How not to pull a number: TRYBE’S birthday week edition
“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.”
It’s hot as fuck on these streets. The sound of The City has been reduced to the hum of fire hydrants sprinkling water on every corner and the sizzle the Sun makes in this jungle of steel, brick, and concrete. We are in the middle of heat wave number seven out of two hundred and forty or so. My eyes are as fogged as a camera in a steam room giving me the perception only achieved by beer goggles at 3am. Everybody’s skin looks like they just came out of the gym or a very good porno. Girls searching for the skimpiest thing they could find have retired the leggings and reinvented the side boob. Gone are the daisy print one pieces and gladiator boots with a home-made jean vest that defined the spring. Those were replaced by jean shorts that look like panties and tops that were all shear or lace everything. Bras were no longer an option. I’ve seen more nipples this season than a quality inspector at Gerber’s baby bottle making division. The Jorts (home-made shorts from jeans) got shorter for the average hipster looking for an escape from the heat without giving up the skinny jeans and flannel. You would swear an army of moths and a huge bottle of Clorox Bleach invaded the city with all the rips and stains spotted on the collective t-shirts adorning the sweltering pavement. Water was the weather proof hustle. Street hoods that would usually sell candy on the train have now taken it to the many outdoor events with a water cooler. An air conditioner and cable tv at home made it easier for less attractive men to score with the local sevens and eights swarming to any bar with a yard and taco truck. The battle of make up was lost to wet hair and dripping sweat. It’s to hot to fuck or fight…
My nuts and I are in the middle of a divorce. The humidity has made us mortal enemies. I’m constantly peeling my scrotum off my inner thighs. The itch down theres was slowly becoming the Tell Tale Heart of my madness. Shaving annoyed them – Gold Bond viciously angered them. I lost count how many times I was eyed by some antsy undercover cop while adjusting my junk so it wouldn’t touch anything in my jeans that could generate heat. My dick was constantly trying to get me arrested. No gun officer, just a raging penis. This was the first summer I traded my hip hop sized jeans for the widely preferred Slim Fit and Skinnies. My balls did not enjoy having less floor space and responded with an itch that baffled baby powder and the doctor recommended Tenactin. At home I banned clothing and replaced it with multiple showers and standing over my air conditioner while fanning my balls. I would pray some nights wishing it was crabs and not the bitter Sun, at least you can get rid of crabs. The sun? Not going anywhere for now… Fuck my life.
I remember being behind the stage at Webster hall thinking to myself this can’t be life. All the black Sara Lee was wearing was making me melt in rave juice and sticky beer. I could have sworn I came here to see Anoorak but all I see is that one dude from MSTRKRFT. His DJ set is breaking the thermostat. Amazing show, but I couldn’t tell. So.Much. Haze. The audience looked like one sweaty blur. People didn’t dance as much as slip off one another and everyone looked like a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest. Fuck, the things I would have done for a swimming pool. Then I remembered hearing about the latest exclusive watering hole called Le Bain. Le Bain was located on the thirty something floor of The Standard hotel in Manhattans Meat-Packing district. It also had a pool, and a strict door guarding it. Then I remembered Ian Cogneto worked the door on certain nights. Ian is a friend.
“Guess what I’m doing on Tuesday?”
Sarah lee wipes the sweat off her forehead
Tuesday nights is also the RANDO, a weekly party purely based on the idea that you’ll never know what can happen there. Art school girls from SVA mingling with upper east side goons from Dalton and black kids in Mishka hats trading blunts with fashion types from LA. Gallery bar is like a variety pack of night-lifers in Costco bulk sizes. Shirts are taken of like inhibitions after prom night. There’s always more than one party photographer there and a rotating assortment of host and DJ’s to keep it consistently interesting. Located in a seedy basement, the rage turned up to ten, Dances With White Girls has the crowd swinging off the pipes that aligned the ceilings. A bump here and a spilled drink there and you left with a night you didn’t remember but the stains on your shoes told you it was fun. I used to host it back when the party first started, which was an honor, but let’s just say Kathy Griffin put the kibosh on that one.
Trybe is in the middle of his birthday week celebration. Theo is in town from LA. Tuesday night is a guaranteed stop on the party parade for my PPP clan. Fuck me again. There is no way I can bring the whole crew to Le Bain. I mean I probably can, but I don’t like risking things like that plus my biggest pet peeve in the world are people who hassle door men. If I’m not wanted in your venue I won’t even let you finish rejecting me before I’m in a cab to the next spot. When you are a party it doesn’t matter where you party. Now I know I’m a shoe in, but my PPP gang has only one female member and she’s in the Hampton’s. A bunch of dudes drunk on other people’s booze and smoked out on dust hardly makes for qualifying candidates to enter what could be the modern-day Studio 54. A Studio 54 with a pool. Any other day I would have said fuck it and just rolled with my clique, but it was hotter than Arizona in the middle of a heat wave in the center of hell. Plus I had already packed my ultra small neon swimming trunks and I hate not using the stuff I bring out with me. It’s going to have to happen, fuck it I’m selfish.
Pulling a number is also known as the Irish Goodbye. It’s the art of leaving anything or anyone without saying good-bye or any indication of leaving. It’s also technically the rudest shit in the world. Sometimes I wonder how I even keep friends considering I pull those often along with my not being a fan of phone calls or “hey what’s up?” text messages. Lucky for me I’m in an occupation that requires me to be anywhere at any given time. Most of my friends understand and forgive, but there are a few people who don’t know what I do. Since I prefer discretion and every second counts, I use these time-tested techniques:
“Excuse me I have to, make a phone call, use the bathroom, smoke a cigarette, talk to that guy, save a panda, park my car.”
Well everything but the last two are usually true. Once I hear the OK slip out of your lips I’m gone. If this was a Road Runner cartoon all you would have heard was “beep-beep”. If you’re lucky you’ll read a Twitter as to where I went next. Odds are I’m having way to much fun to twitter anyway so you would be out of luck in finding me. I’m sorry, it just beez like that sometimes.
Trybe and Theo are not having it.
Everyone is outside of Gallery Bar trying to plan the next move. The bouncer is trying to micro manage the cigarette smokers in a chatty and rambunctious mode. I’m trying to spot an opening where I can slip into a cab with no one seeing me. Someone is passing around a dust blunt. Half of the eyes on me are starting to slouch to the floor. Perfect. I shoot towards Delancey on a whim. DAMN IT, Heather spots me as she’s walking towards RANDO and stops to introduce me to all her friends. I totally forgot I invited her there. She ready to party in full force with a group of ladies any gambler from Atlantic City wouldn’t mind having in some decadent limo. Now all the guys I’m trying to ditch want to meet them.
” Yadda meet yadda meet yadda meet yaddda yadda yadda oh shit, wait I gotta take this call…”
“Oh no you don’t OJ where are you going?”
Trybe with his baritone old school New York cabbie voice yanks me back into the group by the collar. I look like a fish out of water, flapping aimlessly on a deck trying to come up with excuses. Trybe is from from the Boroughs of Queens and can see right through me. Fine. I tell Trybe and without hesitation he points to his car, Old Besty. Now all the girls want to come. Same and Remo, oblivious to whats going on randomly pull a number on us and leave in a yellow cab. Those bastards!!! Those two were way to edgy to party anyway. The group is now smaller and manageable. This is starting to look possible. Now it’s seven of us packed into a four door with the ratio in favor of the men. It takes about tw0 songs into the drive until Trybe is feeding us the latest Action Bronson track. It’s so ninety’s in the whip right now… This might work. And it does.
Le Bain is like entering a glamorous 80’s era movie set. If it isn’t the gold or silver plating it’s some Italian marble adoring the floor and walls of this swanky hotel lounge. The crowd is Fashion Week beautiful and the view from the floor to ceiling windows is immaculate and breath-taking. Mike Nouveau is DJing is fashion set to a very upscale black Amex and Hipster crowd. All the girls look like Michell Phifer in Scarface and none are wearing proper pool attire. The bouncers look like off duty secret service agents. Everyone in my party has a OMG look on their face with their jaws dropped on some blondes Louboutins. Before anyone can say a word I’m already in my really short swimming trunks cannonballing into a pool filled with homosexuals and fashionistas. The bouncer is none too pleased.
My balls on the other hand, breathe a sign of relief and are having an excellent time. Best night ever.