Talk about a mess. So Thurday night before Memorial Day was an Out Magazine event at the Marc Ecko store in Chelsea (i.e., who cares about the clothes; it’s open bar!). I had to make a few changes on a project at work before I left, ensuring that I didn’t get to the store until about 45 min after the event started. Turns out there was no line, so I glided to the cash register area to meet up with Don Juan from San Juan (who also works in midtown but didn’t bother to call me until he had already gotten to the damn store). He joins me in the drink line for a refill. Then I run into Cabbage Boy, a white guy from WaHi (Washington Heights) who only stands about yea high. We’ve been talking online for months, and we’ve met in person a couple of times. At first his incessant commentary on my physique came off as creepy (apparently I’m his type), but he’s turned out to be a nice guy. Anyway, he was there with his clique (a gang of 3 black guys, of course), so I said hi as I passed by.
The very hot bartenders all had Marc Ecko shirts on that would have been much cuter tucked into their back pockets. Note: your brand is much more prominent when painted onto a hot bare chest. I ordered a pair of screwdrivers (for myself b/c these types of events get very crowded VERY quickly). I had a short convo with Mackey Mack that thankfully was more related to the filling of champagne than the Hillary campaign (for which he has been working). We ended up in a corner talking to some of Don Juan from San Juan’s friends (I think) for a while. I remember one in particular being very entertaining, but at this point, I have no idea why (maybe it was one of the next 2 or 3 screwdrivers I had).
At some point, we went to View Bar, and I probably said something inappropriate to a bartender (nothing new). At some later point, we made our way to Splash. For this particular party, there are a few ways to get in free, and one of them is a text from the promoter. Urban Sprawl for some reason had given the Med School Mess his phone to get him in. I guess our friend US (who is not from the US) didn’t want to spend the 10 cents to send the SMS to MSM (must have been his Dominican side talking). Anyway, the Med School Mess was indeed a mess, and disappeared with Urban Sprawl’s phone, sending Urban Sprawl on a sprawling mission covering both floors of the club. Did we mention that Urban Sprawl was leaving the next afternoon for his Sketch Bawl mission back to his out-of-state college for the 5-year reunion of the class after him?
The next day, I had an awful headache, and Med School Mess had the following message from Urban Sprawl on his Facebook wall:
"Where the fuck did you go? You were supposed to get in w/ my text. I need my phone back. Am leaving NY and need to get to work w/ my phone
I need it NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Friday, they were early to let us out of our cages, uh, I mean work. I did my last hardcore day at the gym before the summer season (consider me scarce after Memorial Day) and went home for a nap (and by nap, I mean hoping to get the 3 hours of sleep I missed out on the night before). Enhanced by a Red Bull, I was ready to train-it downtown to a party with people from college after half as much sleep. I arrived to a very warm welcome from the Hostess, who happened to be serving sushi and apple-tinis. Don’t mind if I do! Somehow, I ended up with a pile of wasabi, chopsticks, and a drink that matched my bright green shirt. I caught up with some of my classmates until Uptown Brown showed up ready to go to some gay boy’s party in Hell’s Kitchen. Uptown Brown, our Hostess, and one of her guests all happened to be one degree away from knowing each other through the world of youth organizing, so they bonded over that (and being Latin), which turned out to be an enjoyable delay.
We grabbed the A train uptown (after getting a dirty, guilt-inducing glare from our Hostess for leaving). Now, I hear, “house party in Hell’s Kitchen,” and I’m thinking it’s my “target audience” (a man older than 35) and his friends, so I’m ready to put my hunting vest on. It was more like a 26-year-old guy who was probably making more money than he knew what to do with… and his mostly straight girl friends. And their selection of beer, wine, and Sake (i.e., more wine). Did I mention I don’t do beer? At all.
2 glasses of white wine later, Uptown Brown’s friends, who had just graduated from some state school (not saying that derogatorily, just not sure what SUNY it was), showed up. One was a cheerleader. Cheerwine was so fine, and with 2 months in the gym, he would have a perfect body. I thought he might have been Latin, but he was just REALLY dark Italian (who cares! Hot is hot.). Eventually, we ditched the Beer-Battered Fish Fry and went to the Ritz. I was just going to pop in for a drink because the Ritz on a Friday night is impossible to navigate. 2 (extra) drinks later (I must interject b/c the second drink was bought by Uptown Brown’s hot older friend, in whom I was vaguely interested until he left for a smoke break. Ew.), I glance at my watch. 3:08. I hate my life. And did I mention I still have to pack for a weekend on Fire Island and meet France Pants at Penn Station at 9:50am? Yeah.