2002:May:2
formerly
'le vie c'est tres droll'
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LOTS has happened since my last blog.
MAINLY: my rough draft of my advertising portfolio c'est fini. Which is a huge mutha fukin relief. Oh Happy Almost Mothers Day Mom. We celebrated the end of my class at Rolf's German American which is fine drinking (if you like your hefeweissen) and dining (if you like your schnitzel weinered) and fake leaf decor (if you like your leafen faken). It's great. I'd almost go so far as to say it kicks Hallo Berlin's ass, but as Hallo Berlin is the self-deprecatingly proclaimed "Wurst Restaurant in NYC" - how could it not?
I logged a great many hours on aforementioned portfolio at the source of all good in the world - Happy Robot USA Central. I have to say that those robot people are very generous and patient with their technological capabilities und their helpful suggestions. Thanks to the Robot/Sanchez family my portfolio kicked ass. Long live the Happy Robot!
Que mas?
My old friend Paul just turned 30 (so I do mean old) and celebrated the occasion at the very classy Brighton Beach Ruskie nightclub the Monte Carlo. Vodka had been flowing for hours by the time i got there with my posse. It's a 24/7 bar mitzvah at the Monte Carlo, complete with hors d'orves a plenty, russian techno-pop live entertainment, someone's Dad with a video camera, a conga line (led by yours truly until I got behind a waiter), the hora, Paul held up by everyone on a chair in the middle of the dance floor, God-awful decor - black mirrors, fake flowers, and pink panelling oh my!, a babuska in the ladies room, and strange wasted regulars fighting.
In fact there seemed to be a table rivalrly of sorts between the two sides of the restaurants. It was a regular war between the have-had-too-much to-drinks and the have-nots. One woman in particular had mixed her chocolate with her peanut butter (so to speak - more specifically she seemed to have mixed her meds with her vodka) and was completely out of control. She kept grabbing everyone to dance in an unpredictable wild twirling and grinding sort of style. As my father taught me how to dance, I recoginzed it immediately. But as the night wore on, she began to jump and leap at her partners and sort of bow down in front of them precariously close to their crotches. While dancing with a bearded man from the "other side" of the room, one of the have-nots, she made a couple jumps at him. She was no tiny dancer either. Finally, he got fed up, caught her mid jump, hoisted her onto his back like a big flying airplane and carried her back to her side. His faction clapped but boy was her husband pissed. She, of course, had no idea what happened.
At the end of the night, the conga line waiter turned to me and said, "Russian restaurant good, no?"
Spasiba to Paul.
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