AverageEvenings

when you live in nyc, it is common myth and common practice that making plans and following through with them has a success rate of somewhere around 26%. i believe this shall apply to me and those alike for some time, unless of course you suddenly become above average and rule your life with integrity and organization. those of us here without an agenda of course, do not.

this is why when you are at previously mentioned 'bar' with your 2 confidants, and booty call rings on your blackberry (a fun little toy you surely had no business buying) mumbling code words to get you and other stragglers into the box on a thursday night, you oblige. mundane details of booty call's life are not a concern, rather they could be a nice anecdote in another entry concerning men and the lack there of in this estrogen ridden city. 

you enter and proceed to the bar. with vodka rocks in hand, because why skip the middle man, you proceed upstairs where booty call is working the vip room. after a few ciggies and some lame conversation, an accidental encounter with a stranger resembling eminem leads you to the front table for the upcoming shows. 

for box virgins, the burlesque performances usually consist of exposed body parts, provocative dancing, and even some excrement eating. this evening we were treated to anal flavored tequila, beatboxing drummer boys, and your average lesbian strip tease. yawn.

all the while you take in the agness deyn wannabe dancing wildly to your left; the 19 yr old pro-snowboarder grinding with your friend to the right, (athletes are well-known to be rythmically challenged), and a smaller than average man in front of you wearing a tie talking about nyc nightlife in a way that leads you to believe he probably just landed at jfk, direct from arkansas, 2 days ago. 

just as you are about to be drunk enough to forget your most average outfit of black skinnys and keds, eminem hands you a little bag o' fun and suddenly the box bathroom is the place to be.

the evening dwindles and somehow your roommate racked up a tab. the vip room is empty, save for booty call in a fedora and unbuttoned button up, and you and your company proceed to trek the 3 blocks home.

at least the puppy is happy to see you.

the next morning over brunch at colonial (because who actually waits in the gitan line besides tourists) you and your roommate decide against the dark seedy scene. slipping out just as easily as you slipped in. what used to be free fun has now turned into a paying consequence.  maybe average just means you're getting old.  

4pm rolls around and per usual the question 'where did the day go' dawns upon us. magically before we are ever able to truly ponder this, texts for happy hour flood the lines.

normally, i reserve happy hour for the employed suit crowd.  i have never been one to enjoy slurping up martinis in midtown while donning tailored black, but this one promised a bloody social member appearance. so again, we obliged.

turns out, there are ways to take the edge off of happy hour. me and company's method: tequila-a beverage known to take the edge off of everything. perfect.

while chaining and swallowing and freezing up on the hotel roof, while foreigners squeezed by to photograph the beautiful new york view (the main attraction: steve madden sign in pink and black), topics ranged from an acquaintance band's horrid new single to vibrators. pretty standard, average speak. as has been said, "big people talk about ideas, small people talk about events, and little people talk about other people." average people talk about all of the above.

the night ends with a little brooklyn band's concert at the once uberhip lit, which has now been reserved for average and under, just the way we prefer. post mediocre hotspot and rosarios, we must walk the neglected puppy and pass out. there is no television involved in this activity, as the one we own is a 10 inch tv/vcr combo solely for the purpose of watching acting tapes (preferably while stoned.)

stumbling into the bathroom to attempt removing the taste of dough and cheese in my mouth, i think of the little couple that was formed in the last hour. in this evening's hookup case, chivalry rose quietly from the dead as (insert male name) walked home (insert female name. disclaimer: these are my average friends). of course this is not chivalry in its truest form, as the favor is now being returned as i type these last few words, but maybe the facade was enough to spike up the arrow a bit beyond average tonight. because i am sure it was not my vintage dior headscarf that did the trick.