Just another typical night out in NYC...

Ok, I'd like to take this opportunity to express the fact that I am having an increasing amount of difficulty going out in NYC without doing the following:

1) Providing the general public with verbalities and scenes that may be considered somewhat non-conformist and just downright inappropriate;
2) Consuming an amount of alcohol at least 10 times the legal or simply acceptable limit for someone of my age/size;
3) Experiencing various losses in physical ability and brain-to-muscle and brain-to-nerve functioning, such as my ability to stand, walk, pronounce words and use at least some level of discretion when choosing to speak;
4) Encountering an extremely wide variety of members of the opposite sex that while different from one another all seem to strangely converge in their joint custody of the following traits: completely lacking in any creative initiative when engaging in pick-up attempts, and possessing a sad excuse for a sense of humor, personality and acceptable appearance, otherwise known as New York City's quite diverse demographic of complete and utter CREEPS.

With that preface in mind, shall I do a recap of my Friday night in the city?

Friday night, April 20, 2007, at approximately 11:30 pm, I entered the "Dirty Disco" in the meat-packing district. Now one would think that with a name like "Dirty Disco," the night would be relatively tame. NOT. (again, bringing that usage of "Not" back whether you like it or not).

Anyway, so night at Dirty Disco commences at 11:30 pm, and so far, it's a relatively quiet venue. I have yet to witness any puking, grinding, molestation, table dancing, pick-up attempts, public urination, or dancing by white males easily mistakable for uncontrollable seizure/muscle spasms. I'm thinking to myself, hey this might just be the low-key night in NYC I knew I could experience at least once. Wrong.

1) Myself and others present at the club encounter an asshole that must most definitely be added to our growing list of asshole genotypes (as a follow-up to Maggie's highly informative asshole blog). This asshole may be termed the "pathological liar asshole." He has been known to craft imaginary friendships and relationships with celebrities in his head which he then brings to fruition through pathetic pick-up attempt conversation with girls he meets out. If you know of some assholes yourselves, and need help determining if any might fit into this category, let me give you an example:

(Let's call him PL asshole by the way). Ok, so PL asshole approaches you in a club and says a little something like this:

"Hey, how are you, having a good time tonight? (Insert more stupid filler dialogue). Yesterday, Tom Cruise and I had coffee and are good friends."
Translation = "Yesterday I had coffee at Starbuck's and there was a TV screen there that was showing a recap of the Tom Cruise couch-jumping Oprah episode."
Your appropriate response = Hey, cool, but Tom Cruise is a tool which makes you one by even your imagined association.

Ok so we encounter PL asshole in the Dirty Disco. He sees that perhaps we are girls with some morsel of intelligence whose mental curiosity has perhaps encouraged us to pick up a few books and read. He proceeds to tell us that he is good longtime friend of esteemed author David Sedaris; HOWEVER, he was apparently out to lunch and utterly unaware that David Sedaris is in fact gay and has any affiliation with Paris. What a complete idiot and absolutely qualifying PL asshole.

Anyway, so subsequent to encountering PL asshole, we proceed to dance or should I say drink and "stumble purposefully" (what I like to call my dancing) the night away, encountering further specimens of the NYC race of male creeps. These included the "Oh where are you from I'm pretending I care so much right now" types, the "Here do you want another drink aka 1950890 so I can molest you" types, the "let's bust out of this joint and go to another club aka my bed" types, etc....the list is endless. During this time, we also decide we are important enough to invent our own drinks and name them after ourselves. We all order several "Maggie McQuades" from the bartender, in response to which the bartender wears a look of confusion and apparent fatigue over having to cope nightly with the stupid drunken ideas of stupid drunken customers. But I whisper "vanilla vodka/gingerale" to her and she proceeds to fill our orders. And she thanks me as the next time she is completely prepared as we jump to the counter and order about 50 more "MM's."

Eventually tired of the scene and the creep bombardment, we decide to leave the Dirty Disco world for the night and make an attempt at "The Plumm" next door. All I can say is thank goodness for a place like "The Plumm" that creates such social standards outside its doors that allow a man wearing a full fur coat and sunglasses when it's friggin 70 degrees out and nighttime to dictate who is "in" and who is "out." We stand there for a while, desperately attempting to win over this fur-bearer's affection so that we may receive his "cool" stamp of approval and enter this Plumm world of complete and utter cool. We finally get in because some other random guy at the door notes we are looking decidedly unhappy and decides to take pity on us. We enter and are told to pay 25 dollars. Screw that shit, we're leaving.

Time to hail a cab. This should be made easier by screaming obscenities and waving the middle finger to all passer-by in the street. Thank God alcohol was able to fill us in on these key aspects of hailing a cab. A cabbie in a momentary lapse of judgment decides to accept us as passengers. Now I don't know what it is about alcohol that allows you and your pals to get on a completely obscene subject and dwell on it for the rest of the night completely inappropriately. For us this involved specific human body parts that are generally regarded as taboo subjects for loud public dialogue. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say we informed the cabbie, every person on the NYC street within a 10 mile radius, the doorman at Maggie's apartment, all those residing in Maggie's building, innocent elevator by-standers, and friends accessible by cell phone and facebook of our feelings regarding above-discussed body parts.

Aside from inappropriate public discussion, the ridiculousness factor of our night was increased tenfold by, believe it or not, the presence of an Oreck vacuum. Preface to this: Maggie lives in an apartment that is extremely nice and relatively clean; however, she has been perpetually plagued as of late by the deteriorating appearance of her apartment rug, an essential aspect of her apartment decor. Day and night she has searched for remedies to the situation, in response to which a mysterious package labeled "Oreck" arrived in the mail.

Upon entrance into Maggie's apt. building that night, the Oreck vacuum package was spotted immediately, sitting next to the guilty doorman. There was nothing he could do to stop the group of overexcited and dangerously intoxicated girls completely focused on acquisition of said vacuum. The vacuum was obtained without signature, and took a rather fun adventure up to the 30th floor, which involved crawling on the lobby floor in order to push the vacuum, throwing of vacuum into the elevator, narrowly missing others present in the elevator who had no idea that by entering the elevator that night they were in fact at risk of experiencing a "death by Oreck." Upon final arrival at Maggie's apartment, the Oreck was laid to rest in a corner and the tired but accomplished girls all collapsed in a heap around it.

I'm too tired to write anymore, as I'm still recovering. But just wanted to give you a taste of just another night out in the city. I hope you all can come join in the normalcy sometime.