Random Reader Reaction

I’ve been living in New York City for about two years now, and I think I’m really starting to come into my own here. I finally feel at home strolling the streets, winking and smiling slyly at the hotties and casually neglecting the countless homeless that seem to always approach me (more than anyone else for some reason). I hardly ever get honked at anymore while crossing the street Blackberrying. I don’t even have to tell my dry cleaner my starching preferences (medium, of course), and the bodega guy gets my fave lippers out as soon as I enter. The little things make this crazy city feel like my own cozy small town. It’s almost as if my weathered Rainbow sandals were meant for the pavement in SoHo, not the beaches of Southern California. After so long, I finally feel like I belong.

Now I won’t kid, I’ve been somewhat of a nightlife Don here for some time, but I think I’ve now really gotten myself into The Scene. I’ve always been welcomed with open arms at the Meatpacking District’s hottest weekend joints and have slayed my way through nearly all of Turtle Bay, but get this—I just got the new secret phone number to get into Milk & Honey.

For all the poor satellite workers, Milk & Honey is probably the hippest spot in New York’s Lower East Side, undeniably the hippest area in the entire universe. My friends and I have really been digging going out in that area recently. And Milk & Honey is like the climax of “being in the in.” All the real musicians and artists go there. Big-time celebs aren’t even allowed. Normally, I wouldn’t mess around with such an artsy bunch, but along with my New Yorkerization, I feel like they’ve grown to be “my people.”

And as you might guess, a place like Milk & Honey doesn’t stay so bleeding edge for so long without taking special measures. It’s managed to stay so elite because you have to know a secret number to call to get reservations before you can even go. Mmmm. How Ivy League… And guess who got the number and is going to go this weekend? Guess fuckers. Guess!

ME! I can’t tell you who gave me the number, but he’s a DJ.

I’m like the Citadel of cultural capital.

*Two days later*

So I called up the dude last night and told him me and three of my boys would be rolling through in the cut. And we did roll through in the cut, just slightly delayed. We had to drive up and down the street for like half an hour to find the place—I was expecting an awning or something, but it didn’t even have a sign. No sign! I was shaking I was so excited.

We were regally buzzed-in, pushed our way through thick curtains, and I felt like I’d been transported to the 1920s. And this was no blind pig—the dim lights, wooden booths, and warm jazz created an amazing ambiance. People chatted quietly in their own groups, the barkeep wore suspenders, and I giggled quietly to myself. “I own this town,” I thought smugly.

So me and my boys sat down and ordered some mojitos and Woodford and blood orange screwdrivers. One guy had just landed a sweet job at Warburg Pincus so that provided us with a few minutes of merry cheersing and poorly suppressed jealously. But after about half an hour of sitting 2 feet away from each other, drinking bitch drinks, and fumbling for conversation, we were all getting pretty pissed (angry).

It was becoming readily apparent that while it was quite speakeasyish and well-decorated, this place had no idea how to be fun. No one in the entire place was trying to talk to anyone else or flirting or anything. Everyone seemed perfectly content and mellow chatting amongst themselves, about what I have no freakin idea. I overheard someone say “Sartre” followed by someone else’s grunt of profound understanding, and I almost vomited in my boy’s lap. Motherfucking Smith College retards.

There was no 80’s music, no pop-reggaeton and there were no groups of people dancing in circles. What was a sweet group of dudes to do if we couldn’t jump in a dance circle of fun?

Thankfully, there was a group of cute girls at a nearby booth, and I had finished off 5 surprisingly strong $15 drinks. Feeling indestructible, I got up and walked over to the girls’ table and tapped my glass on their table gavel-style a couple times. They stared at me blankly. They were indeed kinda cute. But, sometimes it’s more about the entertainment.

“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,” I began the proposal. “I’ll buy you girls your next three rounds of drinks if you can guess what my friend over there does for a living” I offered grandiosely, pointing at my friend who, on cue, raised his glass high in acknowledgement. The reflection off his Harvard ring was majestic.

The girls all looked at each other awkwardly, as if hoping some sort of greater group intelligence would instruct them on how to proceed. I stood slightly bent over, supporting myself with my palms on the table, and watched them. The DUFF was apparently also the most outgoing.

“Uhm. Let me take a wild guess. He is an investment banker?!” she responded in a fantastically sardonic tone.

Learned sarcasm from all those clever little bustedtees.com t-shirts, eh? I pushed myself back with my hands, leaned back, and let out a grand guffaw.

“WRONG!” I exclaimed. “He works in Fixed Income, Currency and Commodities which actually falls outside of the Investment Banking Division!!”

And I danced over to my table and end-of-game style hi-fived all my friends. Someone punched my arm; I threw a fist back playfully. Gosh, that game never gets old.

While I was mid-boogie, the bar owner Sasha came over and pulled me aside. “Gentleman will not introduce themselves to ladies!” he scolded. “Gentleman will not introduce themselves to ladies!! It’s the rules!!” he repeated, excitedly.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard something so ridiculous in my entire life, but apparently, the “rules” are written on the wall of the bathroom. I just shook my head, put several hundos in his pocket and signaled my boys to leave with me.

Yes, indeed. Definitely starting to feel at home here.