Saint Patrick's Day 06. Whew.
We got off to a rocky start this past Friday when stragglers from various rehearsals, schools and work found themselves barless this St. Patrick's Day, despite a careful planning arrangement. Jasmine had decided all together not to go out. Truthfully, I was a bit stranded, as Shayna will atest. When the announcement was made: "Allison. Go to B Bar Now," I knew what to do. I went to bbar. That was easy. And thus began the night.
We started off simple with the everlasting flashes of a billion cameras. For no reason, really. And I was totally suckered in. I whipped out my...camera... and joined in. Some evidence of the assult by camera flash:
All small talk aside, it was time to move on. We miraculously left b bar planning to go our seperate ways, but ended up a little later in the night-- it's like 1am now At Least --at Social. As we walked into the bar, we could tell something weird was up. It was even more evident after monika, off-duty-bartender extrodinare, ordered our drinks, passing them back to us through a barrage of rather unfortunatly tall firefighters and other men invarious state of uniform or tuxedo. Strange. And looking into the cups from which we were about to drink provided little consolation. One drink was orange. A whole cup. Just orange. We each took a sniff, but still no guess.as to what kind of drink it was. For a moment we even doubted monika's ability to order drinks. Why the hell did she order us orange soda?
After much more pondering, and even tasting, we figure out that it was, in fact, My Drink. It was cider. Whew. When another very curious thing happens.
No, no not that. We are all used to that by now.
The bar goes almost silent, and a feeling that the moments are passing in slow motion sifted over the room. A man with curly black hair bounds out from the back of the bar flying through the room, reaching his target and placing his hands firmly around another patron's neck. Not a word was spoken. A bouncer breaks it up, they move away from each other and Game On, the bar noise seems to turn back on. Social is a weird place.
While we were there, this dude kept holding his camera up in the air and taking pictures of our group. Heather and Jas said this:
Catie said, "Take another fucking picture..." and held her beer over his head. "Asshole."
So then we left there.
Our next adventure brings us to the streets of midtown where we were approached by a man, who apparently was offering to sell us some cocaine. In front of two police men. Not the smartest cookie? I hear jas yell, "Allison, he said we can taste his coke" jokingly. I turn around. Monika informs the guy that we are indeed, not tourists. Dude runs for his life around the corner. We mock him.
Someone decided that we needed to arrive at the next bar in style. It was now about 2:30 am. Before I know it, the sidewalk is overtaken by 4 people yelling "5-6-7-8" followed by the longest running leap combination i have ever heard. I should type it out for you. I can. But I don't know how to put accents on letters in the computer. so it looks like this: chase. chase. run run leap. Not exactly how it sounds when it happened for real, huh ladies? Hey! how come the people actually involved in these stories don't comment? Shy? I thought so! ANYWAYS. Monika learns the combo. A street vendor learned it. Catie said No Way. We arrive at Playwrite. Apparently it is somewhere in Times Square, but at this point, i have no idea where. The night winds down slowly over the next...3...hours. I will leave you with this story. Learn from it.
Heather took a quick nap on the table, placing her head in her hands and closing her eyes. A good clump of hair had fallen rather precisly into a drink. A very red drink. Catie reached over and with the tips of her fingers attempted to extract the strands out of the cup. Heather's head pops up. "DON'T. EVER." Catie throws her hands up. Hair falls back in drink. Heather goes back to sleep.
Happy St. Patricks Day!
On an unrealated note-- LJ, do you want to teach me how to do an LJ cut again soon? It would probaly be appreciated. Or if someone wants to tell me how to text wrap. More lobsters coming up. See you soon, macaroons. love, me
We started off simple with the everlasting flashes of a billion cameras. For no reason, really. And I was totally suckered in. I whipped out my...camera... and joined in. Some evidence of the assult by camera flash:
All small talk aside, it was time to move on. We miraculously left b bar planning to go our seperate ways, but ended up a little later in the night-- it's like 1am now At Least --at Social. As we walked into the bar, we could tell something weird was up. It was even more evident after monika, off-duty-bartender extrodinare, ordered our drinks, passing them back to us through a barrage of rather unfortunatly tall firefighters and other men invarious state of uniform or tuxedo. Strange. And looking into the cups from which we were about to drink provided little consolation. One drink was orange. A whole cup. Just orange. We each took a sniff, but still no guess.as to what kind of drink it was. For a moment we even doubted monika's ability to order drinks. Why the hell did she order us orange soda?
After much more pondering, and even tasting, we figure out that it was, in fact, My Drink. It was cider. Whew. When another very curious thing happens.
No, no not that. We are all used to that by now.
The bar goes almost silent, and a feeling that the moments are passing in slow motion sifted over the room. A man with curly black hair bounds out from the back of the bar flying through the room, reaching his target and placing his hands firmly around another patron's neck. Not a word was spoken. A bouncer breaks it up, they move away from each other and Game On, the bar noise seems to turn back on. Social is a weird place.
While we were there, this dude kept holding his camera up in the air and taking pictures of our group. Heather and Jas said this:
Catie said, "Take another fucking picture..." and held her beer over his head. "Asshole."
So then we left there.
Our next adventure brings us to the streets of midtown where we were approached by a man, who apparently was offering to sell us some cocaine. In front of two police men. Not the smartest cookie? I hear jas yell, "Allison, he said we can taste his coke" jokingly. I turn around. Monika informs the guy that we are indeed, not tourists. Dude runs for his life around the corner. We mock him.
Someone decided that we needed to arrive at the next bar in style. It was now about 2:30 am. Before I know it, the sidewalk is overtaken by 4 people yelling "5-6-7-8" followed by the longest running leap combination i have ever heard. I should type it out for you. I can. But I don't know how to put accents on letters in the computer. so it looks like this: chase. chase. run run leap. Not exactly how it sounds when it happened for real, huh ladies? Hey! how come the people actually involved in these stories don't comment? Shy? I thought so! ANYWAYS. Monika learns the combo. A street vendor learned it. Catie said No Way. We arrive at Playwrite. Apparently it is somewhere in Times Square, but at this point, i have no idea where. The night winds down slowly over the next...3...hours. I will leave you with this story. Learn from it.
Heather took a quick nap on the table, placing her head in her hands and closing her eyes. A good clump of hair had fallen rather precisly into a drink. A very red drink. Catie reached over and with the tips of her fingers attempted to extract the strands out of the cup. Heather's head pops up. "DON'T. EVER." Catie throws her hands up. Hair falls back in drink. Heather goes back to sleep.
Happy St. Patricks Day!
On an unrealated note-- LJ, do you want to teach me how to do an LJ cut again soon? It would probaly be appreciated. Or if someone wants to tell me how to text wrap. More lobsters coming up. See you soon, macaroons. love, me