The Life of an Attention Whore

Monday, January 14, 2008

Mirage: An observation Long Island

Last week was quite possibly one of the longest weeks of my life. Honestly I bitch all the time about not sleeping and working too much, blah blah blah etc. I complain so much I'm sick of hearing myself complain. Anyway last week I went on mission "kill myself" and opted to work every shift available to me in addition to going out almost every night. By the time Thursday night rolled around I had only gotten 7 hours of sleep since Monday but somehow Jacque talked me into going out to Mirage, a club/lounge/shithole in Long Island. (I'll be fair though, by shithole I mean the ambience not the actual venue)


First of all, for those of you who know me, you know I hate Hate HATE the long island life style. Juicy Sweatsuits, Uggs, Coach Bags, blow outs, waxed eyebrows and wardrobes consisting solely of Diesel and Ed Hardy is about as enticing to me as participating in 2 girls 1 cup. Nonetheless, I agreed to try out this new place since I hadn't hung out with Jacque in a few months. Plus I couldn't miss the opportunity to revel in the caricatures that are the residents of the lands east of New York City.


On the car ride to Mirage I kept yawning and making feeble attempts to carry on a normal conversation with Jacque. Unfortunately due to my lack of sleep, I was unable to finish thoughts and most of my monologues went something like this, "I was talking to my boss/manager/coworker the other day and the funniest thing happened. He/she was like....uhh wait..... what was I talking about again?" Quite honestly, I don't remember a single thing Jacque said either. I'm a really good friend. After 20 minutes of this Jaque turned to me and said "I hope someone hits on you tonight. If any guy talks to you they're going to think you're retarded." That being said, I'd probably still be 10 IQ points higher than most of the girls we would be encountering that night.

As we pulled up to the club, Jacque and I took note of the outfits of people entering the club. Most of the guys were wearing full suits, a sign that most of them were underage and not confident of being able to gain entry. The girls were dressed up in the typical Long Island JAP uniform - a short dress inadquately covering legs that could use a few more days a week at the gym and borderline hooker heels that allow for shuffling across floors like a Geisha. If they weren't dressed up for the JAP parade, they were wearing outfits to flaunt their "assets" or at least make up for the fact that someone had beat the shit out of them with the ugly stick.

Regardless of our clear violation of the "no t-shirts" clause clearly displayed above the entrance to the club, Jacque and I got in without a problem, and decided to do a lap around the venue. As we passed one of the bars a guy who looked like Steve Beuscemi in a wind tunnel with fetal alcohol syndrome stopped us and asked if we would do him a favor and wish his friend a happy birthday, since "It's his birthday and it would really make his day if two pretty girls wished him a happy birthday." Not seeing the harm in this Jacque and I awkwardly wished the guy a happy birthday and realized we had trapped ourselves in what would quickly develop into a very awkward conversation. The guys told us about their lives as law students although they had already established themselves through successful jewelry businesses. Right. And I'm Oprah in disguise posing as a hostess to do an expose on what life is like for the little people.


Anyway, seeing as they were already independently wealthy, I was inclined to feel less guilty about having them buy us a few drinks. After a few minutes when the drinks ran dry, Jacque and I coincidentally felt the need to go to the bathroom so we departed from the law student/millionaires and took a lap around the club, and eventually ended up on the dance floor.

Now as much as I'm going to bitch about the people in this club, I will give the club one major endorsement. Their DJ was amazing. The dance floor is on a lower level than the bars, and large screens hung on the perimeter of the dancefloor playing music videos. I realized the DJ was syncing his music mixes with the videos that were playing over the dance floor which I have to say was very impressive.


Jacque and I took to a corner of the dance floor lightly moving to the music, but quickly darting our eyes around the crowd. On the "stage" there were two girls dancing who couldnt've been more than 17 years old, holding beers - which was evidently their favorite drink judging by the status of their "six packs". However the gel on the blow out (you know...like the icing on the cake) was that these girls were dressed like low rent escorts in pink felt and white faux fur santa skirts that succeeded in covering only the lower half of their muffin tops and even worse, we later discovered they were the "models for the event." The entire sight was made even more entertaining by the fact they were dancing like strippers with cerebral palsy. Only able to scar my eyes with that sight for a limited amount of time, Jacque and I resumed dancing, while continuing our people watching.

As I looked around at people dancing I suddenly had a moment of deja vu. I hazily danced with Jacque trying to remember when I had seen this situation before when it came to me in 3 words. My New Haircut. (watch it) All around me guys were doing the speed bag-boxing dance, and for some reason the girls were loving it. At this point, I dragged Jacque off the dance floor and made her get a drink with me because if she was going to subject me to this crap, I needed to at least be drunk. Fortunately for me, the combination of lack of sleep, lack of food, and alcohol created a situation in which a few drink and shots) got me on a level of inebriation high enough to endure a Long Island night out.

After a few minutes more on the dance floor, we decided to go outside to the courtyard to cool off aka inhale copious amounts of second hand smoke. Not 30 seconds after we had gone outside, Beuscemi 2 appeared next to us stole my drink, took a sip, and handed it back to me. "I feel like after we hung out a little while before, I know you pretty well now, and we're friends like where we can share drinks." I stared at him blankly, brought my eyes down to my drink, and told Jacque I was cold and needed to go back inside, where I promptly left the drink on a ledge, and bought a new one. Beucemism might be contagious.


By the time I finished my fourth drink, I was feeling drunk enough to dance, so we took to the dance floor again. I really don't remember much (or at least I'll claim not to) but by the end of the night I was drunkenly grinding on a bunch of random guys on the dance floor, who fortunately didn't inadvertently knock me out with the boxer-esque dance moves. Fuckin' skanks. I hate Long Island. But alcohol makes any situation appear just a little bit better. Kind of like a mirage.

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