When I wrote about my first date with Marquee a few weeks ago, I failed to mention that I returned to the club the very next night. My pride only just got out of rehab.

This time, I was there for another event. I’ll be honest: I don’t even know what the specifics were--only that it had something to do with the empowerment of women in the workplace and that a friend of a friend hooked us up. The crucial detail of the night: for one hour, there was a vodka fueled open-bar.

We arrived promptly at 10:15 p.m. At 10: 30, the bouncer gave me a coy wink as he unhooked the velvet rope to let us in. Or was he reacting to the close proximity of a hair toss from the carefully straightened mane of a supermodel in front of me? Either way, the outcome made me feel a little special. I couldn’t help but feel the promise of this Friday night.

One hour’s worth of free drinks...and my friends and I intended to take advantage of the alcohol. We’d paid $25 to attend the event, so we had to drink more than our money’s worth in order to consider the evening worthwhile. Economically efficiency is always a first priority. Continue here.

Last weekend, I ventured skeptically back to Lit. A previous post about my first night at Lit was a rather glowing review, but don’t assume that I’ve been spending most my life living in a hipster’s paradise (yes, that was a Coolio reference). My second encounter with the bar left me burned.

It was a Friday night around 2:00 a.m. I’d just come from a delightfully dull bar--perfect for a few drinks and conversation with a couple of friends. But now we were looking for something less low key. We met up with two other friends and our party of five approached the bar’s dark exterior, IDs in our hands, alcohol in our veins, and a fire in our hearts.

“Private party,” the bouncer told me.

“What?”

“Private party. You can’t come in.” Even from his seated position, the burley guy managed to remain taller than I. New to the notion of an exclusive bar scene, it didn’t occur to me to argue. Nor did I realize that the 2:3 ratio of guys to girls might be a problem. Apparently, having guys in your entourage is a ballsy move (literally) that could impede bar-hopping ability.

I was pissed. In August, Lit welcomed us with open arms.

What had changed?

With NYU back in session, maybe Lit could afford to be a lot more exclusive.

Also, in August, Ed Westwick--aka Chuck Bass of Gossip Girl--had been spotted mackin’ it with some anonymous girl. Such a celebrity sighting may have also upped the exclusivity of the bar.


These notions make me gag. First of all, the idea that all of these little underage NYU ragamuffins can go to Lit whenever they want, but that as an old, haggard 22-year-old, I get turned away...well, that’s just humiliating. Continue Here...

It’s late, well past midnight. I’ve been drinking. Desire has replaced reason. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help myself. I swore I wouldn’t go crawling back, but it’s just too easy. I’ll hate myself in the morning--more like early afternoon--but, right now, I just don’t care.

I need Veselka.

No, I’m not having a lustful love affair with some Eastern European hottie. Veselka is a 24-hour diner in my neighborhood and I’m there late-night again with a desperate hankering for an egg, sausage and cheese sandwich.

The sandwich is $3.75--far cheaper than any drink I consumed that night. I’m sitting with five of my girlfriends. What is it about drinking that makes our appetites go wild?

If alcohol is supposed to release us from our inhibitions, what does it mean when five girls out for a crazy night in the big city all end up in a diner, ravenous for nothing more than a hearty breakfast?

Maybe it’s a reflection of our reluctance to embrace the real world. All of us are either struggling to find a job or adjusting to the entry-level lifestyle. In this transition, we cling to what we know - that nourishment and familiarity warm food provides.

All of us feel pretty skeptical about the life after college, each in our own ways. I, for one, remain particularly wary about dating. I went to a college in a small town. I knew everyone at the party. This environment gave me the insight to do a heavy background check on anyone that I was interested in. Now that this is no longer an option, I feel a little lost, a little vulnerable. Googling someone isn’t the same as already knowing his three best friends.

Thus, if a guy, a stranger, starts talking to me in the bar, I’m suspicious. I have to assume the worst. Through the screen of such paranoia, friendly small talk is lost in translation. For example:

Guy in bar: “What’s up? I’m Danny.”
I hear: Want sex! Have HPV!

“Can I get you a drink?”
Can I roofie your drink?

"Do you live around here?"
Crabs to give! Herpes here!

At this point I mumble something about going to the bathroom and get out of there.

Such fear is unfounded and unfair, but I can’t help it. I was educated by the D.A.R.E. program. I learned never to take candy from strangers and that if someone offers you an apple, it probably has a razor blade inside of it.

My reluctance to prowl for men has left me reduced to another instinctual hunt: the quest for food.

So Veselka becomes my new late night lover. And maybe the other girls would look at me cross-eyed if I shared my little analysis of exactly how and why I think we’re in here eating instead of out there continuing the party train. For now, we’re sticking to what we know: greasy food and good company.

Maybe someday I’ll accept the reality that shaking hands with a stranger in a bar won’t give you HPV, but for now, I’m happy to call it a night with Veselka.

On Friday I went to Lit, a bar on 2nd between 5th and 6th. At first glance, there is nothing “Lit” about it--the front facade is just black with no sign to indicate a name, just tacked up scraps of paper announcing the DJs playing this week. I guess this is a bar you have to know about. My friends know about it so in we go in.


We’d already done the drinking-at-home routine. I’ve become a real wino since getting to New York. Example: I frequent the Trader Joe’s Wine Shop more than its grocery store. I walk into Lit oblivious to my surroundings as we descend to the lower floor of the bar.

Upon entering this overheated underground lair, I realize that I’ve stumbled into Hipsterville.

Let me pause to acknowledge that labeling people is wrong. Parents, teachers, and generally all figures of authority taught me not to judge a book by its cover, but New York is kind of like rushing around in an immense Barnes & Noble. There’s really no time to read beyond that glimpse of the cover. Could it be that it’s more fun just to judge?

Amongst these many titles in New York City, one of the most definitive has to be the Hipster. Lit is swarming with them: a hipster breeding ground.

I don’t know how the males saunter around as they do, because it can’t be easy to move in such tight denim. The jean uniform ranges from straight-leg to skinny. Their v-neck shirts reveal a malnourished sprout of chest hair. When not sporting the deep v-neck, they choose between stripes and plaid.


Females gallivant about in high waisted shorts and leotard tube tops, vintage printed dresses and suede brown booties. I am wearing my Lamé gold headband. From previous experience, I know that this choice in apparel tends to invite criticism, specifically a social syndrome I formerly identified as PHH--Perpetual Headband Harassment.

A tall, dark, almost-handsome guy with a carefully tousled mane and blue vintage tee approaches me.

“Hey,” he says. “Nice headband. I have it in black.”

Did I just experience acceptance? Almost-Handsome walks away, but Lit gets my stamp of approval. And with the DJ playing everything from “Still Fly” by Big Tymers to “Blue,” that Eiffel 65 one hit wonder, to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” we all shake our hipsters long into the night. (Excuse the pun.)

As I leave the bar around 3:00, I witness a guy in a loose t-shirt and baggy khakis--blaring dress code violation for this place--getting turned away from the bar.

“Only letting in NYU hipster shits,” he spits as he stalks away.

I pause, contemplating this comment.

Am I a hipster shit?

I pass a group of business casual wannabe yuppies with too much gel in their hair and hear someone murmur, “Yo, yo check the headband.”

I spin around.

“Hey, fly headband,” one of them boldly mocks. Laughs follow.

“Yeah, whatever,” I retort with my back already to them, wishing I’d been bold enough to at least flick off the business casual brigade. PPH always leaves me tongue tied. Or maybe it’s just that my headband is Preventing Proper Circulation. Please note, headband enthusiasts, PPC sometimes contributes to the emotional damage caused by PPH.

I self-consciously run my fingers along the gold band.

Am I, in my American Apparel dress and my gold headband, just as hipster as the rest? What’s my cover? Amidst all of my judgments, I’d forgotten that I was just another paperback: easily appraised and not worth a second glance.

Such gloomy self-realizations cannot tarnish my good time at the bar. While it’s easy to define the place as just a hipster hangout, Lit is worth reading between the lines.

A couple of nights ago I went to Rodeo on 27th and 3rd. Rodeo lives up to its name, with a life-size stuffed boar in mid lope above the bar, as well as a few mounted heads of large four legged beasts placed around the general vicinity. Approaching the bar, I encountered a giant bin of unshelled peanuts. This was indeed a stroke of genius that worked twofold: 1) it was a tasty fun treat for the drunk people at the bar and 2) the scattered shells of the peanuts covered the entire floor, giving the place that kind of dirty, gritty feel one would associate with a rodeo.


I stepped up to the bar and ordered a margarita, apparently the house specialty. I’d consumed an unwise amount of wine at dinner. Then I’d been treated to a shot of Patron by a young man who was inconsolable about the state of the stock market. I suppose buying the shots was a drunken attempt to flip off Wall Street: “If I’m going to lose my money, I’ll lose it myself.” As for me, I found this gift in a shot glass to be a reminder that good things come in small packages. And so, when I arrived at Rodeo around 11:30, I was feeling pleasant, but ready to be sipping on something. The margarita I’d ordered arrived in a huge glass; it had to be holding about 16 oz. And it came with a straw.

Perfect.

Drinking out of a straw always makes me feel like I’ve hooked myself up to an IV of alcohol--and I mean that in the best of ways.

A folky country band played in the back half of the place, where there was another less crowded bar. This bar served drinks in red solo cups (insert nostalgic college memory here).


The live music created the grand finale of the evening, for there were many patrons seated watching the band, but a few had gotten up and madly swung their hips to the likes of Johnny Cash and other greats that I can’t remember because I was now on my second XL margarita.

A man of an anonymous age, anywhere between 35 and 50, gyrated around the tables, purposefully bumping and grinding with the back of everyone’s heads. The last image I have, slightly misty around the edges like a dream out of a 90s sitcom, is this dancing man locking eyes with me before roping me in with an imaginary lasso.

From the free peanuts to the dancing round-up, the whole affair was as honkey tonk as the name of the bar promised. The crowd ranged from obviously under-age college students to men who appeared to use Touch of Gray hair coloring. Rodeo seems to attract anyone and everyone. Its casual albeit corny scene had a lot to offer: live music, large drinks, and and free peanuts that came tumbling out of my purse the next morning. I love a place that lets me leave with party favors.

Stunned in the City here, Miss MB's little sis. I just moved to New York, but with MB showing me the ropes, I think I'll get by. She's graciously given me standing room on her soapbox, and I'm just the beginning. MB wants her entourage of girls to join her, because we all have more than a few things to say about life in NYC. So watch out for a potential redesign (!), though for now it's just a family affair.

But enough about that. Let's move on to something less family-oriented.


So I went to this place on St. Marks that was, you know, fine. Nothing really special about it. In fact, the next day I couldn’t even remember its name until I looked at the picture I’d taken of the front of the building: Hop Devil.

Such a weak first impression may be due, at least in part, to the two bottles of Pinot Grigio I shared with a friend prior to arrival at the bar. Still, though I thought Hop Devil seemed nice enough, it lacked any distinctive qualities. There were no hilarious accidental art installations, no mysterious obstructions in the bathroom, nothing particularly out of the ordinary. It felt as though it was simply the bare minimum.

However, I confess my opinion of the bar has been unfairly clouded due to events of the evening unrelated to the bar itself. Specifically, I found myself to be a victim of PHH.

PHH is not a feminine syndrome, nor a sexually transmitted disease, but rather a situation of verbal abuse caused by cold, hard ignorance. This is not the first time I’ve encountered PHH--Perpetual Headband Harassment--and certainly not the last, but each time it is a personal struggle. That night, I happened to be wearing a gold lamé headband around my head as a garnish to the rest of my outfit. Throughout the evening several people had things to say about it, none of them particularly positive.


Prior to the onslaught of PHH, I had a good enough time at the bar. I ordered a vodka cranberry that tasted heavy on the cranberry. Very heavy. Then I noticed the music that the bar was playing: namely nineties rock-pop groups like Matchbox 20 and the Goo Goo Dolls.

This was the stuff I’d listen to while my mom drove me to the mall in our Ford Taurus station wagon. Incidentally, Ford no longer makes the Taurus and Matchbox 20 and the Goo Goo Dolls no longer make music.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with listening to these relics of the 90s, but it’s not the kind of music that promotes hedonistic misbehavior, and when a bar named Hop Devil promises “a Hell-uva time,” I expect the music to be in accordance with that kind of attitude.

As I sit at the bar, nursing my vodka mostly-cranberry and contemplating the music choice that persistently chips away at my energy level, I'm addressed by a guy standing to my right: “Why are you wearing that headband?”

“Because I feel like it,” I reply with a shrug. “Why?”

“I’m just wondering why you chose to wear it.”

That’s polite for: I think you look like an idiot. Whatever. What does he know?

Fifteen minutes later, a boy that claims to be twenty-six but appears to be sixteen asks, “What is that headband’s functional purpose?” as though he had raised his hand in science class. This time I respond with a mute shrug. Now I'm a little irritated. I want to ask, What’s the purpose of the collar on your shirt? Is it protecting the hairs unattractively filling in on the back of your neck since your last bad haircut?

Finally, as I leave the bar, walking down St. Marks, I’m suddenly surrounded, literally encircled, by a hoard of young men that couldn’t have possibly been older than 21, if that.

“Nice headband!” is the only jeer from the group as I physically elbow my way out of their drunken, perspiring circle. Gross.

Fashion isn’t always functional, but it’s not as though my headband was dysfunctional. What was it about my little band of gold that elicited so much negative commentary? How is it really any different from wearing a necklace or a bracelet?

It didn’t impede my walking, like a pair of excessively uncomfortable heels or a tight skirt that tends to ride up. It didn’t threaten to expose me in any way, at least not physically, though I have to say, I was feeling a little emotionally vulnerable after being repeatedly interrogated about what exactly it was doing around my head.

Perpetual Headband Harassment strikes again and, as usual, stems from unrest amongst the male population. In my personal experience, girls don’t question it. Still, I felt encouraged the next night when, drunkenly gallivanting around the Union Square, I saw a portly Asian man standing outside a bar, smoking a cigarette and wearing the exact same headband. I walked on, contemplating whether it looked better on him, half sorry that I hadn’t stopped to ask him if he had any personal experience with PHH.

As for Hop Devil, well, like I said, nothing wrong with the place, but my hell-uva time was nowhere in sight. If my headband became more of a circle of hell than the bar itself, that just goes to show how exciting I found the scene there.

Let’s think about this.

In December, if a group of friends sat indoors around a television consuming alcohol from 12pm onward in a weekend long frenzy, moving from innocuous beer to wine to mojitos to deadly vodka shots all before dark, they’d be labeled as reclusive, depressed alcoholics. Yet switch December for June, put everyone around a swimming pool instead of a TV, throw some beef patties on a nearby griddle, and suddenly this kind of behavior is not only acceptable but encouraged. The scene no longer resembles a crybaby musical, but rather healthy, stylish adults making the most of the nice weather. Full article here

It’s common fact that a house party is only as good as its bar. It’s also a common fact that your house party will continue as long as liquor in any form is present.

Mathematical equation: Party longevity is in direct correlation with your liquor stash.

The above photo is noteworthy because it represents the most stocked, complete, casual house party bar I’ve ever seen. Visualize that this is just a section of one table and that there were three tables at this shindig.

Let’s observe what makes whoever put this spread of debauchery together, the party guru version of Yoda:

1. Every kind of liquor known to humans is represented on this table: We’ve got wine for the boring people, beer for the relaxed people and over a dozen bottles of vodka for the “I like my drinks to have a 40% proof” people. The mixers are countless.

Many New Yorkers like to nurse their hangover with more liquor, the logic having to do something with ‘keeping you liver working.’ The exact science of this theory I cannot explain, but it’s popular among Manhattan’s expat crew: Italians, Frenchies and Brazilians who all seem to body surf their way into Felix Sunday afternoons to keep daylight just as jovial as last night at the club.

Felix, located in SoHo on West Broadway and Grand, is the thumping heart of a much larger Sunday circle of sin. The rounds include nearby Novecento, Café Noir, Diva and Cipriani’s Downtown. And for the Expat crowd, there’s a zero percent chance of not running into someone you know. It’s an exercise in incest so be prepared to hear a lot of joyous shouts of recognition in a lot of foreign languages.

I’d stopped through Felix on a handful of Sunday afternoons, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I engaged in ‘the Felix tradition,’ a full day’s worth of productivity lost inside this French bistro/bar. Below I’ve documented my experience.

2:15 – I arrive. The place isn’t a mosh pit yet because the hardcore partiers are still sleeping. Every table however, is booked and the wait spills out into the sidewalk. Great.

2:18 – I wiggle toward the bar and see some French friends. They suggest I put my name down for a table ASAP as they were just told it’s a forty-five minute wait. I think to myself ‘that’s absurd’ and decide once my friends arrive to convince them we should go to one of the eighteen other perfectly delicious brunch places in SoHo. I approach the intimidating female maitre’de (she’ll scream at you just for darting a hopeful smile her way) and in the bar crowd almost trip over someone’s small dog.

2:20 – As I avoid nose diving into someone’s drink, I hear the owner of the leash I’m entangled in calling out to the dog I almost killed, ‘Cocoa. Cocoa’

I slowly double-take. I know a dog name Cocoa...

I look up to see the leash leads to the hand of my uncle who’s at the bar next to me enjoying a scotch. WTF?

I call Christmas Stress-mus. And my Holiday wish it that would cause us angst every other year instead of every eleven months.

Wouldn’t that be great?

If Christmas came every other year it might help the season actually feel ‘authentic’ and ‘special.’ The idea of gift shopping might evoke emotions of love and charity instead of nauseating visions of shoppers sword fighting each other at Macy’s and even worse –
trying to find parking at the mall. I realize some people like the inevitable strain, travel, traffic, fake cheer, financial exploitation and family time that comes with Christmas, but I’d even vote for celebrating it every four years. Like the Olympics! Then I’d get really excited about it!

It’s my belief the hullabaloo that comes with the holidays is just too much for us frail human beings to handle every single year. I think medical authorities would back me up on this. Don’t we deserve a break? If Christmas came less often, heart attacks and other stress related illnesses might go down over twenty percent! Who needs Christmas every year?

My life’s frankly quite fulfilling without spending hours locked in my family’s basement like an Indonesian child laborer wrapping a stack of presents higher than the fire’s mantelpiece. My life’s fulfilling without pretending to enjoy decorating a perfectly good fur tree that belongs in a forest with chirping birds and sun. Ultimately, it’s the shopping and commercialization of Christmas that gets to me – not any of the Holiday’s underlying values. And then we get to the worst part of all…Pink Elephant’s attempt at December decoration:




Is this really necessary?

Even a miserly, non-charitable establishment like Pink Elephant had to get on the Holiday bandwagon?

Is there no sanctuary?

Karaoke

On Wednesday, I hustled myself into the cold, intent on reporting what was to be the SoHo club’s Upstairs’ first Karaoke night. Sound like a carbon copy of Giuseppe’s ingenious idea to turn Sunday nights into a festival of alcoholism and embarrassment at Cipriani’s Upstairs?

It is.

Those you who’ve watched my video footage / soundtrack of Cipriani’s on karaoke night can understand why I kept my iPod buds handy while climbing the staircase to Upstairs – karaoke in New York clubs is like audible shit. If you’re eardrums aren’t completely desensitized from drunkenness hearing it may make you shriek. Yet as I entered the club, I saw a DJ, heard normal music, and saw no one slobbering over a mike. The karaoke screen hung at the very far end of the bar, stark white and barely visible.

Apparently, Upstairs had experienced “technical difficulties.” Karaoke was nixed and it was a night like any other. I let out an audible gasp of relief.

Sure I’d been lured out of my house on a Wednesday night under false pretenses. But Cipriani’s is bad enough. The last thing this city needs if for the clubbing karaoke idea to spread like Christmas decorations.

Oh! And are you short on Christmas gift ideas? How about getting your favorite douche or douchette this delightful Pink Elephant snow cap?

Karaoke rarely sounds good, but it’s usually not this bad.

You guessed it. This time around at Cipriani’s Upstairs’ weekly Sunday night shit-faced singing shebang I had the genius to videotape what was going on. I wanted visual and auditory proof of the ridiculousness because I don’t feel anyone who reads this blog can fully understand what an embarrassment this entire establishment is to the human condition.

For juicy background details on Sunday’s at Cipriani’s Upstairs check out my previous article.

The brief 411: models, modophiles, creepy Italian men, Giuseppe, gold diggers and extremely drunk partiers gather together on Sunday nights in this private club to enjoy spending a few thousand on tables while singing along to karaoke.

DON’T EVEN WALK UP THE NARROW STAIRS TO CIP’S IF YOU’RE GOING TO STUMBLE.

You must attend this party entirely inebriated. Not doing so will result in death, as I’m pretty sure any sober person would hang themselves with a tablecloth from the rafters mere moments after having to endure this adult sing along.

Bartok and I prepared appropriately. We consumed an entire water bottle full of Bacardi and Diet Coke on the walk from my place to West Broadway. Then we jumped around like apes at Diva as the lounge was celebrating its Four Year Anniversary with a Euro dance party starting at 8 P.M. The Diva party was noteworthy, and I’d like to take the time to write about the fabulous Enrique look alike DJ, the relaxed vibe, and the delicious aromatic seafood at another date. For now, just know that Diva served at the perfect vodka heavy pre-gaming event to our eventual arrival at Cipriani’s across the street at 12:30 A.M.

So here you go. It’s dark, my camerawork sucks, the visuals are bad. What’s more noteworthy is the singing – or lack there of. What’s amazing is that when you’re standing on top of a table at this party, you actually feel like a superstar. Looking at these videos, in retrospect, you can barely even decipher what song is playing. Even the karaoke machine sounds like it’s on crack.

Observe my drunken genius in Video 1, as I attempted to create a lighting system for my movie with a candle.

Observe the cocktail waitresses slithering together on the bar in Video 2.

And please, don’t judge me.

My girl Bartok’s in town and after our group of friends consumed half a liter of sake and two bottles of champagne, our evening was off to a promising start. Around 2 A.M., after we all got bored of watching YouTube videos while inebriating ourselves, we decided it might be appropriate to detach our asses from the couch, detach the liquor from our hands, and actually do something of theoretical worth with our evening.

Everyone tossed around plans, and shot them down, texted our friends already out and looked up addresses of where they were on the web. We’d settled on an acceptable game plan when half of our friends realized it was Saturday night (they’d been under the impression it was Sunday this whole time) and we had to start the whole planning pow-wow again, keeping the fact that it was unfortunately a weekend in mind.

Weekends equal crowds.

Weekends equal competition for cabs.

Weekends equal Sixth Avenue traffic.

Somehow we ended up at opening night of what someone claimed was a “new” New York nightclub, The Madison, where there was an IMG Modeling Agency party. Gross. But our guy friend insisted on attending.

Inside the bowels of The Madison, which by the way is large and cavernous like the old school clubs of the 70s, I remembered that drunk and baby-model-drunk are two completely different levels of inebriation. I found myself surrounded by sloppy, sloppy, sloppy baby-model-drunks and the perverted modelphiles that stalk them. There was no escape. I couldn’t even maneuver myself to an empty area, because this club had no empty areas. The entire situation made a Thursday at Pink Elephant look classy.

That’s saying a lot.




I spent most of my time trying not to get drowned in vodka as PR’s on top of tables would occasionally let it rain down Kettle One on the eager, open-mouthed baby models below. I watched in disgusted awe as the models then slithered around with one another in a group orgy, as they were too wasted to properly pair off and grind. And I guess this kind of behavior’s to be somewhat expected when waltzing into a club full of seventeen-year-olds at 2:30 A.M., I guess I just thought considering it was their agency party and therefore theoretically a work event, people might have stopped drinking when they could no longer see straight.

WRONG.

After we planted our coats down in the least violated area available, I realized we’d landed at the boys’ section of the dance floor. I was dead center in the middle of a male model cluster. While amusing, this kind of situation is not enjoyable. None of these chiseled hotties were a day over twenty-two. Most were socially awkward and impressively bad dancers. Many floated through the crowd lost, aimless, unable to talk or even move their mouths. I think most of them would’ve been relieved if their mother suddenly showed up from Germany, grabbed their hand, and escorted them to the nearest exit for fresh air. And half of these guys were wearing flannel.

Newsflash! Apparently, 90s flannel is back. I was outraged that my friends had forced me to dawn a dress for this event. Clearly, if I had worn flats and assembled a grungy Seattle look I might have had a chance at blending in. As I mulled over this thought, an ano-baby-male model abducted me with what was apparently the club’s outdoor red velvet rope, which he was using as a leash. Having swung the rope over my head and down to my waist, he thrust me toward him, forcing us to dance. Then he reached the rope over Bartok’s head and drew her in as well. Once he realized we weren’t seventeen and on ecstasy, he let us go.

Trying to make the best of the situation, Bartok and I picked favorites. I liked a scruffy, blonde, greasy-haired model in jeans and a green t-shirt, who could have easily passed for Christian Bale’s younger brother. His arms were hugely muscular without being obnoxious and he was tall but not skinny. He wasn’t dancing, which was much appreciated, and looked like he could still probably recite the alphabet without having to pause or ask for help. All signs pointed to that he might be an okay time. Then a fat chick, presumably his booker, suddenly started trying to make out with him. She succeeded in getting one kiss. Disgusted, Christian Bale-boy quickly fled the premises, returning twenty minutes later on the other side of the table. I guess he thought he’d escaped, but the fatty found him again soon thereafter. Sad story.

The other male of note was a flannel wearing James Dean look-alike. At first I couldn’t decide whether he was hot or not. He seemed like the sexy Mexican plumber type who’d guest star on a show like Passions. Then we ended up sitting side by side on a banquet couch, me to rest my feet, him to enjoy a cigarette, and I realized he’s the face of at least a dozen city billboards, I’m thinking Hugo Boss. He had the dark hair and eyes I appreciated and I found myself wildly attracted to him, even hoping that we might dance (gasp! Gross, I know).

We were wearing almost identical brown bracelets (yes, this guy was hot enough to pull off flannel and man jewelry) so I tried to use this as a conversation starter. I got shut down. Then he stood up and it became evident that he could barely walk. I bumped into him ten minutes later and he fervently gripped my shoulders and asked:

“Where’s the Danish guy? Where is he? ”

I guess they’d lost a younger, Danish, baby boy model they were supposed to be chaperoning.

“There’s a Danish guy over there,” I said pointing one of my friends who is Danish, “but I don’t think that’s who you’re looking for.”

“No. No it’s not,” he admitted sadly. He seemed heartbroken.

We proceeded to have a brief conversation in which I learned his name and that he was from Amsterdam. Then a very feisty baby girl model wearing what looked like a backless thong as a top, grabbed my shoulder, shoved me off Amsterdam James Dean cartoon style, and started grinding with him.

Possessive. I get it.

I think she was on E.

I realized I was officially in Hell.

Models too drunk to find their coats had taken out their aggression by vigorously flinging our jackets around as hard as they could. Nice. Somehow we recouped all our belongings, and with my feet soaked in vodka, I managed to stomp out there before the 4 A.M. last call with some dignity. James Dean and I said bye on my way out.

As we’d anticipated at the beginning of the evening, Sunday later proved to be a much better night.

It happened. I haven’t even snarfed down my annual butterball turkey with extra stuffing when I was confronted at a dinner party last night with one of my least favorite questions on the planet. Right up there on the same level as, “How many people have you ever slept with?” is:

“What are you doing for New Years?”

As if I’ve even thought about that! I still haven’t even worked out the details of what I’m doing for Thanksgiving and it’s a week from today. I haven’t even started mentally preparing myself for the disgustingly glossy, commercial ‘cheer’ that is Christmas – a holiday I find not only stressful, but vomit inducing.

New Years conversations? Really? Already?

Ironically enough, I don’t find New Years vomit inducing (although I think January 1st may be our country’s national high for people puking). New Years instead is an annoyingly tricky holiday, and it doesn’t help that people (especially people in Manhattan) are obsessed with it. Everyone wants New Years to be a good time, but ultimately the pressure to have fun undermines the holiday. Plus it’s an opportunity for every bar, restaurant and half-decent club to rip off the American public.

Some of the abuse people have to look forward to on New Years Eve includes:

1. Buying three hundred dollar ‘tickets’ a month in advance to enter your typical douchey club on 27th street.

2. Being forced to hitchhike, hire a limo, or take the bus, since finding a free taxi in the city will be more competitive than purchasing a Hermes Birken bag.

3. Should you venture outside of Manhattan, being subject to drunk partiers irresponsible behind the wheel judgment.

And last, but perhaps most importantly:

4. That dreadful awkward ‘after the ball drops’ moment. I feel pretty confident that the first few nano-seconds of 2008 are inevitably the most uncomfortable of the entire year. I’d like some sort of award-winning psychologist to develop an informational pamphlet on how to handle those theoretically ‘joyous’ after midnight moments.

Technically, you’re supposed to embrace/kiss/slobber on your significant other in a state of euphoria as confetti swirls around you like in an uber-cheesy movie. So if you’re a serious couple at least you have a game plan. The out of control drunken nature of New Years however, has been known to cause fights between even the most stable couples. So even if you’re hitched, there’s no guarantee you and you loved one will be on speaking terms by the time the clock hits midnight, in which case you can pretend to mack on each other as the ball drops and welcome in the New Year secretly hating each other. Not fun.

Even less fun, is surviving this entire situation with someone you’re in a ‘grey relationship’ with. Suddenly, what you do together when the ball drops serves to define your entire relationship. Like if you kiss in front of everyone during those chaotic New Years moments (as if anyone’s watching…or cares) you suddenly run the risk of morphing into a ‘real’ couple. You could just pull each other into a joyous hug, that’s very grey appropriate. Or you can avoid eye contact all together. Or hide under a table with a bottle of champagne and wait for the moment to pass. Grey relationships thrive on grayness. The smog is the relationships fuel. So any social situation which calls for a clarification of your status is probably best avoided. Yet another reason why New Years often sucks.

Single and spending the holiday with friends is probably the least stressful option. Then you can spend the moments between 12:00 and 12:01 A.M. squirting champagne in one another’s faces and jumping around like apes. Unfortunately, a New Years level intake of alcohol usually makes people hornier than an in-heat hippopotamus on estrogen medication, so you run the risk of hooking up with one of your friends, or worse, some predatory sleazo at the bar.

So a New Years game plan where you don’t end up pissed, an embarrassment, insanely emotional or full of regret?

If someone comes up with something let me know, because apparently I have to start planning now.

***

Thank God the bras have still not caught the fashion bug. The ailment is limited to handbags and jewelry and anything else that is visible. That of course means no more buying from wholesale jewelry.

Yes, I realize this sounds like one of those douchey Cosmopolitan headlines. FYI, I hate those girl magazines. Who needs the folks at Redbook to teach us how to NOT have an orgasm again? Instead, I’m writing to commemorate an especially interesting conversation that took place over a recent night of sushi and way too much sake, a night in which our dinner party girls ganged up our dinner party guys and started asking some I’ve-drunk-way-too-much-to-censor-myself questions. Since we were all ‘just friends,’ no one felt the need to hold back. Here I’ve documented our evening’s ramblings, what I hope is an unbiased analysis of the two sexes and how they interact.

Somewhere around dessert, as I unabashedly bemoaned my romantic situation with comments like, “It’s just such a pity because if Mr. Grey just did X, Y, J and Double Z Squared, I think we’d both be so much happier,” when a male dinner party companion interrupted me with a solution:

“Why don’t you write all the things you wish he’d do on a piece of paper, give him the list, and tell him if he complies he’ll be rewarded with random, bonus blowjobs.”

Me: “That’s the kind of logic I’d use when interacting with a small child or pet.”

Him: “Exactly.”

Now I’m staring like a nitwit into my sake glass hoping I didn’t hear him correctly.

My friend continued: “Guys aren’t stupid. They just don’t think about all the things you girls think about. Guys forget stuff, easily! So keep it simple, write it down, and create a reward system. I think you’ll find he’ll be more than happy to comply.”

I smiled, realizing while this strategy may function for obedient American boys, my friend clearly had no idea what it was like to date the highly complex, spoiled, Lucifer-like love animal that is an Italian man. No way were lists going to work.

Next, the ladies at the table wanted to know how sex well…felt different with different women.

“How can a man claim Miss so-and-so is the best sex of his life? Aren’t all women just…well…holes?”

Gross, I know. And this statement received a strong negative reaction. The table erupted in chaos at which point I, a writer who’ll use any interesting social situation for my professional gain, instructed the boys to tell us the tangible specifics aside from chemistry that make a woman great in bed. Chemistry, pheromones, and the psychologically adrenaline inducing games couples play with one another can’t be properly explained. The inexplicable, enigmatic nature of these things is what constitutes lust. Setting these mysteries aside, the male half of our table came up with four tangible qualities that ‘the best sex of their lives’ invariably possessed.

1. Going at it HARD. Consensus from the men made it clear that the best sex was hard sex. They preferred girls who liked to pound and play rough rather than the romantic, soft, immobile, ‘dead starfish’ types.

2. Getting on all fours. According to those who possessed a penis around our West Village dinner table, men get off on doing it doggie-style. They claimed this has been man’s favorite position since the Stone Age and that any man who denied their intense fetish-like desire for women on all fours were point-blank liars. Translation: the girls who qualified as ‘the best sex’ liked to time travel to the Stone Age as well.

3. Doing it in public places. This one went a little over my head, but I think the underlying point was that men crave an adventurous partner. The guys claimed that while women may initially have inhibitions and be resistant to the idea of getting spread eagle in an H&M changing stall or bar bathroom, they grow to love it. One friend recounted a story of an ex-girlfriend who was initially terrified of the public fuck and after giving in became addicted to the insane adrenaline rush. What I took away from these comments: Be active, get creative, suggest raunchy things – it definitely won’t hurt.

4. Having an orgasm. Easier said than done. For all the boys at the table, ‘the best sex of their lives’ included a partner they could make come vaginally. “If the girl can only come clitorally, it gets complicated,” one man said. “Guys get off on knowing they made their woman come. Having her come vaginally is a massive ego boost.”

So there you have it, straight from some dudes’ sake filled mouths. Men: please feel free to correct or add onto to your drunk peers’ insights. Women: I’d take all of this with a grain of salt.

I’d like to take a quick moment to ridicule Tenjune’s failed attempt at Halloween décor. See below:
What is that stuff? Bubble gum? Strewn cotton candy? An effort at spider webs? If so, why is it the color of Pepto-Bismol? Note that the crowd seemed generally happy. No one seemed disturbed by this plentiful pink nastiness but me.



This week I finally got myself to Jane Street and West Side Highway to check out Socialista. Was I excited? Not really. I’d just had one too many people ask me ‘Have you been to Socialista yet?’ and was sick of replying in the negative. My underlying motivation for going however, remains that the place is co-owned by my favorite Mafioso Italian in the city, Giuseppe Cipriani along with former Bungalow 8 doorman Armin Amiri. I felt I owed it to Giuseppe to check out his latest creation of exclusivity and frivolity. Just for fun.

On the cab ride over, my friend warned me to lower my expectations.

“They sort of pride themselves on the place always being empty,” he said.

Sigh.

Now I was bracing myself for a sight worse than Rose Bar on a Saturday night – the pool table gathering dust and the place so quiet you can hear scurrying cockroaches. I feel the whole ‘exclusivity’ by keeping a place empty tactic is kind of like cheating. It takes a lot more hard work, energy and talent to keep a club full than it does to just turn everyone away. But then again, that’s assuming these establishments want to make money, which for Socialista isn’t the case. It just exists as Giuseppe and Armin’s ‘pet project.’



Upon ascending the rickety staircase to the main bar my first thought was: “Really? So much freakin’ hype for this?” The place looked like a frail haunted house, and that’s without Halloween decorations. As promised, it was empty. Eight other patrons. Two bar tenders. A DJ. That’s it.

But after ordering a drink and settling into one of the many plush and available mauve couches, the place began to grow on me. The design is minimal, Cuban-style. I felt like I’d landed on the Hollywood set used to shoot Casablanca, which is actually pretty cool. The lounge’s relaxed vibe suggested that a Rick type character might push through the kitchen’s wooden shutters at any time and serenade me with “As Time Goes By.” The fans, the white washed walls, the quiet. Socialista felt like our living room away from home. Which wasn’t what I was expecting at all.



As we got increasingly drunk, we became mesmerized by this Van Gough-like painting to the right of the bar. At first I thought it was a cat with bound feet, but then I starting noticing and counting all the geese.

So there’s everyone’s weekend homework. How many geese do you see?

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…

Who Knew?

Am I the only one who completely missed the fact that this was a long weekend? Only on Thursday was I clued in that Monday is Columbus Day and a legitimate day off for most institutions. I had no idea. Can someone please invent a calendar in which these random long weekends are highlighted with stars or pulsate in flashing red? Having missed the Holiday memo, I’ve now spent all weekend thinking about the places I could’ve traveled had I known the universe had blessed me with an extra holiday. Seesh.

On Nightlife


You don’t need fly roundtrip across the Atlantic anymore to party it up Euro-style. After a summer hiatus, the notoriously good-looking Italian man duo behind Made In Italy NYC are again hosting Friday nights at Room Service. While Room Service may be a location as douchey as the rest, I appreciate it if only for the fact that it’s not on the 27th street strip. The club provides a needed physical and mental break from the Chelsea mobs. So while technically you’re still clubbing, at Room Service you don’t feel as guilty about it since you didn’t enter the disco-fever Hell around Pink Elephant, Cain, and Marquee. Another plus about Room Service is its convenient proximity to Tens, so if you’re ever bored you can just swing a building over and shake your thang with strippers. I personally enjoy partying at Room Service because I also know the unlock code for the pleasantly clean and spacious staff bathroom, so I never have to go downstairs and wait in the sweaty ladies room line.

This Friday I forced my usually high expectations for a fun-filled evening down a notch, figuring most people would be away for the long weekend. Imagine my surprise when I rounded 21st street at 12:45 (almost an hour earlier than I normally go) and found the door an absolute madhouse. Pink Elephant on Roberto’s birthday level madhouse. And it wasn’t even 1 am? When I walked inside, the party wasn’t just in full fledge, the place felt like it was overcapacity. “How is this possible?” I asked myself. The word on how delightfully fun Made in Italy’s guido-chic parties are has definitely spread. That or there’s been an influx of Europeans who are actually flying into New York to experience the best Euro house party on this side of the Atlantic.

While I was pleased Made in Italy had become an international phenomena, it sucked that it had to happen in an October in which we’re experiencing 90 degree weather. Room Service’s puny air-conditioning system could not battle the throngs of perspiring Mediterraneans. The place was a sauna. I’m surprised someone didn’t suffer a stroke. I tried to cope with the heat by locating the few air conditioning ducts in the ceiling and standing on an elevated surface directly below them. The club was seriously short on space, so the only elevated surface area I could find to stand on was a makeshift table right next to the DJ booth and in frighteningly close proximity to the club’s main speaker. So I had house music infused into my brain at pulsating, mega-decibels. Two days later, I’m still amazed my hearing is intact.

On TV

Did the a cappella version of Fergie’s “Glamorous” at the beginning of Wednesday’s Gossip Girls make any one else nauseous and outraged enough to stab puppies? The lovely girls choir rendition of the pop song sounded so unnatural that it interfered with the characters’ dialogue on screen – literally to the extent that I couldn’t understand what was going on. I also don’t think they sing Fergie (a capella or otherwise) in private school chapels. I’m beginning to think that under that glossy, Park Avenue, big budget exterior, Gossip Girls is revealing that it’s just as uninspired as every other CW program for tweens. Only so many outrageous Upper East Side fashion statements can disguise that fact that we’ve seen every storyline on this show at least a zillion times.

Now I realize most of you have already watched it online, but I finally saw the Pushing Daisies premiere. My Internet often stalls and I usually seem to be missing one the twenty necessary plug-ins to watch TV effectively online, so I tuned in with the rest of technologically unsavvy America to catch it in real time this Wednesday. First off, I commend the show for daring to be different. It doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen on television before. On the downside, I felt like I was watching some flowery version of BeetleJuice, and the narrator’s wizard-like voice bugged me to the point where I wanted to throw stuff at my plasma. I guess I was expecting something more sophisticated than a show where the central tension is that the ‘in love’ protagonists can’t touch each other. This just felt a little second grade. But who knows? Maybe Pushing Daisies will become fantastically complex and garner a Lord of the Rings-like following. I’m going to try and stay tuned.

Ugly Betty and 30 Rock I give two enthusiastic thumbs up.

And the model with Asperger's on ANTM is kicking butt.


On Books

Apparently it is possible to write a best-selling novel that contains absolutely no action or conflict. Marlena de Blasi did it with her hit novel A Thousand Days in Venice, a book I’m still trying to figure out why I read. Basically, it’s a love story in which everything goes perfectly and the main character lives happily ever after. This book flew off the shelves and is being made into a feature film. I’m now convinced that the American public must be more severely depressed than I previously realized. I guess it can be relaxing to read a novel where everything goes perfectly all the time, where every meal is to die for and every waking moment is romantic. But for those of us in real relationships not in Venice I found the book a little hard to relate to, not to mention boring as hell. That’s not to say Marlena de Blasi can’t write. Her prose is exquisite and the only thing that makes the book worthwhile. So if you need your faith in true love restored give it a read, I just can’t guarantee you’ll be convinced.

For ladies looking for a relaxing read that won’t put extraneous stress on your brain cells, I recommend Caprice Crane’s new novel Forget About It. This novel is pure fun, and unlike many chick lit books that blend into one another, former MTV head writer Caprice knows how to develop quirky, unforgettable characters. In short, the book’s pushover protagonist fakes amnesia after a treacherous Manhattan biking accident in order to reinvent herself. What follows is utter hilarity and romantic comedy at its best.

Oops

Did I fail to mention that at Room Service on Friday night one of my favorite necklaces was lost, sacrificed to the party Gods? Someone on an elevated cube in the club accosted me, lifting me up to join them so quickly I’m surprised I’m not suffering whiplash. In the process, my necklace snapped off. I was drunkenly devastated. After searching the club’s ground using my cell phone as a flashlight and finding nothing but confetti and shards of glass, I alerted Room Service's fleet of bus boy. They sweep during the night, and I love this necklace so much I actually asked them to direct me to their communal trash receptacle so I could start digging.

After putting everyone around me in a jewelry code red (one man lifted an entire table to search underneath), I found my necklace buried in the depths of my tangled hair.

Classy, right?

Maybe I’m suffering low-grade amnesia.

I blame those twenty minutes next to the speaker.

I knew the Linanimal’s solo trip to Amsterdam would be an irrevocable disaster from the get-go. My prediction was confirmed when she phoned me from the Rome airport and cheerfully announced that she had forgotten her passport.

“You what!??!?!” I exclaimed.

“I’m in some sort of security room. I think they’ll let me through though. I have my German identification,” she breathlessly broadcast.

From her tone, it was unclear if she was telling me this for my own personal amusement or because she was hyperventilating and desperately needed someone to talk to. I could never tell with her.

“You can’t travel without a passport. Even if you get through, how will you get back IN?” I pointed out. See. I was a smart fifteen-year-old.

“I just don’t want them to call my parents,” was Linanimal’s non-sequitur answer.

Who were this girl’s parents?

The Linanimal was sounding wackier by the minute. We hung up, and I never got confirmation that she had indeed made her flight and arrived in Amsterdam until several days later. Bartok and I were midway through our vacation in Florence (a vacation which deserves its own separate mini-series – a mini-series I’d write if I thought I could paste together any of those barely-memorable, frighteningly intoxicated nights, nights when the concept of unlimited alcohol was still a novelty…I think you the picture) when Linanimal called us shrieking, crying, barely decipherable, wailing things like:

“My life is superimposed on the ceiling. I’m so scared. The chair’s attacking me. So many colors. The window’s the devil. Waaaaah!”

It took us about forty minutes of Gandhi-like patience to get some straight answers out of her. The synthesized version is that she bought shrooms and thinking that a package full was a single dose, ate them all. Yeah. She’d ingested the equivalent of shrooms for a small house party all by herself. She was alone in her hotel room in Amsterdam, tripping, and freaking the fuck out.

Here’s a question for you all: What do you say to someone in that situation?

I credit Bartok for being thoroughly more helpful than I. She’s the one who got Linanimal to spit out story of what happened and suggested she throw up, much better advice than mine which was to “take deep breaths and close your eyes.” She didn’t want to close her eyes because doing so resulted in entering “a scary place.” I mean, what do you say to someone who’s in another country and thinks furniture is attacking them?

And here’s the second million-dollar question: How do you ever get this person off the phone?

It’s pretty difficult. Hence why Bartok and I traded off phone duty in front of Italian MTV for the majority of the afternoon. I wish I could remember more specifics, but I think in the end she puked. She called again several days later announcing that Amsterdam was fab and she’d seen the Van Gough museum. She’d also figured out that her parents would inevitably find out about her trip through her credit card and phone bills.

Duh.

You’d think as semi-professional delinquents we’d all have thought of that earlier.

Now I know you’re all currently musing that maybe Linanimal’s whole trip was a ruse. A prank. A way for her to entertain us while she spent winter vacation happily eating and laughing her ass off on her apartment floor. I considered the possibility. I mean, the entire trip was crazy and broke every school rule, not to mention international transit laws. But the truth remains that Linanimal returned to Italy with photo proof of her trip and several bras worth of narcotics that she never could’ve acquired in Italia. That’s right. She smuggled drugs from Amsterdam to Italy in her BRA. She then did shrooms (in the correct dosage) with many of our classmates, and everyone had a positive experience. I often regret not taking part as shrooms are a drug I’ve always wanted to try, and don’t think I have the nerve for as an adult.

For our purposes, the story of Linanimal culminates at the end of the school year party. She came shroomed out and naked, wearing only the German flag somehow stylized into a dress with safety pins. I think some teachers made her change.

After that, Linanimal ended up back in the States, then at St. Andrews in Scotland, then back in the States again, always with her devoted boyfriend from her hometown who she’d met right after we finished high school. In short, they’ve been engaged forever, not without some minor bumps, but those are other stories for another day, stories which I wouldn’t feel comfortable telling without Linanimal’s permission. And next month, Linanimal and her beloved are participating in a handfasting ceremony, which according to Linanimal is like a religious wedding ceremony but without the legal aspects because she needs to retain her parent’s current insurance in order to attain some sort of medication (see, she hasn’t changed that much). Yet at the end of the day, I think Linanimal is the only person I’ve met in this world that I can conclusively say has found true love. Someone who loves her with all her quirks. So wedding? Handfasting ceremony? I don’t think it makes a difference.

And you know what? I’m happy for her.

On my last visit to Milan, something usual happened. Something even more unusual than me
a. Managing not to incur debt while shopping
b. Not calling up ex-boyfriends and
c. Having my Italian cell number seized by a twelve-year-old girl.

One morning, my ex-roommate Star, her current roommate, and I woke up to discover someone has taken a piss on one of our living room sofa chairs. Star’s current roommate had settled in the cushy, plush, lounge with a bowl of grapes, ready to enjoy some really bad Italian TV when I suddenly heard her shriek. The chair was wet, soaked in much more liquid than our five-pound Chihuahua’s bladder could ever produce. I assured her that a beer must have spilled, but we’d consumed no alcohol at the house the night before, and there were no strewn bottles in sight…

Star’s current roommate dared me to smell the chair, which being a childhood champion at Truth or Dare, I did. I took a quick whiff and realized we were dealing with a substance which was undeniably urine. The situation was so absurd that Star’s current roommate and I stood together in the living room for several moments just staring at each other, then at the chair, our mouths open agape, our hands up by our sides as if questioning God, ‘How on earth could this have happened?’


No, we had not had a party in the house the night before. No, none of us are sleepwalkers. And no, none of us have urine control problems or need adult diapers. I pride myself on the fact that I never once wet my bed as a child. I hated being near excrement so much that as an infant I used to tear off my own soiled diapers and fling them at people (cute, right?). Sitting to pee in chair (and by consequence on myself) is just something I’d never do. So who did it? The most frightening and awkward part of this investigation is that there were only five suspects:

1. Myself (no, I did not pee on the chair)
2. Star (who I’d lived with for almost a year and even shared a bed with one summer – if she had a peeing problem you’d think I’d know about it)
3. Star’s current roommate (an unlikely candidate, she lived with Star and was incredibly nice, dare I say normal)
4. Star’s boyfriend of three months (he’d slept over the night before)
5. The Chihuahua (physically impossible, she’s a quarter the size of the pillow)


Years of investigatory training through watching “Law and Order: Criminal Intent” lead me to suspected Star’s boyfriend, mainly because I’m never a huge fan of the guys she dates and also because in analyzing our crime scene, I observed that the way the chair was peed on looked like it was done by a man standing up. I mean, what girl would want to get dirty sitting on a cushy chair by peeing all over herself? An out of it man could easily mistake standing over a chair for standing over a toilet. They have the same general height and shape. Right? I also rationalized that Star, her roommate and I knew the apartment layout: we all had lived there, while Star’s boyfriend was technically less familiar.

Star naturally insisted that the object of her affection would never do such a thing, and in their relationship they had no history of inappropriate urination. He was a controlled drunk, and practically sober the night we went out. He had driven all of us home.

“Some people sleep walk and have no idea what they’re doing. It’s not their fault. They don’t know and don’t remember,” Star’s roommate pointed out. “It could be any of us. We don’t know what we do when we’re sleeping.”

Now the room got really uncomfortable. This concept is CREEPY, right? Maybe I’m a serial killer in my sleep and don’t even know it!

This sparked a series of rather inappropriate conversations, so those of you that are excrement sensitive might not want to read on:

Me to Star: “What about that ex roommate of yours who used to bring home guys that shat in her bed?”

This was an Aussie girl who Star was forced to eventually kick out of the apartment. Needless to say, this Aussie wasn’t a Miss Manner’s style drunk. Our Milanese girlfriend Wig once found Aussie in her apartment lying in her own excrement AND vomit. She’d shrieked and assumed Aussie was dead. In fact she called us wailing on the other line: “Aussie is dead. DEAD!” Nope, turns out she’s just had one too many tequilas down at the local pub.

Question: Shouldn’t people like this stop drinking?

Especially since Aussie’s already questionable taste in men would steadily decline once she hit the bottle. Hence how she ended up bringing home a guy that after their passionate lovemaking shat in her bed, only mildly apologizing for it the next morning. One would think that this story couldn’t get worse, but it does. On a different alcohol heavy night, Aussie had the excellent sense to bring him home with her again, and he shat her sheets for the second time in a row!

Next, Star pulled out a story about how she had been set up on a blind date with someone she (surprise surprise) ended up having no interest in dating. The feeling was mutual so they laughed it off and got insanely drunk, just so the night wouldn’t be a total waste of time. Then the guy urinated in his pants.

I would’ve stuck this sucker in the nearest cab and pretended not to know him if I ever bumped into him on the street, yet Star is a much kinder, more nurturing person than I am. She actually takes care of a dog, cooks for others, and shares her good going-out shoes (all acts charity I don’t posses). So she took this guy home, stuck his pants on the balcony, and let him collapse on the sofa bed, since at this point he couldn’t formulate the address of his own house. Don’t these people want to assassinate themselves out of shame when they wake up in the morning? How do they live with themselves? And why on earth do they keep drinking?

As us girls pow-wowed around our urinated-on chair, my head began to spin at how many stories we had to share about bodily functions behaving inappropriately in social situations. Star’s current roommate had a story about how after sharing a bed with her best guy friend on a drunken night she woke up in something wet. He peed the bed. In the spirit of the moment, I pitched in one of my favorite whacky stories: When my New York roommate Tatas resided in a sorority house in college, she woke up one morning to find a pile of shit on a chair right outside her bathroom. And after intense investigation, she and her sisters came to the conclusion that this hadn’t been done as a practical joke or as some Greek-life revenge scheme. They’d hosted a girl from different sorority that night, allowing her to sleep in the common room as she was too high to get herself home. In the morning the girl was gone, but a pile of what we assume was her shit remained. And here’s my question: If you could physically move yourself to a chair, why not walk the extra three feet and actually enter the bathroom? Apparently this whole excrement on furniture thing is a common problem.

Who knew?!!?

I’m still floored by this concept. And poor Star was forced to decide whether to confront her boyfriend about our chair situation or not. How does one start a conversation like that?

“Hey Honey, just checking in. I was wondering if you maybe took a piss in my living room chair last night?”

I told her not to bother. If he did do it he clearly doesn’t remember. And of course even if he did it and remembers, he can’t admit the truth.

“Yeah hun, actually I did. I thought the living room was the bathroom, and that the chair was the toilet, just like I sometimes think my car’s actually and elephant and you’re actually Janet Jackson.”

He’d have no choice except to deny. So the urban legend of who pissed on our chair remains a mystery to this day.

Maybe some things are better left undiscovered.