My girl Bartok’s in town and after our group of friends consumed half a liter of sake and two bottles of champagne, our evening was off to a promising start. Around 2 A.M., after we all got bored of watching YouTube videos while inebriating ourselves, we decided it might be appropriate to detach our asses from the couch, detach the liquor from our hands, and actually do something of theoretical worth with our evening.

Everyone tossed around plans, and shot them down, texted our friends already out and looked up addresses of where they were on the web. We’d settled on an acceptable game plan when half of our friends realized it was Saturday night (they’d been under the impression it was Sunday this whole time) and we had to start the whole planning pow-wow again, keeping the fact that it was unfortunately a weekend in mind.

Weekends equal crowds.

Weekends equal competition for cabs.

Weekends equal Sixth Avenue traffic.

Somehow we ended up at opening night of what someone claimed was a “new” New York nightclub, The Madison, where there was an IMG Modeling Agency party. Gross. But our guy friend insisted on attending.

Inside the bowels of The Madison, which by the way is large and cavernous like the old school clubs of the 70s, I remembered that drunk and baby-model-drunk are two completely different levels of inebriation. I found myself surrounded by sloppy, sloppy, sloppy baby-model-drunks and the perverted modelphiles that stalk them. There was no escape. I couldn’t even maneuver myself to an empty area, because this club had no empty areas. The entire situation made a Thursday at Pink Elephant look classy.

That’s saying a lot.




I spent most of my time trying not to get drowned in vodka as PR’s on top of tables would occasionally let it rain down Kettle One on the eager, open-mouthed baby models below. I watched in disgusted awe as the models then slithered around with one another in a group orgy, as they were too wasted to properly pair off and grind. And I guess this kind of behavior’s to be somewhat expected when waltzing into a club full of seventeen-year-olds at 2:30 A.M., I guess I just thought considering it was their agency party and therefore theoretically a work event, people might have stopped drinking when they could no longer see straight.

WRONG.

After we planted our coats down in the least violated area available, I realized we’d landed at the boys’ section of the dance floor. I was dead center in the middle of a male model cluster. While amusing, this kind of situation is not enjoyable. None of these chiseled hotties were a day over twenty-two. Most were socially awkward and impressively bad dancers. Many floated through the crowd lost, aimless, unable to talk or even move their mouths. I think most of them would’ve been relieved if their mother suddenly showed up from Germany, grabbed their hand, and escorted them to the nearest exit for fresh air. And half of these guys were wearing flannel.

Newsflash! Apparently, 90s flannel is back. I was outraged that my friends had forced me to dawn a dress for this event. Clearly, if I had worn flats and assembled a grungy Seattle look I might have had a chance at blending in. As I mulled over this thought, an ano-baby-male model abducted me with what was apparently the club’s outdoor red velvet rope, which he was using as a leash. Having swung the rope over my head and down to my waist, he thrust me toward him, forcing us to dance. Then he reached the rope over Bartok’s head and drew her in as well. Once he realized we weren’t seventeen and on ecstasy, he let us go.

Trying to make the best of the situation, Bartok and I picked favorites. I liked a scruffy, blonde, greasy-haired model in jeans and a green t-shirt, who could have easily passed for Christian Bale’s younger brother. His arms were hugely muscular without being obnoxious and he was tall but not skinny. He wasn’t dancing, which was much appreciated, and looked like he could still probably recite the alphabet without having to pause or ask for help. All signs pointed to that he might be an okay time. Then a fat chick, presumably his booker, suddenly started trying to make out with him. She succeeded in getting one kiss. Disgusted, Christian Bale-boy quickly fled the premises, returning twenty minutes later on the other side of the table. I guess he thought he’d escaped, but the fatty found him again soon thereafter. Sad story.

The other male of note was a flannel wearing James Dean look-alike. At first I couldn’t decide whether he was hot or not. He seemed like the sexy Mexican plumber type who’d guest star on a show like Passions. Then we ended up sitting side by side on a banquet couch, me to rest my feet, him to enjoy a cigarette, and I realized he’s the face of at least a dozen city billboards, I’m thinking Hugo Boss. He had the dark hair and eyes I appreciated and I found myself wildly attracted to him, even hoping that we might dance (gasp! Gross, I know).

We were wearing almost identical brown bracelets (yes, this guy was hot enough to pull off flannel and man jewelry) so I tried to use this as a conversation starter. I got shut down. Then he stood up and it became evident that he could barely walk. I bumped into him ten minutes later and he fervently gripped my shoulders and asked:

“Where’s the Danish guy? Where is he? ”

I guess they’d lost a younger, Danish, baby boy model they were supposed to be chaperoning.

“There’s a Danish guy over there,” I said pointing one of my friends who is Danish, “but I don’t think that’s who you’re looking for.”

“No. No it’s not,” he admitted sadly. He seemed heartbroken.

We proceeded to have a brief conversation in which I learned his name and that he was from Amsterdam. Then a very feisty baby girl model wearing what looked like a backless thong as a top, grabbed my shoulder, shoved me off Amsterdam James Dean cartoon style, and started grinding with him.

Possessive. I get it.

I think she was on E.

I realized I was officially in Hell.

Models too drunk to find their coats had taken out their aggression by vigorously flinging our jackets around as hard as they could. Nice. Somehow we recouped all our belongings, and with my feet soaked in vodka, I managed to stomp out there before the 4 A.M. last call with some dignity. James Dean and I said bye on my way out.

As we’d anticipated at the beginning of the evening, Sunday later proved to be
a much better night.