admin
22 December 2023
SHE LIKES THE NIGHTLIFE! SHE LIKES TO BOOGIE!
Hey, boys and girls! You might remember me from my June 2001 article, "I Couldn't Get My Freak On Because This Bitch Was Too Busy Getting Her Groove On." Well, the public response to that was so tremendous, the super-nice folks at tastes like chicken have asked me to write a monthly column for their paper. And here it is: “Hot-Town!!!” Basically, I'll use this space to talk about everything you missed in this happenin' burg's nightlife, because you weren't cool enough or well-dressed enough to participate. But enough with the introductions,.. let's start the restaurant / bar / gallery / club / apartment complex parking lot hoppin'!
My first stop was LeFleque, home of the finest Japanese food the Upper South Side has to offer. Just like their commercials say: "LeFleque means authentic." After scarfing down a cheeseburger and some Cheezy Rings, I waved goodbye to the owner, Kim Thong, and set out looking for trouble.
And trouble is exactly what I found at The West Indian Village Tavern. I love that place. As long as I'm wearing my silver mini-skirt and no panties, the drinks are always free. Every guy there that night couldn't wait to buy me liquor. Who says chivalry is dead?
After a slight blackout episode, I stumbled my way into the city's Gallery District. Musings on Key XIX was exhibiting some work by local fave, Todd Springwell. His intricate pieces consisted of rubber bands and packing tape stuck to various cereal boxes glued to the wall. It didn't make much sense to me, but I nodded my head and pretended to like it, just like everybody else. Hooray for art!
Punch-drunk and utterly confused, I knew there was only one cure for the screaming headache my night had become: The Club, Club, Club. I got to The Club, Club, Club around 11:30pm, and the shit was already jumpin'! It was like Romper Room. I could see Pete Nortsam and Billy Mathers in the corner. Chuckie Neilson (that hottie) was bartending, and DJ Mr. Bucket was spinning the finest repetitive house music ever. I even ran into Joey Wombat. When I asked him to buy me a Manhattan, he called me a "scab" and told me to "fuck off." Yeah,.. he wants me.
Unfortunately, my nightcap wasn't passing out spread eagle with some Greek hunk astride me. No. Instead, I ran into my ex-friend, Nicole. She was totally going home with my ex-boyfriend, Giovanni. And to make things worse, Nicole was wearing this God-awful polyester fly-girl shirt from JCPenny. Yikes! She was like, "Hi. How have you been?" That bitch. I hope she has rat-babies.
All in all, last weekend was pretty typical by my standards. That means it would have been heavenly to the underprivileged, non-leather jacket owning masses like yourself. Well, I'm off to a week full of Percocet and Demoral Twisters. See ya next month!!!
Hey, boys and girls! You might remember me from my June 2001 article, "I Couldn't Get My Freak On Because This Bitch Was Too Busy Getting Her Groove On." Well, the public response to that was so tremendous, the super-nice folks at tastes like chicken have asked me to write a monthly column for their paper. And here it is: “Hot-Town!!!” Basically, I'll use this space to talk about everything you missed in this happenin' burg's nightlife, because you weren't cool enough or well-dressed enough to participate. But enough with the introductions,.. let's start the restaurant / bar / gallery / club / apartment complex parking lot hoppin'!
My first stop was LeFleque, home of the finest Japanese food the Upper South Side has to offer. Just like their commercials say: "LeFleque means authentic." After scarfing down a cheeseburger and some Cheezy Rings, I waved goodbye to the owner, Kim Thong, and set out looking for trouble.
And trouble is exactly what I found at The West Indian Village Tavern. I love that place. As long as I'm wearing my silver mini-skirt and no panties, the drinks are always free. Every guy there that night couldn't wait to buy me liquor. Who says chivalry is dead?
After a slight blackout episode, I stumbled my way into the city's Gallery District. Musings on Key XIX was exhibiting some work by local fave, Todd Springwell. His intricate pieces consisted of rubber bands and packing tape stuck to various cereal boxes glued to the wall. It didn't make much sense to me, but I nodded my head and pretended to like it, just like everybody else. Hooray for art!
Punch-drunk and utterly confused, I knew there was only one cure for the screaming headache my night had become: The Club, Club, Club. I got to The Club, Club, Club around 11:30pm, and the shit was already jumpin'! It was like Romper Room. I could see Pete Nortsam and Billy Mathers in the corner. Chuckie Neilson (that hottie) was bartending, and DJ Mr. Bucket was spinning the finest repetitive house music ever. I even ran into Joey Wombat. When I asked him to buy me a Manhattan, he called me a "scab" and told me to "fuck off." Yeah,.. he wants me.
Unfortunately, my nightcap wasn't passing out spread eagle with some Greek hunk astride me. No. Instead, I ran into my ex-friend, Nicole. She was totally going home with my ex-boyfriend, Giovanni. And to make things worse, Nicole was wearing this God-awful polyester fly-girl shirt from JCPenny. Yikes! She was like, "Hi. How have you been?" That bitch. I hope she has rat-babies.
All in all, last weekend was pretty typical by my standards. That means it would have been heavenly to the underprivileged, non-leather jacket owning masses like yourself. Well, I'm off to a week full of Percocet and Demoral Twisters. See ya next month!!!
artid
639
Old Image
4_8_hottown.swf
issue
vol 4 - issue 08 (apr 2002)
section
stories