Greetings fellow disasters! It looks like Mother Nature reads my blog and decided to bump up our medium-shitty weather to nearly 70 degrees and sunny as hell. My life is taking a similar turn; I got a job offer this morning, I lost five pounds, and things may or may not be improving in my relationship department (details to be divulged at a later date). Since I’ve spent the last four weeks feeling sorry for myself that none of these things had happened yet, I let one of the most fabulously disastrous times of my life go undocumented.
Team Big Things Does NYC (Dec 28-Jan 2).
It began as a simple road trip with a few broke friends; Bradford, Austin, Bill, Patrick and myself all crammed in a Jeep, with five cans of beans, three handles of liquor and about 50 packets of Ramen. I spent most of the ride up stoned and praying we didn’t flip over speeding through toll booths at 90 mph. When we finally arrived in Williamsburg to stay with our ever-so-generous hosts and cohorts Beth and Linnea, I was apparently overcome with exhaustion and/or narcolepsy; after a brief stint taking pictures of ourselves at Metropolitan (a location where I spent 20 minutes looking for my lost jacket that I never even wore), I was dragged by my cunt-ourage to…somewhere. It may have been a fabulous party at a fabulous gay bar with fabulous DJs. However, I was able to have just about this much fun:
So there’s that.
Now, normally I would give an account of what happened in the daytime at any point during this trip. And I promise, I was awake for some of those hours. But somehow my memory refuses to serve, probably given the central line of cheap liquor and THC I received during the trip, and all the time that has passed since. Suffice it to say that I was probably hungover and yelling at people on the street, singing Azaelia Banks a cappella or stealing hats from Topshop. Whatever. Moving on.
As far as I can recall, the next night was spent in the basement of Santos Party House, trying to pretend we weren’t the most amazing people in the room and that the drinks weren’t thirteen dollars. This proved to be very difficult, but after a certain number of cocktails I was able to twirl regardless. Later that night, Patrick met up with someone from Grindr at some random corner on Lafayette, only to approach with our entire crew and reject him on the spot. This was one of the weirder, more anti-climactic nights of the trip. I fell asleep with these 80/20 shoes on.
On night #3, Moe (my publicist and an all-around great guy) surprised everyone with a cameo appearance, bringing only his weekender and a sequined bow tie. We somehow managed to work our 9-person, almost entirely male crew into Le Bain, and even though I was wearing my velvet bustier and was too drunk to spell my name, my flirtatious advances somehow got rejected by the bartender. Feeling sad for about 0.0o1 minutes (I really wanted a free drink), I proceeded to assist Patrick in making out with a straight guy and spent 20 minutes searching for my lost phone. I ended up finding it in my boobs later on, but in all the bustle Moe and I made our way to security and they gave us some garlic knots. Worth it? I think so. The rest of the night was spent eating pizza in alleyways and consorting with the beautiful people at Brooklyn’s Sugarland.
And then came the big night.
New Year’s Eve in the city is always, of course, a huge deal and despite my millions of visits I had somehow never experienced it. No one I knew was super interested in Dick Clark’s Smeagol impersonation (god bless him), so our plan was to hit up the annual throwdown at the Schinasi Mansion on the Upper West Side. This classy joint is one of the few and well respected free-standing mansions in NYC, flips for about 15 mil, and looks a little something like this on a good day.
After spending the entirety of December 31st drinking the cheapest handle one can locate in the 212 (Bacardi Coconut, it’s fucking good), and assembling head-to-toe metallic ensembles for the evening, our crowd (which now included my younger sister Kedrin, her two beautiful friends, and the adorably tux-clad Connor and Matt) rocked a subway car back and forth at 11:30 pm screaming “NINETEEN NINETY TWELVE!” into the faces of unassuming, innocent strangers who were headed for third shift.
I blacked out shortly thereafter.
Apparently, this is what the Schinasi Mansion looked like on New Year’s Eve.
According to what is now urban legend regarding that night, someone fell and broke their neck down those stairs just before we arrived in the wake of the ambulance. I took *something* that did not sit well with my stomach and spent the next few hours throwing up for the first time since 2010. In the middle of a crowd of girls who could only have hailed from Hamilton House itself, Moe fell asleep on someone, Austin danced in the streets for passing cab drivers, and Bradford took a bite out of a martini glass.
Beth, bless her heart, took care of us all.
Sure, I was kicked out of the party between five and ten times. Yes, I couldn’t walk down steps for a week because of the bruises on my legs. Okay, fine, I went a too far yet again and publicly humiliated myself like I always do. But I’d say the evening went almost exactly as planned (with the exception of falling asleep in the back of a cab and never making it to the party at Verboten I had deeply desired to attend).
For a split second, we were lost in the chaos of the capital of the world, turning everything we touched into a pile of feathers, glitter and blood.
And a split second later, as if nothing had happened, we were gone.