unBeautiful Chaos
Or, how do I find myself in the middle of these things? Take a ride with me through good old New York City.
One - Saturday, December 3rd 6PM ish
My first mistake was not spending my writing evening at Starbucks. Though not all Starbucks goers are diligently typing on their laptops. Some sit there and read. Others sit there and gossip. I don't like Starbucks music, usually likening it to Hipster Elevator Shit that PERMEATES my earbuds.
So I chose a wine and cheese shop with a no frills dining section in the back. I ordered this meal below and waited for my friend to join me in one of our last gorges of the year before healthiness ensues.
Meanwhile, a highly pretentious couple talked about things they wanted to see in the next couple of years: Harry Potter land (minus the castle!?!), Disney (minus the Dumbo rides?!?), and cappuccinos across the Pantheon in Rome. He was promising to take her to these place as he refreshed her wine glass over and over again without truly refilling his. Totally classic "get her saucy and take her back to my place to get it in kind of stuff."
Between a cappuccino in Rome and chapter 18 of my WIP, the lady puked her guts out on the man. It was very quiet after that. Lucky for me, none of the puke affected me or my new peacoat. The lady tipped 100% of her bill (I saw), and the man was not going to get laid.
Probably.
Two - Saturday going into Sunday morning
I start work at 8 PM. After the wine and cheese place, my friend K and I sprinted down the Hells Kitchen street to start our shift at The Club. On Saturdays I do Admissions, which means I prepare myself for a lot of fake smiling and coordinating duties with my bouncers. I also prepare myself for the folks who don't want to pay, have no IDs, speak broken English, and the random guy who clears out an entire corner of the club with his sheer smell of onions and curry.
For those of you who think New York on a Saturday is glamorous, don't think that. It isn't and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. Besides, any place between Hell's Kitchen and Times Square after midnight is a recipe for violence or vomiting. (Though the first vomit was at 7PM)
We don't allow cameras in The Club, but at the end of the night every patron was clapping like it was the world series of some sport with a ball going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! Around me, my bouncers are tired and only ready to pounce if someone is actually threatening. These men going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! were not threatening. They didn't know each other. They were a motley crew of motley crews who bonded over whatever it is boys bond over at 4:45 AM.
In the end, they left. And my friends and I decided we needed nourishment after being surrounded by clapping chaos. At that time in the morning, there is only one place to go.
Three - Sunday December 4th 5:30 AMish
The French Roast on the Upper West Side is a quiet little place, one of those dying New York eateries that serves good food 24 hrs. At 5:30AM it's the after bars/clubs crowd. The nights we go there are generally quiet. We have a fantastic waiter who takes care of us. We keep promising to let him play with our Vamplets (yes, we each have a pair) but somehow always forget.
As the cab pull to a stop I notice our quiet little place doesn't look so quiet and little.
Me: Are they having a dance party?
We get out of the cab.
G: Uhhh, I don't think so.
We look for our waiter and wave at him. He looks distressed.
Me: OMG! There's a fight!
Two chicks decked out in Beyonce's greatest-hits-closet-collection are trying to pull their weaves off each other. This has never happened. This is our quiet, wind down place, not a crazy after party brawl. Clearly, the chaos has hitched a ride at the soles of our shoes.
And not only are these girls including all of their friends and family members in their fight, they are blocking every means of entrance! In hind sight, most people would've seen a fight and walked away. But it might be because we're impervious to the chaos, or because we live in it, we find our table and start ordering.
I like the music here. It's old timeish. Lots of Beatles and rock and roll. Just when Rocket Man comes on and my memories turn nostalgic, LOUD singing erupts. It's times like these that I wish they'd pass a law in NY that let you purchase booze after 4AM.
Things like this...
One of them starts talking to us. His name is Tristan. ("HEY THAT'S JUST LIKE MY NAME," Tristan of The Vicious Deep calls out from the shallows of my delirious brain.) They're all musicians. The kind that study it for years and give the right inflections to foreign names or artists I've never heard of. They drink here after their sets at a little opera/piano bar.
It's all fine until The lady singer gets jealous of my friends and I, and starts making a scene. She disses my friend's spider tattoo. She implies our names are not memorable. To the men we are known as Malta (G), Ecuador (Me), and the one with the beautiful eyes (K). The men ensue staring at her beautiful eyes.
Our trusted waiter gets us our check, and the Opera group goes on their merry way, the lady singer huffing and snarling at us on her way out. All I can say is, "listen lady, all we wanted was to eat."
End - Still Sunday morning, but now I'm really going to sleep.
I find myself wondering why I always stumble onto the craziness of others. If it's something I seek out or if it's something the Universe throws at me. Then again maybe it's New York telling me we're not over yet... Or maybe we are... But that's a different story.
For now, I'm trading the madness of the night for what I hope will be quiet dreams. I'd say "tomorrow is another day," only that for me, Tomorrow is right now.
One - Saturday, December 3rd 6PM ish
My first mistake was not spending my writing evening at Starbucks. Though not all Starbucks goers are diligently typing on their laptops. Some sit there and read. Others sit there and gossip. I don't like Starbucks music, usually likening it to Hipster Elevator Shit that PERMEATES my earbuds.
So I chose a wine and cheese shop with a no frills dining section in the back. I ordered this meal below and waited for my friend to join me in one of our last gorges of the year before healthiness ensues.
Meanwhile, a highly pretentious couple talked about things they wanted to see in the next couple of years: Harry Potter land (minus the castle!?!), Disney (minus the Dumbo rides?!?), and cappuccinos across the Pantheon in Rome. He was promising to take her to these place as he refreshed her wine glass over and over again without truly refilling his. Totally classic "get her saucy and take her back to my place to get it in kind of stuff." Between a cappuccino in Rome and chapter 18 of my WIP, the lady puked her guts out on the man. It was very quiet after that. Lucky for me, none of the puke affected me or my new peacoat. The lady tipped 100% of her bill (I saw), and the man was not going to get laid.
Probably.
Two - Saturday going into Sunday morning
I start work at 8 PM. After the wine and cheese place, my friend K and I sprinted down the Hells Kitchen street to start our shift at The Club. On Saturdays I do Admissions, which means I prepare myself for a lot of fake smiling and coordinating duties with my bouncers. I also prepare myself for the folks who don't want to pay, have no IDs, speak broken English, and the random guy who clears out an entire corner of the club with his sheer smell of onions and curry.
For those of you who think New York on a Saturday is glamorous, don't think that. It isn't and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. Besides, any place between Hell's Kitchen and Times Square after midnight is a recipe for violence or vomiting. (Though the first vomit was at 7PM)
We don't allow cameras in The Club, but at the end of the night every patron was clapping like it was the world series of some sport with a ball going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! Around me, my bouncers are tired and only ready to pounce if someone is actually threatening. These men going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! were not threatening. They didn't know each other. They were a motley crew of motley crews who bonded over whatever it is boys bond over at 4:45 AM.
In the end, they left. And my friends and I decided we needed nourishment after being surrounded by clapping chaos. At that time in the morning, there is only one place to go.
Three - Sunday December 4th 5:30 AMish
The French Roast on the Upper West Side is a quiet little place, one of those dying New York eateries that serves good food 24 hrs. At 5:30AM it's the after bars/clubs crowd. The nights we go there are generally quiet. We have a fantastic waiter who takes care of us. We keep promising to let him play with our Vamplets (yes, we each have a pair) but somehow always forget.
As the cab pull to a stop I notice our quiet little place doesn't look so quiet and little.
Me: Are they having a dance party?
We get out of the cab.
G: Uhhh, I don't think so.
We look for our waiter and wave at him. He looks distressed.
Me: OMG! There's a fight!
Two chicks decked out in Beyonce's greatest-hits-closet-collection are trying to pull their weaves off each other. This has never happened. This is our quiet, wind down place, not a crazy after party brawl. Clearly, the chaos has hitched a ride at the soles of our shoes.
And not only are these girls including all of their friends and family members in their fight, they are blocking every means of entrance! In hind sight, most people would've seen a fight and walked away. But it might be because we're impervious to the chaos, or because we live in it, we find our table and start ordering.
I like the music here. It's old timeish. Lots of Beatles and rock and roll. Just when Rocket Man comes on and my memories turn nostalgic, LOUD singing erupts. It's times like these that I wish they'd pass a law in NY that let you purchase booze after 4AM.
Things like this...
One of them starts talking to us. His name is Tristan. ("HEY THAT'S JUST LIKE MY NAME," Tristan of The Vicious Deep calls out from the shallows of my delirious brain.) They're all musicians. The kind that study it for years and give the right inflections to foreign names or artists I've never heard of. They drink here after their sets at a little opera/piano bar.
It's all fine until The lady singer gets jealous of my friends and I, and starts making a scene. She disses my friend's spider tattoo. She implies our names are not memorable. To the men we are known as Malta (G), Ecuador (Me), and the one with the beautiful eyes (K). The men ensue staring at her beautiful eyes.
Our trusted waiter gets us our check, and the Opera group goes on their merry way, the lady singer huffing and snarling at us on her way out. All I can say is, "listen lady, all we wanted was to eat."
End - Still Sunday morning, but now I'm really going to sleep.
I find myself wondering why I always stumble onto the craziness of others. If it's something I seek out or if it's something the Universe throws at me. Then again maybe it's New York telling me we're not over yet... Or maybe we are... But that's a different story.
For now, I'm trading the madness of the night for what I hope will be quiet dreams. I'd say "tomorrow is another day," only that for me, Tomorrow is right now.
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