Weekend Part I - Bungalo 8 with The Writer
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Writer and I hung out this weekend and we went to Bungalo 8. For those who are clueless – it is where the young celebs hang out when they are in NYC. We had to prove it wasn’t too cool for us.
“One drink and then we go,” I told The Writer as we crossed the street. “I don’t want to hang out here all night, all the men look like they wax their eyebrows.”
“So…we only have one mission – to find L. Lohan,” she said. And with a quick smirk I agreed and enforced the one drink policy.
“One drink,” she agreed, adjusting her cleavage for the eighth time. She had run into the age-old dilemma while getting ready: How much boob is too much boob? Trying to combine the best of both worlds, she was wearing an extremely low cut dress with a small tank top underneath. While I, wore a cute white summer lace baby doll dress.
We got into the club with an ease that can only be described as anticlimactic and two drinks later (like we ever actually have one drink) our egos were appeased. We were ready to meet up with our friends at a less pretentious club.
Making the requisite stop at the bathroom, we found it to be one of those single stall types and went in together. (The Writer and I are really good friends ;) and if you tell me you’ve never peed with any of your friends then I think you’re either lying or you are my mother.)
We were all set to leave, when we discovered we literally could not.She pulled, pushed and jiggled the handle but the door remained closed. She even smacked the wood a few times in an attempt to open the door through brute force, but it remained firm as I stood in the corner, helping no one by giggling uncontrollably.
“NYC.Lezie, what are we going to do?” she demanded.
Suddenly there were agitated voices outside the bathroom. I looked at her.“I can’t handle this right now,” I announced, turning to the mirror. “I’m going to put on Mascara.”
“I’m going to take off this tank top,” she said, either following my lead of ignoring the problem at hand or thinking that more of her cleavage could solve the situation as it has solved so many situations before.It was only when her tank top was half-off that the door flew open, revealing a concerned looking busboy and a small crowd of anxious, would-be bathroom goers.She quickly pulled up her straps.
“Uhhh…we heard the door move, we thought you might have needed...help?” The busboy looked embarrassed to have caught us in a passionate, door shaking, girl-on-girl bathroom tryst.
The Writer looked like she might try to explain, an event that could only make things worse (“No, see I was trying to get out, but couldn’t, and then I took off my shirt! Get it?”) so I gave her a shove, brightly said “Thanks!” and darted past the smirking on-lookers.
And then, with people still looking after us curiously, a sudden gust of air blew her skirt up. She screamed, clutched her ass and ran outside while I strolled, faux-casually, after her.
“So now we can never go back,” I explained to my Hetero friends.
They smiled. “Why not? I bet they’d love to have you back.”
“One drink and then we go,” I told The Writer as we crossed the street. “I don’t want to hang out here all night, all the men look like they wax their eyebrows.”
“So…we only have one mission – to find L. Lohan,” she said. And with a quick smirk I agreed and enforced the one drink policy.
“One drink,” she agreed, adjusting her cleavage for the eighth time. She had run into the age-old dilemma while getting ready: How much boob is too much boob? Trying to combine the best of both worlds, she was wearing an extremely low cut dress with a small tank top underneath. While I, wore a cute white summer lace baby doll dress.
We got into the club with an ease that can only be described as anticlimactic and two drinks later (like we ever actually have one drink) our egos were appeased. We were ready to meet up with our friends at a less pretentious club.
Making the requisite stop at the bathroom, we found it to be one of those single stall types and went in together. (The Writer and I are really good friends ;) and if you tell me you’ve never peed with any of your friends then I think you’re either lying or you are my mother.)
We were all set to leave, when we discovered we literally could not.She pulled, pushed and jiggled the handle but the door remained closed. She even smacked the wood a few times in an attempt to open the door through brute force, but it remained firm as I stood in the corner, helping no one by giggling uncontrollably.
“NYC.Lezie, what are we going to do?” she demanded.
Suddenly there were agitated voices outside the bathroom. I looked at her.“I can’t handle this right now,” I announced, turning to the mirror. “I’m going to put on Mascara.”
“I’m going to take off this tank top,” she said, either following my lead of ignoring the problem at hand or thinking that more of her cleavage could solve the situation as it has solved so many situations before.It was only when her tank top was half-off that the door flew open, revealing a concerned looking busboy and a small crowd of anxious, would-be bathroom goers.She quickly pulled up her straps.
“Uhhh…we heard the door move, we thought you might have needed...help?” The busboy looked embarrassed to have caught us in a passionate, door shaking, girl-on-girl bathroom tryst.
The Writer looked like she might try to explain, an event that could only make things worse (“No, see I was trying to get out, but couldn’t, and then I took off my shirt! Get it?”) so I gave her a shove, brightly said “Thanks!” and darted past the smirking on-lookers.
And then, with people still looking after us curiously, a sudden gust of air blew her skirt up. She screamed, clutched her ass and ran outside while I strolled, faux-casually, after her.
“So now we can never go back,” I explained to my Hetero friends.
They smiled. “Why not? I bet they’d love to have you back.”
you?? at Bungalo 8??
never woulda thought of that one...