A couple weeks ago, I attended a friend’s birthday party on the Lower East Side. Now, I adore this friend, but he has no friend filter, i.e., he’ll hang out with any Tom, Dick or piece of hipster trash who just so happens to go by. And so, his entourage is filled with hipster grifters, Real World castmates and other Williamsburg-type trust frund fray.
I showed up early, with the plan to make an early exit, before the hipster madness—i.e. the deluded actions of 22-year-olds that makes them think they are wildly original and awesome (I believe this is the same sense of wonderment that children experience when they first learn how to shit in a toilet, or bathe by themselves)—set amid a backdrop of furiously constructed aluminum foil bracelets and crowns and silly strings. I had a couple beers and was seated behind this incredibly dinky, rickety table that was no more stable than a 1970s TV tray. Upon my escape, as I–annoyed and sober–was trying to negotiate my way from behind this rickety table and the hipsters, my knee accidentally bumped the edge of the table, making it wobble, and oops, down my empty beer bottle went.
Then some sloppy-looking 22-year-old chick goes, “Uh, fail.”
Mmm. There is most likely nothing that will stir my white-trash roots to engage in a Roadhouse-style barfight than a hipster mouthing off to me in hipster-speak. But I am too much of a lady to start something like that. Then again, I really, really wanted to fuck with them. Scare the bejesus out of their little minds to make these girls think twice before mouthing off to a stranger in a bar again.
I looked straight at them and said, “How’s this for a fail?” Then proceeded to swipe the rest of the drinks glasses and bottles off the table, enjoyed their shocked, scared little faces and left.
Then stage exit to hail a cab. And you know what the best part of hailing a cab is? Not needing to hail a cab. Hell, I could’ve suffered the subway home, but having enough money that you can afford to take a cab any damn time you please is one helluva a feeling.
Exit scene. This incident reminded me of my old self—the one that used to do really spontaneous, heinous shit for the sake of so-called rock ‘n’ roll. This incident—from a several years ago—is and forever will be the last time I’ve ever done something like this.
We were told to buy tickets early. We were told this band was the Next Awesome Thing. We were told there’d be free booze.
They were called Bang Camaro. They were from Boston. They had more than 20 lead singers from different bands all over town crammed onto one stage with only a couple guitarists and bass players and shouted out lyrics like “Push, push Lady Lightning!” while pumping their fists and stomping.
We purchased our $15 tickets, put our names down on the so-called VIP list for the afterparty being thrown by Playgirl, and prepared for a night of so-called rock’n’roll debauchery.
The club, Luna Lounge, which could fit well over 1,000 folk, was three-quarters empty, the drinks were expensive and shitty, and within five minutes of the 20-plus dude routine—and repetitive lyrics about subjects such as dry humping, humping for love and living to rock, the Bang Camaro schtick grew tiresome.
The show finally, mercifully, ended and it was on to some bar for a VIP party that wasn’t very VIP at all considering they let everyone who walked up to the door inside. The Playgirl folk came around to give us party favors—in this case, various real cheap dildos, vibrators and sex toys, all without batteries of course. Sitting there with the same cast of characters, drunk and bored out of my mind with a metallic purple vibrator in my lap, I decided in my mind, “Oh, hell no! Tonight will not go down like every other.”
I got up, walked back to the beer garden where they were grilling burgers for the guys and walked right up to the taller guitar player I thought looked cute earlier. I can’t even remember what I said. He was having none of it, but one of the singers, a curly, redheaded dude was. Somehow the topic got to the subject of wrestling, more than likely due to his hobbit-like stature.
“I could totally kick your ass,” I said.
“Oh, really? I don’t think you can,” he said.
“Oh, hell yeah. Name a time and place. I’ll wrestle you to the ground.”
And then he uttered the words that no one over 30 ever wants to hear, “I got a van.”
“All right, let’s go.”
I left the bar, carrying a nearly full pint of beer btw, while Sideshow Bob got pulled aside with his drink by the bouncer (this often happens to me, I can walk in and out of places w/ entire bottles of whiskey and vodka stuffed in my pants, and no one says shit). When he finally emerged I followed this mop of hair atop a white Jon Bon Jovi circa “Young Guns” fringed Western white leather jacket to his white van, which was parked, I shit you not, down by the river.
I don’t think there’s a more humiliating moment in a woman’s life than waiting for some Sideshow Bob-looking motherfucker to clean out the fast-food wrappers and empty soda cans from his van so that he can pull down the backseat to make an appropriate venue for wrestling/making out. Oh, wait, there is. Following that same freakshow back to the bar, where he rejoins his friends and you call a car home.
Overall, and while I got many props from the group I was with that night for my spur-of-the-moment rock’n’roll behavior as well as a hickey, I was left with the feeling that yeah, I can do that shit if I wanna, but I don’t really wanna anymore. And as that was over three years ago, if I’m just knocking a beer bottle or two off the table to scare hipsters? Then, hell, I’m doing all right.
And I would totally do that again.