(no subject)
Odelia took me in for New Years weekend. The celebration went into effect Saturday evening when we went into Williamsburg for a Mexican takeover. Maybe it was our burrito breath, but the fifty year old migrants thought they struck gold with us. ("Us" mostly referring to Odelia because she was all Chinese and shit). The one who was assigned to me did not speak a word of English so I brought out the remains of my six year strive for bilingualism to humor the dude. In exchange for flirtation, he bought me songs off the jukebox and let me tell you how positively unnerving it is to operate a jukebox in Williamsburg. I assumed that if Pitchfork didn't applaud it, it was best to avoid it. I introduced only the most regal beats into that bar, that is until the beer arranged for a takeover shedding my hesitancy to throw on AshSimp who I by the way, no longer like. Based on my infatuations with celebrities who have revolving eating disorders (Richie and Olsen most notably), you would think her transformation would be considered an upgrade but this isn't the case.
She's a tricky subject clearly having suffered from an identity crisis all along but I liked her more when she was all phonied up and doing her pseduo punk thing. Now she's a weird merge of her sister and Mischa and she is less hot because she is more hot? There's much debate about whether or not her poster will make its way into this semester's decor scheme. Why am I even talking about this.
We left our Mexicans for Supreme Trading to meet up with Chad and his entourage. Due to the timing of soul's demise, the DJ, like every other DJ in America that week, assembled an expectedly mundane James Brown tribute which more or less deterred from maximum enjoyment. It was at this bar that I was told to stop pretending like I didn't know how to dance when in fact I was actually dancing. Situations like this made it okay to continue pounding fists of Carlsberg despite its unfavorable aftertaste which I do not recall being present in Copenhagen.
Shortly after, we left the gentlemen to their dance party and somehow made our way to MisShapes which I still find shocking that I was even permitted entry. By the time we got there, I was an understated disaster holding myself up through means of the walls and woodwork. I didn't foresee much of a future but found myself cured by the DJs. We went hard until the early morning although you would never know this because LastNightsParty neglected us.
New Years Eve was a melange of immoderation. As soon as I got over my A.M. hangover, I moved it to another bar in Union Square for drinks with Doug and then as soon as that drunkneness wore off, I moved on to the Sparks to get a head start on the following day's hangover. I was in a solid state of inebriation by the time we left Brooklyn but Motherfucker wasn't really keen on maintaining it. We got there not too long after 10 and the line was around the block. We even purchased our tickets in advance but apparently that was a futile move because there was only one line mixing both the ticket and with the non-ticket holding folk.
They didn't let us in to the club until 5 minutes to midnight and 30 past sober. All our hard work wore off with time and considering the shift in circumstances, I wanted that alcohol. I expected Motherfucker to be some massive hipster dance party, and raised even higher standards when Nylon whored it out as the one place to be in NYC for New Years. It was without warning a haven for brazen drag queens, trannies, and S+M fans alike. To think, Odelia and I spent so much time teetering between ensembles and we could have just worn our underwear and been good. Or we could have not worn any underwear and still been good. We were entirely out of our element but made it work splaying our limbs appearing cretinous to skill due in part to the DJs surprisingly generous indie selection. What made it even better is that dollar bills kept falling from the go-go dancers bras onto the floor into the abyss and I made about $6 because of it.
I could have kept the party alive until the a.m. but death by feet cut everything short. The new boots required me to alternate between songs and the couch and eventually, between the booze and the footwear, I just gave up on standing upright altogether and nestled by tired, hurting bod between two men in vinyl ass bearing chaps and mesh t-shirts.