Sometimes, a girl needs to dress up, get sauced with her friends, and fall down like a ton of bricks. This is a home truth one learns early in life, much like “no sleeping with your first cousin” and “Germans are hairy.” After all the drama of the past few months – all the heaviness and agonizing, I jump at the opportunity to hang out with my friend Vivi, who was is town doing something glamorous and creative for work. Vivi is a madwoman; it is virtually impossible to avoid doubling over in laughter while in her presence. And what I need most is a laugh. And a stiff drink…or six.
The proposed venue is Soho House, a swanky private members’ club in the Meatpacking District with a rooftop pool and bar featured in Sex in the City. The thought of being surrounded by impossibly fashionable women with legs like baby giraffes begins to make me nervous. I neither cool, nor fashiony, nor artsy, nor particularly thin. I do not own a single designer logo. When I am around cool, fashiony, artsy, thin people in logo wear, I twitch and mutter and sweat. In short, I lower the tone.
Feeling a bit apprehensive, I think it necessary to warn my friend of this fact. “Vivi, I say. “I think I might be too much of a tool for Soho House.”
“Don’t worry, Perseph, I’ll cover for you.”
I imagine myself arriving at Soho House as Vivi’s gimpy sidekick, drooling slightly from the end of a leash.
Vivi is suddenly attacked by a giant lamprey eel
I make my way through a crowd of beautifuls (trying not to trip and concentrating on keeping my tongue in my mouth) to Vivi’s group of lovely and interesting work friends. Armed with a bourbon on the rocks the size of my head, I strike up conversation with a delightful British man who immediately launches into the Drill. Some of you may know my thoughts on the Drill – how I loathe and detest it with all of my heart. No one - I mean not even my mom - is interested in what I do for a living, where I went to school, where I live, blah blah blah. If anything, the Drill is an immediate conversation stopper. Nevertheless, I try to play along gamely.
Lying, for fun and profit
"So, what do you do?" British man asks.
"You don’t want to tell me?"
"Is it embarrassing? Are you lawyer?"
"Really...are you Republican in some way?"
"No. I’m a…"
"I’m an exotic dancer. Sometimes it’s awkward to tell people because I’m worried they’ll judge me."
"Really?! That’s nothing to be ashamed of. What sort of exotic dance does someone from the Ivy League get into?"
"Well, I try to weave elements of history into my routines. Because nothing you learn is ever wasted."
"Historical exotic dance! What period do you cover?"
"Mostly medieval. For instance, last Saturday I did a tableau vivante of the Bayeux Tapesty, with William the Conquerer leading the Normans to victory over the Anglo-Saxons in 1066 at the Battle of Hastings."
"What on earth do you wear?"
"Sometimes we do Chainmail Sexy. And we don’t bathe. For like, a MONTH."
"HAHAHAHAHAHA. HAHAHA. Ha. Ha?"
3.4 on the dismount
The next stop is another rooftop party at which I distinguish myself by getting TROUNCED in foosball by Vivi and a German and then by being a sore loser. I believe the words “dirty cheater” pass my lips no less than three times.
Vivi gloating after victory
After several drinks and a photo shoot with Vivi in various pornographic poses, we stumble out onto the street, where a host of other obnoxious PR girls and their braided belt boyfriends are milling about.
"My feet hurt," Vivi says.
"Climb on my back!" I exclaim. "I am freakishly strong!" This is the god's honest truth. I have been known to sling a 235lb boyfriend on my back and carry him around.
Vivi, who can’t be more than 90lbs soaking wet, attempts to mount me. Like an ancient Sequoia felled by corporate loggers, I go down. Hard. Vivi and I are suddenly a drunken pile of arms and legs attached to four-inch heels. The PR girls look on in disgust. As we untangle ourselves, I realize that I have not only bruised my ego, but bloodied my knee, which now looks like a mass of raw hamburger. And that’s how I roll peeps.
Seafood pancake revisited
Limping but no less triumphant, we continue on to introduce our new German and Sheltered American friends to late night Korean food. The evening continues to degenerate.
The East Village Idiots
I revisit Seafood Pancake several times in the morning, which greets me with a monumental hangover. Good God. I am too old for this nonsense. Can’t move. Knee is busted, head is busted. Later, Fauxhawk attempts to revive me with soup. I engage in copious amounts of moaning.
"Oh Jesus. Holy mother of God. How bad was I when I called you last night at 4am?"
"You weren’t bad…" I sense Fauxhawk is being charitable.
"Oh GOD. Tell me."
Lively. Now that’s what I’m after.
Watercolors: Stina Persson
P.S. To the poor peeps who signed up for the feed - apologies for the multiple posts of this. Blogger is f-ing up my pics, yo.