I remember the party; I just don’t remember you

Thursday was CoLaw’s birthday, which involved a Lower East Side pub crawl.  We love CoLaw, but there were a couple of problems with this scenario.  1) It was the Lower East Side.  2) They were straight bars.  But I sucked it up and rolled through.

 

I get there a bit buzzed from the open-bar industry party that a temporary higher-up had invited me to.  From midtown down to Chelsea, back to WaHi, then to the E.vil.  I do crazy shit in the name of alcohol (plus I didn’t want to carry my bag all night).  Also made a to-go drink at home for the ride.  As soon as I get out of the L train, I get a text from Urban Sprawl: Leaving for View Bar in 10 minutes.   Perfect.  I make my entrance.  Hey, hey, smooch, smooch!  CoLaw’s surprised that I made it (which I guess is pretty legit).  Being my friendly self, I start to introduce myself to the white people.  This one kid was like, “yeah, we met at CoLaw’s party.”  “Oh, okay.”  Not even a glimmer of familiarity.  He goes on to describe the party.  “Oh, honey, I remember the party; I just don’t remember you.  But good to meet you, again!”  Was that mean?  You have to understand that I surround myself with people that start underwear parties and execute half their hookups in bars.  Why would I remember just shaking hands with some guy?  Whatevs.

So then Urban Sprawl’s like, “Let’s go.”  Fine with me!  The two of us and some newbie get outside and wait for about 30 seconds.  The newbie’s like, “Oh, I think Bitter Commie Grad Student is being nice and waiting for [fill in guy whose name I still don’t remember].”  “Are they hooking up?!  That’s the only time Bitter Commie is nice to anyone.  We’ll meet them there.  You coming?”  Urban Sprawl and I walk to the L stop and see the sign: next 8^th Ave L train: 3 days, so we settle for an M14 bus that comes in 5 minutes.  Why didn’t we pay $4 each for a cab? Who knows, but we determined to be on the move.  Irony in 3, 2… Bitter Commie texts us that she’s in a cab. 

 

We get to 8^th ave and 14^th st.  It’s nice out, so we walk up the Catwalk to 22^nd st (the Catwalk refers to the trendiest, sceniest part of Chelsea, 8^th ave b/t 16^th st and 23^rd st, but only on the east side of the street.)  About halfway through our first $2 margarita, Bitter Commie and the rest of the cab crew finally show up.

 

Fung Wah walks in as I’m on margarita number who’s-keeping-track-again.  He had a great story that involved Daredevil, who has the body of a superhero (good looks can be a super power, right?) and is one of the Long Island Gays.  He was actually the mystery-passenger music complainer on the ride back from Fire Island in Bro Vandecamp’s car.  Anyway, on this particular Thursday, Splash was having a special on margarita’s as well, only they were $3 in comparison to View Bar’s $2.

Fung Wah: “Yeah, they’re 50% more there.”

Daredevil: “No they’re not!  They’re $3!”

Fung Wah: “Yes they are…”

Rather than letting the comedic moment marinate with an are-you-serious look to someone who got it, Fung Wah (who has an Masters in Public Finance) attempts to explain this to Daredevil mathematically, which, I’m sure, is exactly what Daredevil needed on his 4^th drink at View.  Needless to say, the Long Island Gays were Long Gone when we got there. 

 

I ended up staying at Splash until about 2 or 2:30 am, about an hour and a half later than I usually do.  But hey, I hadn’t seen the boys in almost 2 weeks!  Who knows when I’d be whisked to some far-off destination again!  Did I mention I have no way of cleverly tying up this post?  Yeah.

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