Help, it's 80,000 degrees in my apartment. The cat and I are considering laying on the floor in front of the AC to sleep at night. And it's only June, so August is gonna be a real blast. Sigh.
Thursday was one of those old school nights (where old school means like two years ago) in terms of just simply being out and about. It was nice to leave work on or close on time and I went off to the special "Arrivederci, Mr. Daily Heights!" happy hour. Without him and the site, my neighborhood social life would be a lot different I'm sure. Post that, I was off to meet friend C somewhere in NYUcountry and partake in free spirits. The journey continued to Aaron's party where he practically cheered when I said the blog was as good as half dead. Tsk, tsk. I think I've finally found my motivation to write more, y'all!
I was caught up in a nostalgic moment leaving there and went to Sapph for the first time in forever. What a waste. Nothing there even remotely appeals. Between that, Rothko closing, and more scary pubs than you can shake a stick at, I'm ready to just to declare that part of town a wasteland and not go back . Not that I've been there much in the past couple of years anyways, but you know.
After all that, I went across town to the 8th Circle of Hell a.k.a. The Meatpacking. Did you know they charge $3 for hot dogs from a cart in that neighborhood? Utter bull. Shudder. Did I really used to hang out around there all the time? That's how I feel just about everywhere in town lately. Did I used to hang out in this space when it was Tapis Rouge and now these bitches are selling pimp juice for $5? Lame, lame, lame. Now that going there has become a novelty, I can totally just write Manhattan off as a waste of time generally. Except for $1 vodka drinks at Lit and open bars. There's always time for that.
I met up with the lovely Claudia and her friend at a place I probably never would've wandered into on my own when we discovered we were about a block away from each other. Dude was gorgeous, smart, funny, with an actual career, and 25 years old. Er where are those guys in Brooklyn? I'll trade my infinite supply of 28, I mean 27, year old artists for a guy my age who has his shit together. Not that a guy like that would be interested in me anyways. Meh. I'm not as bitter as I might sound, but I'm going through a frustrating period. Guys. Can't love them and can't kill them.
And then a trip to 419. God, that place is like forever perfect. Even with the sniffer assholes. I waited 10 years to get into the bathroom and out came a trio looking like the fiends they were. And what did I find on the mirror ledge when I went inside? A lost bag of sugar! And I trashed it with a toss. I considered being elaborate about it, sprinkling a path to the toilet and flushing it or whatever, but it wasn't worth the effort. I come out to seethe fiends waiting outside. I walked past and went back to the bar. They sit across from me and keep glancing my way. Finally one comes over.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"Did you see anything in the bathroom when you were in there?"
"Huh?"
"Did you see something left behind in the bathroom?"
"Er, no."
"No really, you can tell me. I won't get mad."
Blink. Sneer. "I don't know what you're talking about."
And he walked away. They kept looking at me from across the way and one stood up and went back to the bathroom to do a real search I suppose. They found what they were looking for and went dancing happily for the rest of the night. Pathetic.
Standing at the bar, I caught sight of this guy I knew who used to work there and the last I'd seen, had gone off to greener pastures. I expressed my confusion to the chattering guy sitting next to me and he said that dude was now the manager. Weird! I chatted with the guy and after all these years, he still remembered my old drink, a glass of Taylor's 10, and gave it to me on the house for old times' sake. I can't believe I used to slide up in there drinking port all the time. Times sure change! But, it is nice to be remembered.