It Hardly Matters

Friday, November 11, 2005

Pen Island

East Village, Hi-Fi, Thursday, 10pm: Girls with cool hair, wrecked and too blonde. I want it. A shaggy dude in coveralls air guitaring to Van Halen's "Unchained" while waiting for his turn at 2-player Ms. Pacman. A busboy of small stature (ok fine, a midget), wearing the same color as the walls, stealthily removing empty pint glasses from the copper countertops. A blingy doorman checking IDs, asking if I've been on "what's that new show...with Tyra Banks?" Smile. One of those good-hair girls resting her chin on the shoulder of her boy's (ironic) tweed jacket. Hate them.

Then, the red pleather booth, long enough to house me, P, J and all our stuff. Nice. Last night was the first day this year that everyone has to drag their piles of coats and bags, hats, etc., into the bar. These (usually puffy) items are unceremoniously stuffed between barstools, smooshed into backpacks, thrown over speakers or barstools to be semi-forgotten and spilled upon as the night (drink, dance) wears on. Then, late, scrounging on the trashed floor, feeling your way to that mini umbrella or favorite hoodie, only to grab someone's sheepswool-lined denim jacket that (sweet!) happens to be your size. I don't condone theft, just karma. Everyone's drunk anyhow.

Last night wasn't a drunk night, but it was a drink night. There's a difference. Drunk nights can be intentional or accidental, but they're always expensive and exhausting and they're never as fun as you'd imagined they'd be. Drink nights are, well, excellent. I'll get into them more later. But don't get me wrong, I love 'em both.


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