The night started out promisingly enough. I was scheduled to go to Rockwood to see Mike Grubbs of Wakey!Wakey! fame (and if you haven't checked them out, for God's sake, please do so. You're welcome). Then I was to meet up with some long-lost pals from DC, and dance the night away. This sounds foolproof, no? I was so stoked about the evening, I boldly sported a more substantial amount of cleavage than usual. My titties and I were ready to take on the city.
The music was lovely, the place was lively, the bourbon was doing its job. More pals materialized in the side bar after the show, conversations about sex, music, and museums ensued. I was kinda in my element. I was "on," you guys. Happyhappyhappy...
But I had to tear myself away to meet my out of town pals. So I left the relative safety and comfort of sweet home Rockwood, and headed out to points unknown. There were hugs and reunions. So far, so good. And then we got into the bar...
Here's the deal. I live in NYC. Spaces are small. Crowds are plentiful. I know this. So as long as the crowd is friendly and happy, so am I. But this was not good. Too crowded. Too frattish. And the only available space was by the bathroom, which not only smelled like rancid farts, but did not endear us to the teeming masses trying to make their way to the can. The molecules in this place started vibrating badly. I lost my confidence. I temporarily got it back with some drinks, but that was not a lasting fix. I started getting awkward. I started talking about my ex. It was bad, you guys. There was to be no dancing here. I ended up fleeing the scene, directing the taxi back to Rockwood, thinking I could re-set the time-space continuum by going back to my happy place. Alas, my pals had moved on. I was adrift. I actually started to panic that the night was so not going to plan.
Then I recalled that I had other pals at a birthday party at a club up the street. Maybe we could salvage this night after all! I texted my pals, and without waiting for a response, I went up First Ave, determined to dance my pants. Up to the bouncer I went, ID in hand, plunging neckline on display. He instructed me to wait by the door. So I did. This was going to be okay.
And then some glamazons approached. Very pretty girls. Freshly made-up. Not appropriately dressed for the weather. They smelled nice. Their heels were towering. And oh, landy, the boobage. I considered my now 6-hour-old mascara. My overcoat and Gap jeans. My slightly scuffed boots. And my comely, but incomparable, decollatage. I watched as they were waved inside. I watched as several more were waved inside. I watched as a third group was waved inside. This was worse than junior high and summer camp wrapped up in gym class. I knew I wasn't getting in this place. This was a New York I didn't know. This was a New York I didn't want to know.
I wound up slinking off to the Hot and Crusty, seeking solace in an Oreo cheesecake at 2 am. My pals finally texted me back. They were long gone from the club anyway, and called it a night a while ago. It was time to do the same.
Graphically speaking, the night went like this:
I think this is my first fight with NYC in the seven months I've been here. Which, when you think about it, is pretty good by any relationship's standards. And not every weekend can be a winner. But I think NYC owes me some flowers. Or some make-up sex. I'm putting it on notice until it does so.
Here's some footage of the high point of the evening, when Mike covered Cyndi Lauper. See how I could have been fooled into thinking this night was going to be amazing? Psh.
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