(no subject)
Who: Guests to Watts' 28th birthday party
Where: The Art Bar (8th Ave)
When: Friday night, starter at 11:00 PM (half an hour in)
What: The Byrons are big on the birthday spirit. Expensive bar, expensive booze, rather expensive people, chatty/clever/artsy/bohemian-sell-out fun times abound.
Status: Threads. Please feel free to start sub-threads within the post, using a timestamps and tags as the subject line.
OOC: Just so guests know--I'm not sure when the log will be up--near the end of this party, wayward guest Napoleon Hart punches Watts in the face! Dramaz. He leaves before there is any sort of brawl, however.
It was an interesting slice of the New York arts and entertainment scene which wedged itself into the narrow but decadent bar on Eighth Avenue. Restrained, this was, in comparison to the blow-out they'd hosted for New Years, but to call the affair comparatively dull would do it a great injustice. Different, that much could be said in fairness. There were fewer rooftop duels to be fought (it would be remarkable if they made it through the party with no duels at all). There were crossed legs and low lights. The atmosphere was a jaunty mix of alcohol, art, and 80's apologetica, three elements to also be found in the guest of honor himself.
He was the object of much fawning attention from Tales and civilians like, though if one picked up a conversation about past lives from across a room, it was just as likely to be started by one as another. The Byrons did not often flex their monetary muscle outside of antiques purchases, since the novelty of a plush sofa on an unsanded studio floor was one of the city's many charms; nonetheless the stops had been effectively pulled out for renting and hydrating an entire room, and unlike the belated New-Years-Birthday extravaganza, there was no cheap liquor mixed in with the refined. There was also no less liquor. There were fewer people--that was just the logistics of space--but the saturation was similar, even if it was a less frenetic and lazier crowd. Occasionally a very glamorous woman cut the air with a sagacious laugh or a chorus of hoots erupted from the corner.
People lingered in groups of two or three, flagging down drinks and or chatting loudly enough to cover the music, which was everywhere. That people were still arriving seemed to press the party's end further and further into the early morning. There were a few guests that the hosts did not know, and there were a few guests that the guests did not know, but with art salesmen, artists, bartenders, producers, food critics, and colorful hybrid drinks all in attendance, crashers couldn't be faulted for making the place eccentric.
Where: The Art Bar (8th Ave)
When: Friday night, starter at 11:00 PM (half an hour in)
What: The Byrons are big on the birthday spirit. Expensive bar, expensive booze, rather expensive people, chatty/clever/artsy/bohemian-sell-out fun times abound.
Status: Threads. Please feel free to start sub-threads within the post, using a timestamps and tags as the subject line.
OOC: Just so guests know--I'm not sure when the log will be up--near the end of this party, wayward guest Napoleon Hart punches Watts in the face! Dramaz. He leaves before there is any sort of brawl, however.
It was an interesting slice of the New York arts and entertainment scene which wedged itself into the narrow but decadent bar on Eighth Avenue. Restrained, this was, in comparison to the blow-out they'd hosted for New Years, but to call the affair comparatively dull would do it a great injustice. Different, that much could be said in fairness. There were fewer rooftop duels to be fought (it would be remarkable if they made it through the party with no duels at all). There were crossed legs and low lights. The atmosphere was a jaunty mix of alcohol, art, and 80's apologetica, three elements to also be found in the guest of honor himself.
He was the object of much fawning attention from Tales and civilians like, though if one picked up a conversation about past lives from across a room, it was just as likely to be started by one as another. The Byrons did not often flex their monetary muscle outside of antiques purchases, since the novelty of a plush sofa on an unsanded studio floor was one of the city's many charms; nonetheless the stops had been effectively pulled out for renting and hydrating an entire room, and unlike the belated New-Years-Birthday extravaganza, there was no cheap liquor mixed in with the refined. There was also no less liquor. There were fewer people--that was just the logistics of space--but the saturation was similar, even if it was a less frenetic and lazier crowd. Occasionally a very glamorous woman cut the air with a sagacious laugh or a chorus of hoots erupted from the corner.
People lingered in groups of two or three, flagging down drinks and or chatting loudly enough to cover the music, which was everywhere. That people were still arriving seemed to press the party's end further and further into the early morning. There were a few guests that the hosts did not know, and there were a few guests that the guests did not know, but with art salesmen, artists, bartenders, producers, food critics, and colorful hybrid drinks all in attendance, crashers couldn't be faulted for making the place eccentric.