I think I'm going to puke, Part II

When we last left our fearless hero, he was ostensibly on his way home after a night of bar-hopping around New York hot - and cold-spots; the time was 2:30 a.m. on the technical Sunday morning, but our hero is not a churchgoer; does he go gentle into that good night? Or does he rage, rage against the dying of the light?

Well, the sun already went down. All that's left is to rage for the morrow...

Yeah, I told the cabbie to take me to 151. I promised you a review of this place in my last safari, and so now you get a brief glimpse. 151 (aptly named due to its location at 151 Rivington) is an unmarked basement that it seems is just underground enough that no one has to wait and seedy enough to always feels hip. There's a consistently pleasant 1:1ish ratio of horny dudes and easy chicks and the drinks, albeit not dirt cheap, aren't of the $8 watered vodka soda like that you might find at other too-sweet Lower East haunts (that means you, Hotel Rivington.) Why would one go here? Well, I've already stated that the chicks are easy- lots of Euro-types, and as I've recently been told, the Euro girls don't have all the Judeo-Christian baggage that even some of the hardcore NYC hippies carry like a chastity anvil (no matter how hard you hit on it, it doesn't bang!); no, they are free, free like ripe hormoaning birds. Also, there's a pretty consistent punk-metal soundtrack, so even if the girls aren't picking up on the vibe, you can still rock out like there is no tomorrow. Which, it turned out, there wasn't, because tomorrow was very much today.

Lana is a Brazilian bird. (I don't think her name was Lana, but it's my best guess.) I met her at 151, where we had a longish conversation, roughly 50% of which I understood. She's got a killer accent. Also, 151's speakers are too tinny, or the recordings come from decomposing tape from Stiv Bators' basement, or I'm losing my hearing, who knows... Somewhere along the line, she asked me something like "Do you party?" Of course I do! Oh wait...

So I'm in Brooklyn at Lana's apartment. I guess the JMZ goes there, I dunno. I'm on the wrong side of the tracks and I know it, and Lana's typing on her Macbook in her tight, tight white pants and telling me how she's a singer and how this apartment is only temporary and so why don't I break out my shit.

(Huh?)

(Oh crap.)

So there's a CD case and a wire mesh basketlike thing that I hadn't noticed before on the table, and I know what these things are for, but I'm clearly not equipped for this ski trip... Because I'm an idiot. And I tell her as much, and she knows this already implicitly, and so she offers to call Marquis, who is apparently her friendly neighborhood coke dealer.

Which is fine. Apparently.

Marquis comes in after a few minutes of me anxiously downing my Corona 40 oz. (who knew?) He's a pretty chill dude, turns out. He asks us what we need. I have no idea, and Lana isn't helping. Finally, he suggests something that costs $40, and I immediately jump in "Sold!" except I didn't say that because it wouldn't have been cool. This is one sequence of my life that I am desperately, freakishly yearning to be cool, because Lana is uberhot and I wanna boink Lana. So, I politely identified the $40 option as the one we wanted and handed over the cash.

Well, after awhile of hanging out in the apartment waiting for my drug score (he who's never snorted anything in his life, not even vodka off an overturned shotglass) it becomes apparent that Marquis has run into a roadblock somewhere. After too long, he returns and refunds me my money, casually explaining that it just isn't going to happen tonight. Lana looks bummed; my penis shouts that that is unacceptable. So I text my buddy Ari (it's pushing 7am now, but Ari doesn't sleep, he's more likely to be awake than a gerbil on meth, right, right?) Ari doesn't respond. Marquis has a little, he's willing to share. New guy first. You're not a cop, are you? Hell no...

I'm standing on the JMZ platform. Yes folks: I think I'm going to puke!

(Ari would text me later in the day: "It's wonderful to see you getting into the drugs for sex trade..." Imagine a way to feel filthier. I can't.)

After an excruciating ride back to the real city and the DMZ that is my current neighborhood, I collapse on my bed. Seemingly instantly, my roommate opens my door. "Time to wake up! We've got a birthday party to attend!" Oh yeah. Eagen's birthday. It's noon. 1:30 at Paradou. Yeah.

Did I mention that I think I'm going to puke?

The magical thing about this brunch birthday celebration was that for $45 I could drink all the champagne cocktails I wanted. Wait, is that magical? I could have done with eleventy Bloody Marys, but ended up with more Belinis, Mimosas, and Kir Royals than I ever want to see again. Girls love it, though. Apparently, according to Citysearch, it doesn't have to cost the fearless reader as much as it cost the fearless writer. That's OK- Eagen's a fine young lady and I'm happy, freakin' thrilled to celebrate her birthday with her. No, really- I'm not even being sarcastic. Paradou seems like a good place- print out the coupon on Citysearch, order the Wake 'n Bake (which was borderline life-saving), drink your Mums & OJ, and have a good time. I did. By the time we went to The Hog Pit, I didn't even really feel hungover that badly.

As for the Pit, I was amazed to see that they have a menu. Everytime I've ever gone there, I've been accompanied by what Road House's Dalton character might describe as "Power Drinkers." Make no mistake- that is the clientele, but I'm told the food is surprisingly edible. Even better than that, actually. Not that I've had it. Nope: PBRs all round, foosball, pool, good times. And there's a history to this bar, but you can research that for yourself. I'm here to tell you that if you've got a group of mostly drunk twentysomethings and they're looking to get weird, The Hog Pit in the Meatpacking District is a fine choice.

Not that I was into any more weird. I made it home by 9 p.m. Of course, I didn't go to bed- I stayed up until 2 a.m. 28 of 30 hours awake, questionable decision-making, gallons (seriously) of beer, and the regrettable recreational drug use... Come Monday morning, I wasn't just thinking about puking. I was finally able to commit.

Until next time...

151
151 Rivington St.
New York, NY 10002
Phone: (212) 228-4139

Paradou
8 Little West 12th St
New York, NY 10014
Phone: (212) 463-8345

The Hog Pit
22 9th Ave
New York, NY 10014
Phone: (212) 604-0092