Category Archives: Party

Topics for the club

Last night I went “clubbing” with some friends, because someone was turning 30 and I apparently wanted to pretend that clubs don’t force me to immediately blackout and run home, leaving me awake in my apartment far too early the next day with a slew of texts from my (drunk) friends that are like, “R U ALIVE?!”, “I hope UR alive?”, “DID YOU GET SVU’D?!?!” It’s the club’s fault, y’all.

ANYWAY, because I haven’t been to a New York club in at least several years, I sat in my bathroom last night trying to think about what sort of stories I had to scream-tell a friend-adjacent person I’d inevitably end up fake-talking to while at the club. Back in the day, I was pretty good at clubs. I was 24ish, skinny enough to fit in dresses that were the length of the shirts I wear now and I had ample time and patience for my hair and makeup. Guys would come up to me and be all, “hey. I’m Greg. What do you do?” and I’d sigh, all bored at their politeness and be like, “NOTHING” and then dance on Austin to some Lil’ Wayne song. I’m pretty sure I was winning clubs back then.

Last night I was watching Empire (BECAUSE THAT SHOW IS BASICALLY HEAVEN YOU GUYS ITS SO GOOD) on the couch in a couple of our gross old towels, lamenting to bf that I had to go socialize with people, and trying to mentally prepare myself for choosing a club outfit. The right choice would have been my “Nikki Minaj” dress, as I like to call it, which is basically just tight black dress with some mesh in the front that shows more of my boobs than I’m comfortable with. The choice I made was to wear my usually stylish trouser pants with a blue, loose tank top, because then I didn’t have to spend the entire night pulling my dress down and also my bra (yes, I have only one) is dirty, so I needed to be able to wear my substitute bra, which is just an under-tank with a shelf bra in it. And my shelf bra is navy and the dress is black, so like, I’d basically be breaking all fashion rules by combining them. Because the person who wears a shelf bra to the club clearly cares about fashion rules.

I digress, because the whole point of this post is that I no longer come equipped with club-ready topics. As I was strapping myself into my shelf bra and looking in the mirror, going, “this is kind of makeup on my face?” I didn’t spend enough time thinking about the meaningless topics I’d need to cover with my new fake club friends.

Club topics need to be short, easily understood (even if your listener is drunk and hears 1/3rd of the words you’re yelling), and relatable to anyone, because you’re not likely to meet your friend-soulmate at the club. Club conversations are like:

  • omg, that guy is so hot
  • omg, that girl is SO drunk
  • omg, this drink is  SOSO bad
  • omg, you’re like my fucking SOULMATE right now do you wanna do a shot?
  • omg, that shot was SO bad!

But, last night after telling a group of 40-somethings from New Jersey that they totally had Kelly Ripa arms and that they gave me hope for future me bearing children and still looking hot (at least I’m a nice drunk?) I found myself in the club, wholly unequipped. As it turns out, having things I care about in my life and being drunk at a club do not make me a good club person. Because I’m pretty sure my conversations were like:

  • omg, the sink in my pre-war apartment clogs like, every month, and I just want it to stop. u know?
  • omg, so I was on WebMD the other day and I either have tendonitis or I’ve fractured the front part of BOTH ankles
  • omg, this drink is SO overpriced for what it is, like, their well gin isn’t even Hendricks
  • omg, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about our hiring process at work and how we could be more inclusive to women because I think right now we unconsciously select for men

I woke up this morning on the wrong side of the bed (literally, bf was sleeping on my side and it was BIZARRE), face full of smeared makeup and my stomach with the sort of dead undigested food feeling I have after eating not one, but two slices of probably toxic dollar slice pizza from the place across the street from my apartment, meaning I drunk-person Irish exited the club sometime before 4 AM.

At least I have all my stuff.

Peace, love and the “pizza” that’s going to live in my body forever, 


Signing or something like it

Totally unrelated to this post: I started this week off with a drunk/crazy/drugged woman ramming into me at full-speed in the middle of a crosswalk. Without skipping a beat she looked back at me and slurred, “LOSER,” in a thick Russian accent. I love you too, New York.

Do you guys know about ‘signing?’ Is that only a redneck thing, or is that like a suburbs-in-general thing? Annnyway, for those of you who don’t know – ‘signing’ is the act of stealing a street sign that meets one of the following criteria:

  • The street name is your first or last name
  • The sign is for one of the city’s iconic streets (I can’t tell you how many people have Peachtree Street signs down south)
  • The street name is funny. One time, in college, we walked like a mile and half through Boston at 2 AM because we wanted to steal the Public Alley 420 street sign only to discover someone else had already stolen it.
  • You’re drunk. This also applies to the story above about Public Alley 420. The best part of that night was when halfway through our trek, one of the key instigators of the mission stopped walking and said, “You guys… Where are we? What are we doing?”

Once secured, the sign is then displayed in one of the following locations:

  • Garage
  • College dorm room/ Frat house
  • Pool or game room in a half-finished basement (usually alongside other signs that have been stolen for the above reasons or stop signs)
  • Broom closet (usually for the signs that were stolen under the influence)

While I’ve never successfully stolen a sign, I have a great appreciation for signing and I think I’ve adopted its spirit… At least when I’m drunk. I loooove collecting random shit that I find when I’m out. I’ll wake up next to a box of steeply discounted Jelly Belly-flavored candy canes that I purchased at a Duane Reade at 3 AM, a pamphlet about the Mormon apocalypse (is that a thing or did I just make that up? If I made it up, I think we narrowly escaped it by electing Obama), or, most recently an AWESOME singing Santa hat I found abandoned on a bar during Santacon. I love that hat.

Anyway, my boyfriend’s building totally facilitates my drunk-collecting habit, because there’s a ledge by the mailboxes where people drop off everything from enough Restoration Hardware catalogs to build a fort to a all of the random junk that you’d never, ever want. This was all a roundabout way to show you guys this picture of my spoils from a recent drunken outing:


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“Let’s be honest, we’re still going to be getting this drunk in our 30s.”
“Fair… But eventually we’ll have kids and settle down.”
“Nah, we’ll just be drunk around the kids.”

New York is often hailed as the epicenter of arrested development – the perfect little petri dish for nurturing one’s bad choices and self-obsession. It’s so true, and it’s exactly why so many people sigh and say, “Oh, New York… What a great place to be young.” It’s exactly why so many of the married and child-rearing move outside the city to places like Ohio, or Jersey City.

When I first moved here, one of my friends referred to the city as The Adult Playground. I didn’t exactly know what to expect from that description, but I liked the phrase so much that I’d bounce up and down yelling, “Adult playgrounddddddddd!” every time we walked down the street doing something New York-y.

My first night out as a New York resident, I ventured down to Alphabet City. I’d never been to the East Side, but I’d heard Alphabet City in so many of my friends’ cool new York stories.

“They have a bar that’s camping-themed! You can get s’mores there!!”

I love s’mores. 

As I walked up the subway stairs to the fabled city, I had high hopes that here I’d find The Adult Playground. I assumed that Avenue A was a grown-up-fucking-Candyland; the streets would be lined with sex, they’d lead me through the magical forest of illegal substances down to the river of sample sales and never-ending happy hours.

I ended up in a 200 square foot AC-less basement apartment. I drank grape juice mixed with some old vodka out of a cup that had definitely not been washed since its previous use and got hit on by a guy whose hard sell was that he could fix my guitar for free. When I got home I threw up on my American apparel dress.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is exactly what it’s like to live in The Adult Playground. Sure, you might have a job, and a life, and a bunch of other things you use to justify that you’re different than you were in college, but you know you’re just one happy hour invite away from waking up at 4 AM in your bed, next to the wrapper or something you assume you ate, but you’re not sure what it was, and a bunch of missed calls from your coworkers and/or friends. Even the most responsible New Yorkers I know have stories like this… It’s not us, it’s New York! We promise.

As you may know from Facebook, I’ve requested the help of all of you in providing me with solid examples of life in the playground. I don’t feel that simply explaining what it’s like is enough, so here are items I’ve pulled from your emails, gchats, AIM, texts, conversations, etc, etc, etc. Don’t worry, I’ve changed identifying details – thank you all so much for helping me out!

Here’s what it’s like to be a 20nothing in New York City. If you’d like to turn this into a drinking game, take a shot every time you see the word ‘drunk’:

1: did you have a good night?
2: yeah i did
worked out a tiny bit, but not much
then we made dinner and ate pot lollipops which was fun
1: do those really really work?
2: ehhh
we ate two and i felt a little relaxed
and like, body high-ish
we also had had some wine
but i didn’t feel drunk
so I think it worked?
I was a bouncer at a series of parties that had a reputation for getting VERY out of hand. Fifty percent of the time the cops shut the party down before 1am. One night in particular we used a Venue called “Castle V”. It was owned by a 50-year-old who called himself Vox Illuminati. Vox may have had a few screws loose. We were setting up before the party when the FNDY and NYPD, who’d gotten wind of the party, came by to give us a friendly warning that if the party happened it would be shut down. This friendly conversation ended in Vox screaming “You’re going to tell ME WHAT TO DO?!?!?! I WILL END YOU!!!!!” while the terrified looking FDNY fire inspector quickly ran out the door.
1: so
a couple thing
that you’ll find funny
i’m still drunk
just walked into work late ‘ from my doctors appt’
I assumed he was as unserious about the plans we made as I was, but I forgot he probably wasn’t drunk on a Tuesday.”
Email, attempting to attend a party: Last week they sent me home when my cold became too conspicuous.  Maybe I can be conspicuously drunk and they’ll send me home for that too.

We talked for a few minutes, and I gathered that she was quite wealthy, just from the way she rambled on about her dad and his jet, yacht, etc. I must have really hit it off with her, because I was invited out for a night on the town with her and her friends. “I don’t have any nice clothes…” was the best excuse I could muster. Her reply? “Fuck that, we run this city.” And with that, we set off.
We made it back to her suite on 5th Avenue at about 6:30 in the morning. I slept for about 45 minutes, and then woke up to her, out-of-her-mind and yelling that it was time for me to go to work. She said my ride would be ready in about ten minutes. It was a helicopter. No shit. I hate helicopters. I puked. I got back to my hotel, showered, changed clothes, and went to my meeting.
1: how was your weekend boo?
I was laughing thinking about fri
so fun!
2: seriously!
until all the sudden i was too drunk and Manuele, who I’ve never spoken to before and I don’t think he speaks English, was trying to convince me to come home with him
and i was like NO. what?! NO
1: SHUT your mouth
2: so Susie pushed me in a cab and i went home and got sick
1: OMG
are you alright?
2: yeah, luckily when i’m too drunk my reaction is to leave immediately…
it’s the one smart thing i do
My friend was throwing a “Dance Party at the End of the World” event, in which he’d crafted a dance mix, interspersed with Orson Welles’ radio broadcast of The War of the Worlds. We were to dress in our 1920’s finest, and the drink menu was strickly gin martinis. I have an unfortunate (impressive?) ability to appear only slightly intoxicated when I am in fact bordering on black out drunk. I don’t slur my words, but had anyone known how far gone I was, they would’ve been watching me. I joined my friend outside to have a cigarette, and before I knew it I was agreeing to share a cab with her back uptown. Without my bag. Without my keys. Without my phone… Dressed in only a black velvet gown and duster.
1: How was the night?
2: Oh you know… drunk emailed my boss…. drunk emailed that guy I was dating earlier in the summer.
1: Ohhhhhh, and?
2: It wasn’t bad though. I was just drunk-eating something he likes, so it reminded me of him.
1: Justifiable.
Needless to say, the cops did come to shut the party down at about 11 PM. Instead of opening the doors for the cops when they came knocking, Vox made the bouncers lock and barricade the only entrance to the building. A 30 minute stand-off ensued while Vox stood behind the door, screaming obscenities at the cops. This was ended by an FDNY latter truck lifting 2 FDNY fire fighters, and 6 cops in the bucket onto the roof. When Vox saw this he jumped out one of the windows, onto the neighboring roof, and then ran across to a tree, where he hid from the police for 2 hours.
I got into my building because the outside door never locked properly, but it turned out my roommate was visiting his family in NJ. I spent the night (which dropped down to 12 degrees) shivering, drunk, crying, kicking the door, and dozing in our stairwell. And that’s why I don’t drink gin martinis.
The road may not be paved with adderall, and gingerbread houses would result in terrifying rat infestations, but we do live in the closest thing to an adult playground I can imagine. It’s pretty fantastic.
Peace, love and Candyland, 
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Airport drunk

It seems as though I am ALWAYS drunk at the airport. Whether I am hungover drunk or fuck-it-my-flight-was-delayed-5-hours-and-they-have-wine drunk, I am never in a fully conscious state of mind while at the airport. I’m either overly friendly to strangers/ flight attendants or totally rude/ about to throw up on strangers/ flight attendants. So this morning, while I sit here at the airport totally hungover because last night Chris and I discovered $5 martini night at a restaurant near me, I’ve decided to do a Best/Worst post about being drunk at the airport.

Best times to be drunk at the airport:

  • When the drinking starts AT the airport, because you’re like FUCK IT, I’m on vacation bitches.
  • When there’s entertainment: This one time, at the airport, I watched a very nice cop help a very drunk and belligerent guy pay his bar tab (and then I’m guessing she took him to the hospital for alcohol poisoning).
  • When you like someone else’s haircut. Yes, yes I have complimented someone’s haircut while drunkenly navigating my way through the aisle of my plane.
  • When you discover the free wifi service, Boingo, that’s only $12 a month for unlimited airport wifi. The best. Ever.
  • When you’re at the LaGuardia Delta terminal that they’ve recently redone and they have box wine and skinny girl margaritas in the food court and they’re cheap.
  • When your mom’s driver will pick you up at the Trinidad airport, give you money for cigarettes and they also have steal drums that you can play, because it’s motherfucking Trinidad.

Worst times to be drunk at the airport: 

  • When your vacation is ending, not starting.
  • When you’re hungover, but still kind of drunk so the whole trip is like you keep waking up from a stupor and remembering things from the night before… But you’re not at Waffle House.
  • When you’re so hungover that you throw up in three airports and a plane on the same day.
  • When the airport you’re hungover in has no Boingo wifi hotspot (Savannah, I shake my fist at you!).
  • When you have Mexican tourist sickness and your family realizes they’re leaving Mexico a day earlier than you so they rent you a hotel room and give you like 700 pesos and you’re not sure what that means but you assume it’s $1,000 at least but then you very quickly spend it all on Mexican flag colored cookies for your roommates and tequila shots. Also you cry while watching Grey’s Anatomy at the airport bar next to some business men.

That is all. I’m going to go pass out on my flight now.

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Two terms we coined last night

1. ADDj (noun): When the DJ is so drunk he changes every song after the first verse, and switches between genres with reckless abandon.

“Why have we heard the first verse of The Whistle Song remixed into Sweet Home Alabama five times in the past hour?”
“Blame the ADDj. He’s behind the bar using two iPod Nanos to control his set list and making out with some girl who keeps coming up to the bar and taking shots.” 

2. Elbrow (verb): The act of repeatedly elbowing the person behind you in a crowded bar, but not noticing because you’re too busy fist-pumping with your bros.

“Ok, I think it’s time to leave Penny Farthing. I keep getting elbrowed and it sounds like the ADDj is about to transition from this Jay-Z song into Sweet Caroline. We should probably run.” 

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Brooklyn Bowl

“Are you actually British?”

Ever since two of my friends pretended to be British for an entire night as a ploy to get free drinks from guys, I don’t trust that people I meet are actually British.

“Yes… We are actually British.”

I’d stepped outside Brooklyn Bowl to try to buy a cigarette from someone. For some reason, once in Brooklyn I decided that I should ask if I could purchase a cigarette, rather than ask if I could bum one. I don’t know if that’s an indication of how I feel about Brooklyn or a result of the fact that for once I had money in my wallet. Either way, the British guys I met outside the venue would not let me purchase a cigarette, but gave me one for free… God bless them.

First I met Alistair Robinson (his real name, no joke!), who commented on the fact that we both have a lot of hair.

“WE COULD START A WIG COMPANY!!!” We yelled this in unison… Insta-friends. Really anytime someone wants to start a company that’s sure to fail with me, we become insta-friends. Then his friend Dan took over the conversation while Alistair went to find the ‘toilet.’ We had the usual conversation you have with British people about how Americans call it the ‘restroom’, haha, isn’t that funny, you don’t rest in there, what about the water closet? Oh you mean the WC? Cultural differences. OMG so fun!! 

Dan and I talked about how I mispronounced his name (“It’s Dahhhhn”), how he wasn’t from London (it turns out that not all British people are from London!) and then he started saying something about Americans and nationalism and I remembered that Chris was ordering food inside. At some point Dan accidentally head-butted me and I told him it’s ok, in America that’s like a handshake. I then promised him that I’d bring him a chicken wing even though I was uncertain as to whether or not Chris had ordered chicken wings (it’s like 3 to 1 odds in any drinking/dining scenario).

When I got inside Chris had not ordered chicken wings, but Dan came by and I have him a nacho. He head-butted me and then told me he loved me. Seriously, insta-friends with both of the British dudes.

Ok, here’s the part where I rate the venue.

If you haven’t been reading so long that you remember how it works, here’s how it works:

  • I go to a bar/club/venue.
  • I take pictures that are usually blurry because I’m a bad photographer/ have only an iphone/ am usually embarrassingly drunk.
  • I rate the club on a scale created entirely by me, using my criteria for going out. Keep in mind that I have the preferences of a 65 year old antisocial man, that my favorite bar is housed in a building that once caught on fire and no one evacuated, and that I usually write these lists in a state of still-drunk hangover while yelling that I could really use a mimosa right now.
  • Sometimes the list is disjointed because I lose focus searching seamless web to see if they deliver mimosas.
  • Based on my entirely made up scale, I calculate the score, most of the time incorrectly (re:hangover), and then completely disregard said score and give the place a rating of Best or Worst Club Ever based on my overall opinion.

Brooklyn Bowl:

In Brooklyn: -500 points

Cool stamp: +5 Points. Please disregard other stamps, the one we’re focusing on is the bowling pin stamp, even though the heart stamp is also quite cute.

Bouncer who didn’t take too long to inspect my passport: +20 Points. It’s a fucking passport people. Who gets a fake ID that’s a passport?

Mexican/Tribal-looking bowling pins: +30 points, and also some clapping and bouncing.

Potential for meeting new friends: +50 points. Seriously, those British dudes were awesome.

Number of Black Eyed Peas songs played (0): +27 points. The Black Eyed Peas are the worst. Every time “I Got A Feeling” plays, a puppy is euthanized.

Bad band that we had fun making fun of played: +52. I love every time the a band tries to be Kings of Leon post Brian Eno. There are only so many ways to rewrite old U2 songs, guys.

Bands that were good played:  +43. There were also good bands, probably because of CMJ.

I don’t know the name of the band but if they were on Pandora I wouldn’t skip their song.

Not having to bowl: +76. I didn’t have to bowl, which is awesome because I suck at and hate bowling.

Wishing I could have watched other people bowl: -32. I do wish I could have watched other people bowl while eating my nachos or listening to music. I guess you can’t have it all (without risking getting hit in the head with a bowling ball).

Not getting hit in the head with a bowling ball: +100. Well done, Brooklyn Bowl. I am like a magnet when it comes to injuries. The fact that I didn’t end up in the emergency room while drinking near heavy objects is a true testament of your risk-management team’s planning skills. I applaud you.

This thing: 

+8 points

One time I saw a fight between a Hasidic Jew and a bro from Jersey at Brooklyn Bowl: +78 points. It happened the last time I was there, but is definitely worth mentioning. Both got kicked out. It was totally the bro’s fault. It was totally awesome.

Having enough people in our group to take a cab (rather than the L) back: +700 points.

Final rating for Brooklyn Bowl: Best Club Ever

Brooklyn Bowl, come for the music (or bowling), stay for the food and friends and/or fights you might see between Hasidic Jews and bros, leave when you have enough people to split a cab ride back to Manhattan.

Drunk pirouettes by Chris and Mark. No idea why they did that…

Peace, love and happy Saturday,


PS – If you’d like tips on how to use a fake British accent to get drinks from dudes, please comment. I will tell you everything.

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Me: “We went down to the beach with a personal of Evan Williams and diet coke.”

Boyfriend: “There was not very much coke in that. That was mostly whiskey.
You had like five shots of whiskey. You went from telling me not to go into the ocean because it was choppy and dangerous to running into the ocean… With all your clothing on.”

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The Gansevoort On Park Ave Is like the hotel california, and other notes from the weekend.

Baby Alexa turned 23. To celebrate we brought her lots of goodies from the Mexican dollar store on our block. Stolen Equal packaged and priced at $1.25, anyone?

The As having a Worst Club Ever experience in the line at the Gansevoort on Park Ave. It was equally as hard to find our way out, surprisingly enough. It's like the Hotel California, with a longer line to get in but a promoter grabs you and brings you in after five minutes of standing in the rain and bouncers keep telling you the doors that say Exit aren't really exits so you almost start crying because you think you're trapped in the Gansevoort and all you want are chicken wings from the Bodega.
So, pretty much the same.

Making this super small because Austin will hate me for posting it. Austin, you really wanted me to take a picture with the most bruisedbanana.
You were disgusted by the bananas.

Evidence that a Saturday night crime was committed.
Late night eating, I hate how much I love you.
The existence of this photo made me realize how annoying I am when I'm taking photos of stupid shit and I'm all, "OMG YOU GUYS I'M GOING TO PUT THIS ON MY BLOG."

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Frenchmen and the quintessential morning after pic

Last night, Nina and I were standing on the corner of 46th and 9th trying to hail a cab when a couple of French tourists approached us on the street. Nina’s fluent in French, so I often end up watching her have conversations in French while I nod and pretend I have a clue what she’s saying. So this happens, and after bumming a cigarette off of one of the Frenchmen, he starts asking me where they should go out. Basing my suggestions purely on stereotypes, I recommended that they head down to the meatpacking district. I’m explaining what he can expect when he interrupts me and says,

“We are looking for zhee MacLaren’s Pub.”

I perked up, “MacLaren’s Pub? Like in How I Met-”

“Yes, yes. How I met zjour muh-zehhr!”

“That show is SO GOOD! You know there’s not a real MacLaren’s pub, right?”

“Yes, but somezing similar would be good. You know, Bah-Nee Steensohn is my idole!”

“Can I take your picture?”

The Barney Stinson of Marseilles

In another part of Manhattan, Austin, Angela, Ani and Alexa (or The As, as I call them) went to like 5 different bars. This morning when I went to crawl into bed with Austin and exchange stories of our nights, I found this:

Yup. That seems about right.

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Sleigh Bells

One of my favorite bands, some of my favorite friends… the night ended with sandwiches.

Roof bar:

Not Sleigh Bells, we couldn’t see them from where we stood:

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