Crime Scene

Don’t fret.  It’s a bar, not a real crime scene.  Although, as Mel tweeted the morning after, “It was definitely a crime to have that many annoying guys in one place.”

True that, girlfriend.

When we arrived at this small, dark East Village bar and lounge, it wasn’t overly packed, which gave us some incentive to stay.  Usually, when we walk into a spot that has reached a certain capacity, we exchange quick glances, and walk right back out.  After all, the last thing you want in a bar is a place to get groped accidentally-on-purpose…“Oh sorry, it’s just crazy crowded in here.  So…can I get you a drink?

After getting our first round, we headed into the lounge area, which was just a slightly raised dance floor at the back of the bar, surrounded by couches.  We attempted to perch on the edge of a sofa, but it was as if it had some type of special power that forced you to sink backwards and lay paralyzed, two feet deep in the crease.  As we watched a group of rowdy college-y looking guys that appeared to be celebrating a birthday, I silently wondered how many people in the past had thrown up on the cushion I was sitting on.  Weird thought?

Anyways, there was one guy in particular that caught our eye.  He was a very enthusiastic lone dancer (with an extra-large ‘fro) in that way where you’re not sure if you should applaud his bold decision to dance alone in the middle of the floor beckoning for others to join him, or just be very, very worried.  After about five minutes of watching his Vogue/Michael Jackson-esque moves, we decided he was harmless and probably just having a good time.

Let me update you on the capacity of Crime Scene at this point.  It had become packed in the course of about ten minutes.  Really, really packed, and if I hadn’t already had a strong drink, I might’ve suggested we leave.  But no, the vodka was starting to kick in, so we got another drink from the bar and headed to the dance floor, which is not my forte, but what the hell, you don’t care about that when you’re drunk.

Here’s where the fun begins.  Mr. Enthusiastic Dancer enthusiastically skirted over to us, while the DJ spun Black Eyed Peas.  Surprisingly, he had a very thick french accent.

“Vould you please dance with me?” He asked.  “I’m from France.”

Mel and I both politely shook our heads, telling him “We’re having a girls night.”

Isn’t that the oldest excuse in the book?

His next course of action was to target us, one at a time.  “Parlez-vous francais?” He asked Mel. She replied “No, but my roommate does!”

Don’t worry, I got her back for that pretty quickly.

He came over to me and started speaking french phrases that only people who are beginners would speak.  I know this, because I (and Mel!) understood everything he said.  I quickly pointed at Mel and said, “You know, she’s the dancer, not me.  She danced for Disney!”

She gave me a death stare.

“You american girls are breaking my heart!” He slurred.  At this point, if I hadn’t been drunk, I would have realized his whole french thing was totally fake.  He even pulled the “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?” on Mel.  No one from France actually says that, come on.

Finally, a bouncer came over and asked, “Do you want me to kick him out?”

Oddly, that seemed a little extreme at the time (I can’t recall why…), so we declined but told him to keep an eye out.  We quickly darted to the other side of the dance floor, hoping to escape.  Finally, Mr. Enthusiastic Dancer/Fake French Romancer got the hint and started to ruin some other poor girl’s night.

Unfortunately, we had put ourselves in yet another target zone.  Within just a few moments, two cartoon-like boys with identical floppy curly hair placed themselves directly in front of us, and succeeded admirably in the art of annoyance for the next twenty minutes.  Again, I tried using the same line “We’re having a girls night,” to which one of them replied (but I can’t be sure which one, because they looked exactly the same, although they continued to claim they weren’t related), “But aren’t girls’ nights so much better with guys?!”

After narrowly escaping our second encounter, we finally got some good dancing time in, but still, Crime Scene, even with its novelty chalk outlines of bodies on the floor, couldn’t make up for the crowd it brought in.

We left around 12:45 and got Artichoke Pizza which, besides the painful burn I received on the roof of my mouth, was much more satisfying.  Now that we’re on the subject of pizza burns, I’d like to end with a recent SNL quote…

“A professor at the University of New Mexico has developed a dissolvable mouth strip that can relieve the pain caused when a person burns the top of their mouth eating pizza. Finally, a scientific alternative to waiting a minute….Just wait a minute! One minute.”

It’s so hard, though, isn’t it?

2 responses to “Crime Scene”

  1. I like this one Elena, good descriptions. I can’t imagine how lame it must be having random guys come on to you wherever you are. What they share is nerve and that doesn’t particularly qualify them as potential partners for the evening but I bet that having nerve probably means that their type is over represented in the gene pool and therefore guys must be getting increasingly obnoxious over the centuries.

    So much for us ‘sensitive types’ who can’t make their gentle voices heard over the music.


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