually got to wear a cute winter coat and scarf for the first time. Call me shallow, but I’m really excited about this whole season changing thing considering I’ve showcased every one of my summer outfits at least twenty times.

So while my life is outrageously boring at the moment and I’m snuffling through tissues rather than gossip, exciting things should be happening soon. In the meantime, I give you the ‘I Wanna Be Bad’ video by superstar douchette Willa Ford. Why? Because this simple song has a clear and healthy message (‘Be Bad’) that I’ve always appreciated and found useful to listen to on repeat while drunk before partying. Now that I’m bed bound, I’ve especially enjoyed re-watching Willa shake her thing and find this video noteworthy for the following reasons:

1. Willa does more with her ass (more gracefully as well) than Britney and Beyonce combined.
2. Willa wears orange (my hat’s off to any white girl who can pull off this color.)
3. Her lip syncing isn't just bad, it's non-existent.
4. She goes from riding a motorcycle to a sports vehicle to a cop car all in one evening. Wow.

I’ve always wanted to enter a club by getting off my vespa on the red carpet all by myself like she does in at the beginning of this video (an unrealized childhood dream) and I’m pseudo-obsessed with her little policeman bustier outfit and at the video’s finale.



And if that wasn’t entertaining enough, I give you frighteningly worthless trivia.

In the 1400's a law was set forth in England that a man was allowed to beat his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb. Hence we have "the rule of thumb".

Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was ruled "Gentlemen Only ... Ladies Forbidden"... and thus the word GOLF entered into the English language.

The first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flintstone.

Every day more money is printed for Monopoly than the U.S. Treasury.

Coca-Cola was originally green.

It is impossible to lick your elbow.

The State with the highest percentage of people who walk to work: Alaska

The cost of raising a medium-size dog to the age of eleven: $6,400

The average number of people airborne over the U.S. in any given hour:
61,000

Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.

The first novel ever written on a typewriter: Tom Sawyer.

The San Francisco Cable cars are the only mobile National Monuments.

Each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history:

Spades - King David
Hearts - Charlemagne
Clubs - Alexander, the Great
Diamonds - Julius Caesar

Q. Half of all Americans live within 50 miles of what?
A. Their birthplace

Q. Most boat owners name their boats. What is the most popular boat name requested?
A. Obsession

Q. What do bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers, and laser printers all have in common?
A. All were invented by women.

Q. What is the only food that doesn't spoil?
A. Honey

Q. Which day are there more collect calls than any other day of the year?
A. Father's Day

In Shakespeare's time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase: "goodnight, sleep tight."

Many years ago in England, pub frequenters had a whistle baked into the rim, or handle, of their ceramic cups. When they needed a refill, they used the whistle to get some service.

Wet your whistle" is the phrase inspired by this practice.

I swear to be healthier by tomorrow!

Warning: Clubbing is Addictive

I’d like to see this sign outside Manhattan’s hot-spots, something similar to the Surgeon General’s ominous warning stamp on cigarettes. Let’s analyze the New York tradition of “going out” in the clubbing-till-4 a.m. sense of the phrase.

First off, you shop for new clothes and accessories to wear to the glitzy establishment. Why? Because it’s the same cool group of miscreants you see every night, and they’ve experienced your entire “going out” closet three times. Besides, that special someone might be there, and let’s face it – going out dancing in New York can be generally defined as an egotistical activity. It’s all about “look at me” or “look at the absurdly expensive amount of liquor I have the power to purchase.” Consumerism is at the core of the entire going out model. Shopping. Addictive.

You arrive dressed to the nines and indulge in the next planned activity (which perhaps you already started at home): Drinking. Clubs are also expertly designed to make you less aware of how drunk you actually are. Like the fact that you become childlike and mesmerized by Pink Elephant’s glittery disco ball seems normal because it’s sparkly and there are so many flashing lights. When you fall down, you blame it on your impaired vision due to the fog machine instead of the fact that you’ve actually had so much champagne that you can’t see straight. Similarly, when you walk into a table you blame the darkness, and don’t think it’s odd that you’re too shit-faced to feel pain. And when you’re slurring and someone says they can’t understand you, you blame the really loud music, thinking you’re one-hundred percent A-Okay.

Then you go to the bathroom. The music falls twenty decibels and you’re in the light for the first time. It is in such bathrooms stalls, when aiming your ass to land on the toilet seat seems more difficult than the SAT analogy section you took in high school, that you finally realize you’re drunk. Your physical skills are so impaired that washing your hands is a gargantuan struggle and stuff keeps falling out of your purse. Attempting to fix the disheveled train wreck of a douchette you’ve become is too large a task, so you just put on some more lipstick (the beauty product that’s the most drunk-user friendly) and stumble back out into the darkness, whispering to your girlfriend, “Don’t let me drink anymore.” She nods ands puts her arm around your shoulder comfortingly before disappearing to talk to the Columbian hottie who works in private equity that you’ve both been eyeing all night. Then the remainder of your friends continue to pour you a lot more vodka and juice which you happily consume, chalking up those moments of reality in the bathroom to a baaad dream. And on a side note: Can some PR genius come up with mixers for us to put in vodka other than tonic, orange, and cranberry and begin providing them in clubs? A girl can consume only so much sugary cranberry juice in one lifetime before it begins to morph all her taste buds. I’ve taken to combining all available mixers with my vodka, just in the hope of drinking something that tastes remotely new. The point here is, you go out to drink. Clubs are designed to make you loose track of how much you drink --- Example:

Drunk hedge fund owner being interrogated by waitress [over loud music]: “What? We only ordered one Cristal? What? Grey Goose, what? Yeah, yeah. Bring another. Whatever. Bring two. One of each.”

Waitress: Leaves with victorious smile.

And there you have it. Part two of the formula. Drinking. Addictive.

Next we have the subtler spices in the clubbing recipe that makes it so irresistibly delicious. There’s the challenge factor. Will you get in? Will the assholes at the door let you straight through, make you wait in the VIP line, make you wait in the normal people line, or actually remember your name and embrace you with a kiss? You never know!!! And this gets the adrenaline going. It then serves to validate the whole experience, because anything that’s a seeming challenge (even if it’s just getting into Cain when members of your party are wearing gym shoes) has the illusion of being worthwhile.

Now many of my New York friends claim that they frequent the nightlife scene to “have a good time and hang out with friends.” This may initially appear as a legitimate answer, but let me tell you that this response is filled with lies and more lies. Have any of us ever had an intimate conversation with a friend in the bowels of Room Service or The Box that can actually be remembered the next day? No. While going out with a pack of friends is a unique and often significant way of bonding, you’re guys are doing it to “be seen” by everyone else and ultimately, by each other. You wanna bond with your girlfriend and listen to her complain about how her boyfriend’s a bitch, you do that over brunch or dinner – not in Marquee. Who can even articulate valid emotions let alone be heard with Timbaland thumping in the background? The “have good time and hang out with friends” excuse is just an excellently fabricated cover for what’s really the bubbling larva at the core of the “going out” volcano, and I’m even going to spell it out for you – S-E-X.

Am I saying every single person out at night in NYC is looking to get laid? No, that’s a little extreme, although I’d bet a solid eighty percent are. My point is that there are so many gradations of the “going out for sex” concept that we could have Manhattan psychologists studying the phenomena indefinitely. Many women, myself included, go out just to feel sexy. And I don’t think that’s anything worthy of condemnation. Most people in this city are suicidal level lonely, and many venture out hoping to meet someone. While this may not be the most sure-fire way to the altar, I don’t see anything wrong with it either. Why do we need dancers on cubes in bikinis, women in revealing ‘clubbing’ tops and men proving themselves alpha by ordering buckets of Veuve if this whole operation isn’t about sex? And guess what? Sex. Addictive.

On top of everything I’ve already mentioned, lastly, you have the vicious circle element. The more you go out, the more 'going out type' of people you meet, the more contacts you make, and the larger the tidal wave of pressure to be at Pink every Thursday. And there you have it. As an active, often confused, going out participant I seek not to judge only to shed light on the fact that this New York tradition may be more powerfully seductive than any of us initially realize.

Clubbing Concepts I Don’t Understand

1. Promo-Guards: What is a promotional bodyguard? I’m not an authority, but it’s a newer concept, utilized by the especially rich and douchey. Basically, it’s when some pathetic socialite / celebutant hires a bodyguard to come out with her at night – even though she’s not famous and no one would even waste their time hiring a hit man to kill her. Her presence on this planet is just not significant enough for people to even want to harm her, yet she goes out with a bodyguard for attention. And it works!

Last night a Marquee, the table next to us belonged to four attractive girls clad in obscenely short dresses. They smoked cigarettes and seemed extremely proud of the two bottles of Verve they had chilling on ice. They stared at their champagne bucket like zombies for most of the night. One brunette looked very LA, and just attractive enough to be a shimmering starlet on one of those reality shows like “Laguna Beach” on CW. One blonde was Swedish, tall, sported mini-bangs and looked anorexic enough to be a model. Now, how does a barely B-list reality star (if she even has that claim), a too-blonde model and their sidekick friends warrant a bodyguard the size of three people? What was most irritating is that their bodyguard’s protective post was between our two tables, meaning an entire side of OUR assigned space belonged to him. In a packed club, this space is invaluable. And this big guard wasn’t really the type you could shove to make move over (I know, silly me, I tried). So me and these douchette’s fake bodyguard were stepping on each other’s feet for twenty minutes until I decided to hightail it out of there. Every once in awhile, one of the girls would jolt from her seated stare, get up, and dance a little bit, remembering that she was here to actually “have fun” and not just show off to the world that she could afford her own unnecessary security. The sad part is they did create a buzz. When people see bodyguards at Marquee they think the Olsens or Usher are in the joint. Everyone kept mildly pointing in their direction of these girls, heads cocked in confusion, “Who is that…?”

Pee-thetic.

2. Too Drunk to Hold a Glass: I understand too drunk to properly pour. It happens to the best of us. And I’m okay with spills. No, I don’t like them, but it’s an accepted risk you take when hurling yourself into a sea of drunken, dancing shmucks. That’s why you don’t wear valuable dresses or clothing that require dry cleaning out to clubs, cause lets face it – these places are jovial war zones. So we’ve established that I’m a reasonable person who’s prepared to inevitably be spilled on. What I DON’T get, however, is people who are so drunk that their hand muscles can’t clasp their beverage and they end up shattering drinks, resulting in BROKEN GLASS. I further don’t get it when the aforementioned incident happens at eleven fucking thirty pm!!

It was 11 p.m. at the Courtney Love concert at Hiro. I personally am a fan of Hiro concerts if I like the artist, and the Mylo concert I went to this time last year was one of the best concert experiences of my life. While Mylo brought a very Euro, very British crowd, Courtney Love’s fans are a little bit more hipster / rock n’ roll rowdy. I think a majority of people dropped some major acid before entering the club at 10 p.m. So a disheveled man in a bandana comes to Scruff’s table, where Mt. T and I were attempting to chat, and began pouring himself drinks. Whatever. But then he drops not one, but two, glasses, on his own. No “accident.” No “someone pushed me, sorry.” Just, “I am literally too fucked up right now at 11 p.m. to even hold this vodka receptacle. T got soaked. I immediately felt lucky because I didn’t feel a gush of cold liquid on my legs under the table. Then I noticed a throbbing pain on the top of my foot.

That’s right ladies and gentleman. A shard of glass FELL into my foot. Are you as speechless as I am? Since it was pitch black, it took my awhile to

a) locate a candle and
b) discover I was bleeding

Luckily the cut wasn’t too large or deep and stopped bleeding after I put a lot of consistent pressure on it with cocktail napkins for ten minutes. Needlessly to say, I also high-tailed it out of Hiro that night. Crazy Courtney Love groupies just play a little too rough for me.

3. Models in Suspenders: I saw a funky, hot, female model rocking suspenders a few weeks ago at the SoHo Grand models brunch. And you know what; I was like, “cool girl.” If you’re thin and striking enough to pull off this shit, go for it. I like people who dare to be different. Then this style somehow spread like wildfire, and now every model in New York, male and female, are doing the wife beater with jeans / black pants and suspenders look. This look is often accompanied with a funky black hat. Where can people even purchase suspenders these days? And who Okayed this “everyone wearing the same thing” agenda. Eight of the ten models at the models table at Marquee last night had strappies holding their pants up. Two super skinny boy-toy male editorial models had the same poofy, dirty blonde hair, and since they were both sporting this look I literally couldn’t tell them apart. It was creepy! Like all these skeletron models were spawned from the same uterus – a frightening, high fashion, freak-show of quintuplets. Another part of me wanted to laugh out loud, since I felt that at any moment they all might drop their cigarettes, pick up canes, and do some sort of Broadway musical dance routine and sing.

4. Vomiting IN Clubs: Puking happens. I think we all can accept that. If it happens a lot you have a problem. If it happens occasionally at least you know your body’s projectile system is still functioning. What I don’t get are people who throw up randomly in the middle of clubs. I mean, don’t you know you’re going to puke? Don’t you feel that coming on? I’ve had some severely inebriated nights when unfortunately vomit had to be involved. However, me and everyone I know puke square in front of a toilet. I usually have the self control to make it to my own residence, or worst case scenario the club bathroom (hasn’t happened since my teens) or even worst vase scenario outside the club. I mean, at least get yourself to an ally way. But ON the dance floor at a club surrounded by party-goers? How retarded are these people? Do they really have so little self-awareness and self-control?

I was walking to the bathroom at Pink last night to freshen up. The evil part about going to pee at Pink is you have to leave your sheltered enclave and venture through the dance floor, where many gross drunken dancers try to spin you into a salsa with them. It sucks. Anyway, I noticed an unusual smell. Kept walking. Then I noticed the poor bus boys were mopping a very large wet area on the floor. I figured it was champagne or water from a knocked-over ice bucket. I kept walking. I then realized that whatever they were mopping up had chunks in it. I put that visual together with the smell and realized that they were mopping up puke they had diluted with water!!!!!! I stopped dead in my tracks and cursed myself for wearing sandals.

I came back from the bathroom via an alternate route and left soon after.

Seriously.

Pink Elephant Discoveries & What I Want in Men

The gloom, rain, lightening, and summer thunder did not keep people away from Pink Elephant last night, hands down my favorite douchette location in New York. My excuse for attending this time around is that Bartok is visiting, and Pink is a good luck place for us. We’ve never had a bad, let alone mediocre, night there. I think it’s all the crazy Euros who feed our Italy nostalgia with their colored shirts, tight pants, and hands enthusiastically in the air. They also give the place this unmistakable energy. If you’re fortunate enough to have a table where you can remain on the banquettes and never actually enter the club’s crowd or dance floor except to occasionally venture to the ladies room, it’s really an enjoyable time – assuming you:
a) Like house music
b) Don’t mind the siren noise, occasional cold blasts of air, confetti, and fog machine
c) Don’t mind half the people you meet being French
d) Don’t mind the other half of the people you meet to being metrosexual and,
e) Don’t mind being ripped off.

As an ashamedly frequent Pink Elephant attendee and a borderline club addict in general, I thought I had seen it all. Well, last night, I encountered not one but, TWO new phenomena. I think it was my father who said that “life is a constant learning experience.” How right he was. Last night I learned
1) That men can look sexy in headbands (something I never thought feasible) and
2) You can actually buy a $6,000 bottle of champagne that’s larger than a twelve-year-old in New York establishments. I’d only seen them as decorations at Nikki Beach, and didn’t think they existed for purchase in real life.

Humor me as I delve into these two discoveries.

Headband Boy I spotted instantly in the crowd since he was a head taller than everyone else and wearing white. Nothing says “look at me” in a club like the color white. Now as I indulge in writing about this, ya’ll are going to learn a little about what my type of guy is.

Note: Girls who say they don’t have a type are lying.

So here goes nothing…Model Behavior tends to aim for these basic characteristics in the opposite sex. I realized after compiling this list, that I described all the basic characteristics of a Guido. I’m humiliated, but please, try to think of the qualities below in an “Italian Royal Family” light not the “E-ed Out Sleezo From Long Island” light.

1) Tall. This is often a challenge since I myself, am rather tall. I like two to three inches taller than me, anything more is unacceptable. What can say? I’m used to looking down on people. Super tall people freak me out.

2) Big shoulders and nice wrists. Big shoulders is no surprise. Apparently all women are attracted to men with a sturdy frame because it meant they could more effectively club wild boars and similar menaces to death to protect and feed us in the cavemen days. Wrists are just my psychotic thing that I developed a fettish with at the barely sexual age of eleven. I like them square and sturdy. A great watch is a plus – it means my prospect might actually care about being on time.

3) Longish hair. Note the “ish.” Hair longer than mine is unacceptable. Actually, hair past the shoulders is unacceptable. As is hair that looks like a woodland creatures home. Visible gel or product of any kind is grounds for elimination. I’m looking for that thick, slightly wavy, longish hair that doesn’t make a man look effeminate but that’s long enough for me to properly grip when we’re in the throes of passion. Get it, already?

4) Dark everything. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark – well, okay – olive skin. That Mediterranean skin. Cut me some slack. I did pass my most formative sexual years in Italy. I don’t like blondes because well, in my experience there’s only room for one blonde in a relationship – and that would be ME. I’m also not a fan of light eyes. They’re cold, cruel, and unnecessarily bright. I want warm, chocolate-like eyes. Green are tolerable. Blue absolutely not.

5) Well dressed in casual clothes. What does this mean? That my prospect knows how to put himself together with a sense of style other than dress shirt and suit. I want form-fitting t-shirts. Jeans that give me a sense of what your ass looks like. Cute jackets and sneakers. Basically, a gay man that’s not gay.

So now that you’re all heartily chuckling after my pathetic Italian stallion description of what I’m sexually attracted to, let me move on to say that Headband Boy possessed all these qualities – with perhaps the most important, unmentioned one of all; Charisma. Let me make it clear that I never spoke to him. No, I was having much more fun gazing at him from post on the elevated banquette, much as I imagine Goddesses like Venus looked down upon their half-mortal children like Aeneas. I watched him scamper around, and especially in observing his interaction with other men, I could see it: the charisma. In watching two men interact with each other, one-on-one, I feel I can tell which one’s the “dominant” figure between the two. It’s extremely subtle, yet somehow instinctually obvious at the same time. It’s a fun game to play ladies, as well. (Men I’m sure you can play it on us, although I think your guys version of the game goes something more like ‘which woman is more fertile’ which usually boils down which girl has bigger gazongas). Anyway, it’s highly entraining and kinda like the Discovery Channel – two male lions fight over a wilder beast – in a low-key human setting. If the club had morphed away and Headband Boy had to ape-wrestle whoever he was talking to that night, he’d inevitably be the winner. I could actually picture him victoriously romping around with the winning piece of bloody animal meat clenched between his gums. I know you all think this sounds UNsexy, but oddly enough, it’s not. My point is, that Headband Boy was such a fine specimen of good genes at work, he could even put on a HEAD BAND (yes, like one with teeth/a built in comb, the kind I USE) and still look brutally hot. Kudos to him. I glad we never spoke because I’m sure anyone that good-looking is a moron.

Below is a photo I attempted to snap in order to forever prove the existence of the $6,000 bottle of Verve (and that people are crazy enough to purchase them.) Two waiters had to carry it. Compare it in scale to the Red Bull in the corner. I don’t feel it comes across as large as it really was, keep in mind half of it is submerged in that ice bucket.



I didn’t take a photo of Headband Boy because I know a candid shot of him by me, his stalker, wouldn’t capture his true beauty. Then I’d feel like an even bigger douche for writing him this pathetic ode.

Bartok is here through the weekend. I have no doubt more absurdity and inappropriateness will ensue…

Outrageousness at Pink Elephant

This Wednesday at Pink Elephant I, Model Behavior, had a run in with not one but TWO douchebag-ettes (Cajun, you’ve inspired me to use this word. To everyone else: Yes, it’s pronounced like the French bread with “douche” in front and it’s the female version of a douchebag.)

Now, perhaps we can label me a douchbagette for frequenting such a pompous, elitist club like Pink Elephant in the first place. My defensive is that as a writer, I need to open myself to all experiences (including the often sickening and cutthroat New York club scene) since such adventures provide me with something to write about. This entry: case and point. And, to be quite frank, New York club-land is a kind of chaos I find myself quite comfortable in. It must be because of all those nights spent at age seventeen in the Hollywood VIP (yeah, in Milan they don’t card).

Anyway, my run in with douchbagette #1 occurred on west 27th street before even entering the establishment. Throngs of people were hurling themselves toward the Pink Elephant entrance, and I, as an admittedly frequent Pink Elephant attendant, knew that this amount of people was not normal – especially for a Wednesday night. I had been made aware that there was a Hamtpons magazine launch party starting at eleven p.m. I had been on the guest list and had planned to attend – not so much because I cared about the magazine party but because I had wanted to get into the club early, enjoy the open bar, and avoid the heinous situation out front which I was in now. Getting there early hadn’t worked out (long story) and the club was perhaps the most crowded I’d ever seen it. This further proves that the word “Hamptons” in any context is like catnip to New Yorkers. Say it and watch them pant and lick their lips. A Hamptons party at Pink Elephant? Everyone wanted in.

In the process of entering a New York club, there are the people who properly line up against the wall of the establishment and the people who go straight to the red rope street side, assuming the bouncer will recognize them/let them in without them having to waste time in any kind of line. I prefer the non-waiting in line tactic, although it can be quite competitive. You only have three minutes tops to get the attention of the person in charge and convince them that you’re worthy of immediate entry before the security bouncer reprimands you for crowding the sidewalk and being a fire hazard. This Wednesday night was so chaotic that there was a bulky line of people against the red rope, hoping for immediate entry. Further complicating the situation, Pink’s usual bouncer, the Aussie Cliff, was not working. Us attention-getter hopefuls didn’t even know who was in charge and me and douchebagette #1 were stepping on each other’s feet. I smiled gracefully and tried to engage her in friendly conversation about what table she had her clearly coked-out investment banker older man friend were going to, since I thought I had overheard him using the same name of entry as us. Douchebagette #1 instead just scowled at me, a rather frightening image since this girl had eyes like a Siamese cat: slitty, slanted, and shining with hate for me and probably every other attractive girl in the planet. She was a competitor this one. Her dress was to die for.
Me and my friend (we’ll call him T) caught a lucky break and were admitted inside along with douchebagette #1, her man, and some others. We were apparently supposed to have some kind of ticket to pass guard number two stationed at the interior entrance of the club. I sweetly explained to him that I’d been inside since eleven and had just ran out to grab my friend T (a blatant lie). After repeating six times that “he was over capacity and couldn’t let me in there,” my unrelenting persistence changed the bouncer’s mind and he let me and T slip through under his thick right arm.

The place was a madhouse. The craziest and fullest I’ve ever seen it. We wandered around searching for our table, a challenging task since is was impossible to move or breathe without being spilled on and the psycho lights were making everyone look different shapes and colors at five second intervals. After texting my Argentinean friend for directions to his table (keep in mind, we’re in a space smaller than many Manhattan apartments) we successfully arrived at his corner. Who was there to greet me? Douchebagette #1.

I smiled at her and moved forward to navigate myself toward the inner part of the table where Argentina, the host, was sitting.

“Sorry, this is our table,” she said. Uuuh, does that mean I’m not allowed in this close proximity of it? And WTF? This is MY friend’s table. I felt validated when Argentina recognized me, burst into a smile, greeted me with cheek kisses and pulled me into the table area.

“It’s a madhouse here,” he said. “So full that they re-sold my table to this guy.” Argentina pointed to Dougebagette #1’s male companion who I’d seen out front.

“So we’re splitting the table and banquette,” Argentina continued. This is my half.” Argentina drew an imaginary line through a section of the corner.

What was this? Kindergarten. Please keep in mind we’re talking about a “table” the size of your average toilet bowl. Lucky us, we were the proud owners of half of it. I had a brief moment of rage because it was so like Pink Elephant to capitalize on their best night ever by ripping EVERYONE off and reselling halves of tables to people out front for three grand each. Someone give me a champagne bucket to throw up in.

T and I danced and attempted to enjoy ourselves on our half of the table banquette, Douchebagette #1 giving me her occasional she-devil Siamese glare. At a certain point, an anonymous white haired, fat man arrived. He had a drink, handed a baggie of coke to Dougebagette #1’s douchey older male companion and left. After Douchebagette #1 realized I saw this not-so-subtle transaction take place she warmed up to me. When I next ventured over to her side of the table on my way to the loo she had the courtesy to say:

“Sorry if I was mean before. There’s just so many people.”

Don’t remember what I responded, but at least she apologized – and especially after seeing the pathetic-ness that was her douchey man, my heart actually went out to her and I hold no hard feelings against her to this day.

In my run in with doucebagette #2 on the other hand, there was no apologizing. This was later in the night when I found myself at the bar with some Italian friends, my favorite of which, Luca, was buying a round of drinks since it was his birthday (wooo!). In my happiness for him/in the thrill of the moment, when he asked what I wanted to drink I joyously replied, “anything.”

Ladies, this is never a good answer. I received some hybrid version of a vodka tonic with a clear mixer that tasted more like gin. Needless to say, I shuddered when I drank it. SO – I did what any logical entrepreneurial girl would do. I spotted a vase of cranberry juice on the far side of the bar and maneuvered myself toward it to add a splash of bearableness to my drink. I thought the cranberry juice was out on the bar waiting for some cocktail waitress to take it to its appropriate table. No one was going to miss a thimble size cup from the liquid. How wrong I was. As I approached and reached for the juice an Asian chick, Douchebagette #2, who one of Luca’s friends was chatting up, physically pushed me away.

Did she mean to push me? I reached for the juice again and succeeded in pouring a splash of cranberry into my drink.

“Hey!” This girl was screaming, dear Lord. “That’s not yours!” she shrieked. Well, yeah. Correct. It wasn’t mine. But what was she implying? That it was hers? It then occurred to me since they were splitting toilet bowl size tables in half, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the misers at Pink Elephant had decided to sell table service on top of the bar. This way they could say to the hopefuls out front “Bottle service only to get in and your table will be a section of the bar. Two grand.”

And people were doing this!?!?!!?

Further proof of the absurd lengths the word “Hamptons” will drive people to.

“She didn’t take any vodka,” Luca’s friend pointed out to douchebagette #2.

“That’s not hers! It’s not hers!” She exclaimed like a enraged five-year-old. Okay. There was no way this woman bought this ridiculous on-the-bar table service, and sure enough, the Asian gentleman who rightfully owned the bottle and its mixers soon appeared to see what the commotion was about. He smiled and offered me a drink. This didn’t make douchebagette #2 happy at all.

“I have one, thanks. I just stole some of your cranberry because my drink is so strong. I’m so sorry to have upset your friend,” I replied, backing away as fast as possible.

“It’s okay. She’s a little drunk,” he said.

Yeah. Well. This is Pink Elephant at three a.m. We’re all a little drunk, but that doesn’t mean we can act like infants. I got away from that crowd as fast as possible and Luca’s friend and I had our own brief conversation about the absurdity of what had just happened.

Best part: douchebagette #2 gave me a slight but noticeable shove on her way out. And I swear that I’m someone who usually makes friends with women quite easily. It was a Wednesday Hamptons party at Pink. If that’s an excuse for all this behavior, well, I don’t know what to say…