Hey asshole, this post's for you!
So this should be the story of how I went to a club in New York City to see my cousin the rock star and his awesome friends, who are also rock stars play rock star music. But unfortunately this is about how I was poisoned by an Indian and almost got my boyfriend date raped. If you don't feel like reading all the way to the end I will skip to the moral of the story: if you are playing vacation roulette, don't, I repeat do not go to NYC. Go to Nebraska where shit like this just doesn't happen. Unless you are a cow. In which case I would normally suggest that you go to Bombay where cows are sacred so they pretty much they don't get poisoned or date raped, but this is apparently a breeding ground for purveyors of poison and boyfriend rapers, so I don't know what to tell you. Just pitch a tent in the backyard and stay the eff home I guess.
It all started when I won these awesome Miley Cyrus pants on eBay. I was actually looking for a new video camera to replace the one I accidentally broke last summer on my annual pilgrimage to the Provincetown Massachusetts Fourth of July fisherman/transvestite parade . (The moral of that story is don't drink martinis for breakfast when you have to film important things while wearing a feather boa and running down the street in four inch chunky heels.) eBay just has this awesome, almost magical way of saying 'if you like flip cameras, then you will probably also like these Miley Cyrus branded leopard skin legging pants that can be worn by your daughter. Or even you.' eBay, you had me at Miley. Remarkably, I was the only bidder and scored those bad boys
tout de suite.
Now I was pretty much planning on going to the record release party in the Big Apple anyway, but with an outfit cornerstone like that, I was ALL IN BABY. Cinderella had something to wear to the ball. Eff you What Not to Wear. Who died and made you king of the wardrobe world anyhow? You so CAN be like 40 and dress like you're in junior high. The legacy of my French ancestors marrying their cousins for 400 years was not just a severely effed up nose, but also a body that never grows bigger than a size 2. I will continue to eat as much fried cheese as a digestive system can take and get facial surgery so I can pass for a prepubescent boy until the end of my days thank you very much. Keep sending those extra small legging pants my way baby.
So fast forward to the show which was filled with much awesomeness. Seeing something like that almost restores my faith in the youth of today to actually create things that don't suck. Highlights included rocking out to the live version of the song my cousin wrote about his cat, just about anything these guys played (when like everyone in the band is playing a guitar how can you possibly go wrong?) and seeing live and in-person that it really is possible to play a maraca and a keyboard at the same time (now that's a skill you don't see every day; well done Sweden for growing something like Buvette). Good friends, good times. good margaritas. Rock.
Now ideally that's where this story would happily end. But the universe had other plans. Open the worm hole and jump in. Cause that's EXACTLY what I did. After the show ended every.single.person.I.knew.went.outside.to.smoke.a.cigarette. Even the non-smokers. Which, in retrospect, should have been my queue to exit stage left and go with. But no, I had to be the hero and wait inside.
Enter stage right normal looking man and friend who I would later learn hail from Bombay India.
Date Rapist: Hi. Great show wasn't it? What are you drinking?
Me (known as ' TIV' <aka The Intended Vic'> from this point forward): I was drinking a margarita but now I'm just waiting for my friends to stop smoking things outside so I can go back to my hotel. I may look like I can roll with the big boys in these pre-adolescent legging pants, but I think I'm pretty much the only person here old enough to have been fully potty trained in 1986 and it's about half a mile past my bedtime. It's like almost midnight and I SO had my heart set on earning the FourSquare badge for checking in after 3 AM on a school night it looks like I'm just gonna have to snag that bad boy by getting up extra early one day next week instead.
Date Rapist: Will you let me buy you a drink while you wait?
TIV: You're not a serial killer are you?
Date Rapist: <flashes perfect teeth smile>No. </smile> Of course not.
Now this is where I am going to give some very lawyerly advice. Always take your line of questioning to the last stop on the line. What I SHOULD have done was hand him a card with check any and all boxes that apply to you written on it:
Are you a:
___serial killer
___stranger that is going to ask me to carry a gift or package onto an airplane
___pyramid schemer
___roofie holding date rapist
___other (please elaborate)
I work in effng marketing. I should know enough to carry a survey around with me to effing learn about the psycho-graphic of every new visitor to my IRL. But hindsight is for assholes. We all know that.
So, you guessed it, long story even longer. Date rapist and his friend wanted to procure said beverage not at the bar that I was two feet away from, but rather the top secret super crowded bar that was upstairs and eons away from the door and all things known to me. Now I know exactly what you are going to think about what I am going to say next. That either I am an effing idiot or that I had been harboring a secret desire to be gang raped by a team of Indians while under the influence of home grown Rohyponl. Wake up people, that shit only happens in the movies.
Date Rapist number two: Look over there at the dance floor. People are really getting down.
TIV: Where?
Date Rapist number two: Over there <pointing>. Oh look, your drink is ready now.
<date rapists practically give each other a high five with their eyes as I take a sip of the poisoned apple, um I mean margarita>
Now I'm not awesome at reading into people's intentions by looking at visual cues, but something in my lizard brain just started screaming the test of the emergency broadcast system sound only it wasn't a test.
TIV: I think I need to go find my friends now.
Date Rapists: No. Stay here with us. We can dance. And stuff.
TIV: No, I really need to go. Right now.
And so I went. And they followed. There must be a god because as soon as I descended the stairway I saw my Spanish boyfriend frantically scanning the crowd looking for me and my Miley Cyrus pants. He gets nervous because when I am out of his sight for too long I usually come back with a broken camera or nose or something and finding me quickly is his best bet at loss mitigation.
TIV: Boy am I glad to see you. I was just having a drink with blah blah and blah blah blah. They are from Bombay India.
Spanish Boyfriend: Then why are you the only one drinking?
<The date rapists give each other the high five eyes again>
Date Rapist: I would LOVE to buy you a drink, too buddy. Come on upstairs with me. What are you drinking?
Spanish Boyfriend: Um, no I don't think so. We have to go. Now.
So he took the poisoned drink out of my hand, put it down and took me to the corner where we managed to get a taxi to stop and let us in. Pretty much as soon as I got into the cab the lights went out. Eyes rolling back into my head, the whole nine yards. Now this would be explainable if I had, say, twelve margaritas while watching the show. But I had two. Plus a sip or so of a third. Now even though I have the frame of Napoleon's smaller half-sister I'm proud to say I can hold my liquor a little better than that. It takes more than 2.1 drinks to put me under the table.
So pretty much by the time the cab brought us a couple miles down the road I was in a state where my boyfriend basically had to provide a full blown assist to get me out of the car. In the fracas, I left behind my cute little matching purse. The purse that had all of the cash we brought to New York, along with my ID and only bank card I had with me. Oh yeah, and my Blackberry. And camera. Now normally my Spanish boyfriend holds all of these things for me. Because I suck like that. And he knows it and takes care of me. That's the kind of co-dependence that is the very foundation of modern day successful relationships. But on this particular night I just HAD to bring a cute little purse. Because it matched my Miley Cyrus pants. And I wanted to be a big girl and fill my purse with important things. The kind of things that grownups carry with them. Like Blackberries and money and cameras. Fortunately he noticed my purse was missing almost as soon as we hit the sidewalk. Unfortunately the cab had already sped off.
My awesome boyfriend heroically chased the cab for as long as he could, waving his arms like a mad man and shouting expletives in Spanish. Because we were in New York, no one cared or even noticed this erratic-enough-for-police-to-be-called-anywhere-else-in-America behavior. Fortunately, he was smart enough to not let me put his cell phone in my cute purse so he was able to call my MIA device within seconds. Seconds too late that is.
Thieving Cab Driver: Hello
Spanish Boyfriend: Thank god you answered. My girlfriend forgot her purse in your. Can you bring it back to 52 William Street? We'll pay you extra.
Thieving Cab Driver: <with the same voice/accent as the Slurpee guy from the Simpsons> I don't know what you're talking about. I am not a cab driver.
Now as awesome as my boyfriend is, he has this hot Spanish blood that pretty much hit the boiling point at that precise moment in time. I think he was using six or possibly seven (if you count pig latin) languages, to berate the hell out of the asshole who basically put the last straw on the back of this camel of a night. Any shot of negotiating a release of the hostage was pretty much a pipe dream at this point. We called and called and called again. No one ever answered. I spent the next hour cancelling bank cards, sending emails to the guy at work who is in charge of issuing Blackberries, and wondering how we were going to get the Jetta out of a New York City parking garage without the benefit of money or a credit card. (Hat tip to Bank of America for believing in me enough to allow me to withdraw funds from my account with a double pinky swear that I am who I say I am. Your bank does not suck. I don't care what anybody else says about you.)
So the next day when my cousin called to see if I was still in the City and if I wanted to hang out I told him my long, sad story and that no, I was pretty much done with New York for a while and that he did great and would have much success in the future and that I was glad and it was totally worth losing everything in the world that mattered to me to be a part of history like that. He started apologizing pretty profusely and saying he wished he could make it up to me and it was very cute but not very rock star-ish. 'Great', I said to myself 'Now this ordeal is going to turn my cousin from an awesomely cool rock star with a girl in every port into a sensitive asexual music teacher. I need to do something. Quick.'
Me: Dom Don't worry. Really. Just write a song about it.
Dom: A song?
Me: Yeah. Everything happens for a reason, right? I think all of this happened so you can write the world's most awesome song about New York. Like the one Frank Sinatra sang only better.
So there you have it. This bad boy just might have a happy ending. And perhaps the Behind the Music inspiration for the best song written about New York. Ever.
I know world. You're welcome.
Posted by Jennifer at 4/3/2010 7:45 AM 
Categories: Stupid shit that only happens to me and a lot of other people too
Tags: this should serve as a warning to all of mankind the longest blog post ever hey asshole why don't you return my effing camera
Categories: Stupid shit that only happens to me and a lot of other people too
Tags: this should serve as a warning to all of mankind the longest blog post ever hey asshole why don't you return my effing camera
I don't care how old you are, or how sophisticated you (think) you are, I will always worry about you,and I will always love you.
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Thanks Mom. For saying I'm sophisticated. And old.
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