I dragged myself downtown to Prada Bag’s fabulous Hell’s Kitchen apartment to drop off supplies for the party (alcohol, balloons, Ivy League fruit salad [i.e., citrus soaked in alcohol]) before grabbing a C train to the Upper West Side. I look to my left in the subway and with whom do I make eye contact? Dill Pickle! Yes, Dill Pickle and Bologna were in the same damn subway car as I. I walk over to greet, and I see Biter Commie Grad Student standing like 4 feet away. Weird. Turns out everybody was about an hour and a half late for this event (it took us a good 20 min to find them from the train). We get settled, towels and sheets get spread, drinks get poured. I didn’t feel like finding a bathroom, so I sat down and did a quick change on my sheet, which apparently was a big deal because it became the topic of conversation for the next 5 minutes. Then I took a look at our surroundings. Baby, baby, kid, baby… not the ideal environment to be young and pretty (read: drunk and loud). But we did it anyway! At one point, Bottomless Pitt, in a speedo, bent over for something. According to people who were paying attention to that half of the Lawn, toddler was scared by the gravitational pull and ran away screaming. Poor kid.
Eventually, clouds start rolling in. I heard thunder, and a minute later, some drunk ‘girl’ was like, “maybe it’s a sun shower.” Well, how about you stay near this tree we’re under and wait it out while the rest of us go to Prada Bag’s. Bye.
We get to Prada Bag’s place, and it’s torrential downpour outside. Inside, it’s about 80 degrees at 90% humidity. I was wearing linen/cotton pants and cowboy boots (with my Manhunt tank top that I got at LA pride last year... all the gay black girls get the irony), so I was like, “I’m about 10 minutes away from taking off my pants.” About two minutes later, Tighty Whitey shows up from the water fight completely soaked, so she takes off everything and joins the party in her speedo. Brilliant! The rest of us are like, “Fuck this!” so we turn it into D. Kareem’s underwear party.
Prada Bag has a chalk board in her kitchen instead of a wall, so people start drawing. There ended up being a picture of a topless tranny with nipple piercings, a unibrow, and a dialogue bubble that said: “Yo estoy caliente un tranny.” Yeah, it doesn’t make sense in English either. And some bitch (Urban Sprawl) tagged a photo of it as me on Facebook. Thanks
2 gallons of Ivy League Fruit Salad later (i.e., 8:05… even though I was making a conscious effort to leave at 7:45), we jump in cabs and make our way to Big Apple Ranch. There were people getting a lesson in the lobby of the building, but we raced up (in the elevator, of course) to the 5th floor where the dance studio was. Apparently it’s free if it’s your b’day weekend (thank god b/c I literally had a dollar on me). I grabbed Don Juan from San Juan, the most obvious, uh, follower, and started counting. Within 3 minutes we were doing whatever 3-count step they were eventually doing to a 4-count song (substitute triple and duple meter if you understand that better). Then the line dance lessons start.
Flashback: for those of you who don’t know, I tried (somewhat actively) to make it as a cruise-ship singer/dancer. That means I went to 3 auditions and decided to finish college. Why, you may ask… Well, besides having a so-so voice, I’m the worst at picking up more than 2 8-counts (that’s two eight-counts) of choreo at one time, but the next day, I’ll spit out the other 14 8-counts that I didn’t pick up. Back to the present, I seriously felt like I was in a professional dance audition! And Don Juan was picking it up better than I (bitch)!
9:00 rolls around, and they open up the dance floor. Absolutely none of the 18 guys with us know what the fuck is going on (and we’re probably the drunkest ones there). ‘Trish (the Pediatrician) makes it no secret that she is not pleased to be there and that my friends’ attendance is a testament to their amazing love for me.
So around 10:15, I admit defeat and declare that a) it was a good idea in theory and b) we’re ditching and going to Chi Chi’s. The Bitter Commie Grad Student (whom the Bottomless Pitt was supposed to make sure didn’t impose her two drunk feet on anyone at the dance… Bottomless Pitt was nowhere to be found at this point) declared, “We’re not going to Chi Chi’s!” “Okay, you’re not going to Chi Chi’s. You stay here, but the rest of us are. Let’s go, girls!” God knows what happened to her after we left, but she showed up 15 min later at the door of Chi Chi’s (and somehow the bouncer let her in!). Chi Chi’s lasted about an hour at most (if I’m not mistaken… I was a big fan of the Fruit Salad) before I decided to ditch my own party and go to No Parking.
I have no idea what happened there. One thing I do remember is Don Juan and I getting shots from Lionel (and the salt shaker not working at ALL!). Then I realized that Lionel is literally working behind the bar as a bar tender and should be tipped appropriately. I called over one of the hot-as-hell bartenders to tell him that I wanted to put in a tip for Lionel hooking us up. I slapped a $5 on the bar. I blinked. The $5 had turned into 2 shots. And not clear ones either. “Did you get us shots?” “I guess so. Cheers!” I feel like we closed down the bar again.
Don Juan and I were starving (Ivy League Fruit Salad only holds you for so long… and I had been partying since like 2 in the afternoon), so we went to the restaurant across the street. She had to have some kind of Latin esandwish, which took forever. I was just happy they had rice and beans with chicken stew. Did I mention that I ended up with intestines on my rice and beans at the place on the same side as No Parking? Yeah.
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