Save your energy

None of us had any business going out this Friday, but of course we did anyway.  The Ivy League Crew has been notoriously awful at Friday nights, but I figured I’d get some good blog material out of it.  Chelsea Hotel has a party that’s open bar 10-11, so it was suggested that we start our night there.

I made my way to the bar to double fist screwdrivers before properly greeting my girls.  I had never been to this party before, but they had drawn quite a crowd, including a group of guys I had met a few weeks ago when they yelled at me on the Pier.  Yes,  I know; it’s usually the other way around.  Flashback: I had some time to waste on a nice day, so I went down to the Pier.  I happened to be wearing a University of South Carolina shirt… okay, it was a maroon shirt that said “Cocks” on it.  One of them commented on it, which logically lead to my sitting with them on the Pier.  Turns out they were all wasted and had come to the Pier after brunch with unlimited mimosas at Maracas.  Twilight Zone, huh?  They were friendly, if talkative (very talkative).

So back to the present night, I talked to the Pier Girls for a few before realizing the open bar was over.  "'Scuse me; I  need to do find my Crew.  I think they're on the dance floor."  Well, not everyone was on the dance floor.

After a couple of songs, we start discussing our next move (it was a cute bar, but not where I wanted to end up on Friday).  Pubic Finance is like “Bitter Commie Grad Student said we should come to his new place!”  Well, he just moved to Flatiron, so that sounds like a plan!  Obviously I wasn’t exactly sure of where Flatiron was because I was outraged when we crossed 5^th ave!

“Oo, a biker,” Pubic Finance said as we crossed some east-side avenue.  Please explain to me why he felt the need to reach out and hit the guy’s bag (which was covering his butt) as he went by!  Now he was going pretty fast, but we were all surprised when he managed to stop within 20 feet.  Homeboy was not amused.

“OhmygodImsorryImsorryImsorrypleasedonthurtmeIjustthoughtyouwerecuteImsorryImsorryImsorry.”  The guy yelled something threatening and rode off.  Well played, Pube.

“Which door is Bitter Commie’s?” 

“This one.”
“Oh, the one with the broken glass?”

Despite the comical, façade, the apartment was very nice.  At least the entrance was.  That’s about all we saw before Bitter Commie rushed us out the door with a “We’re leaving.”  Oh.  And guess where the girls were headed?  That’s right: Chelsea Hotel.

“Let’s. Ditch.”

Bitter Commie Grad Student has this habit of getting caught up with YFBs that like to go to like to hang out at the most trendy of trendy spots.  In fact, he just moved in with a group of friends who fit the description (who were hosting out-of-town friends, so it was even worse).  Most of us (including Bitter Commie) have absolutely no interest in going to these places, but Bitter Commie refuses to ditch.  Bottomless Pitt insisted on going for 5 minutes to be courteous but agreed to go to Chi Chi’s after, so Urban Sprawl and I stuck with him (but I set the timer on my phone).  I think we made it about 3 minutes before Bottomless Pitt turned to me:

“Chi Chi’s?”

“Now.”

We get outside, and things start getting dramatic.  Bitter Commie Grad Student is livid that we are leaving him.  “Honey,” I say with an arm on his shoulder, “you know, you don’t have to be friends with your roommates.  Find a polite way to ditch and come with!”  She can’t.  “Well, look at it this way.  We’re here every week.  They’re only here tonight.  Consider yourself a gracious host to your [roommates’] friends.”  Then Urban Sprawl’s drunk ass chimes in with an oh-so-helpful, “Just come to the beach tomorrow!  See you on the 1:07 train!”  Wait, were we just accused of “conspiring against” her?  Is she done?  Can we go now?

Because we didn’t get to the Village until after midnight, there was (of course) a line outside of Chi Chi’s.  Again, Miss Pitt couldn’t deal, so we went to the Hangar instead.  It was much skinnier than the last time we went.  Once again, they had go-go boys.  Where is Urban Sprawl going?  “HI.”  Honey, go-gos are for looking at and tipping.  You don’t want to talk to them.  “HI!”

“I have to go to the bathroom.  Pitt, don’t let her drink anymore, okay?”

The go-go that Urban Sprawl was trying to chat up was actually really hot in a trailer-trash sort of way.  I really wanted to watch him do very very nasty things.  And he looked like he wouldn’t have minded in the least.  He didn’t so much dance as do really weird not-quite-yoga moves.  “Save your energy,” Urban Sprawl slurred at a quite audible volume.

The go-go started to take off his designer underwear to reveal a jock strap.  But he didn’t quite get them around his boots.  (Click on the go-go for a better view.)

And he started wrestling with his underwear.  He finally took them off.  And after maybe 10 minutes or so… 

Did he just rip one of the straps?

Oh, there goes other.

Did I mention I hate gravity? And static, too?  Yeah.

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