That dirty old town.

Last night, Wych and I went out on the town. We drove down into the city about 6-ish, after Rocky begged out due to stomachy complaints. We took 9A down the island, looking for our exit to West Houston. Having discovered we'd somehow missed it by ten blocks due to lack of signage, we turned off and went back through downtown. All was peachy until some cop standing in the middle of a completely normal, nondescript lane refused to move and made us turn left instead of going straight. Now, this would normally not have been too huge a problem, except for the fact that we were then stuck on a one-way street-- that led directly into the Holland Tunnel.

Yeah. We had ourselves a nifty little side trip to Jersey. Wych had her parentally provided SpeedPass, and it really only took us 20 minutes to get turned around and back to Manhattan, but for fuck's sake. The toll on the Jersey side is six bleedin' dollars. I think that the reason the signage is so crappy in the Tri-State area is that they want everyone to mess up and have to pay more tolls.

Anyway, we got to the East Village without too much time lost, and found a parking spot after circling only three blocks, which in NYC is a bloody miracle. We then traipsed up to the Freedom Curatrix's boyfriend's cute and infinitesimally small apartment, where we picked up the aforementioned lady to go to dinner before the aforementioned boyfriend's show.

We went to Jeollato (anyone out there who knows Japanese: wtf? It looks like Spanish to me, but unless I somehow missed the anciently established Asian colony in Mexico, that's not the first language of anyone who works there), which is a fuckin' awesome sushi place that gives massive, massive portions. The only time I've had better unagi in my life is on Broadway in Seattle, and the prices were even reasonable. Hot damn!

We then went up to Plaid, the club at which the boyfriend (need a nickname... hmm... how 'bout... the Percussive Ad Master? Eh. Good 'nuff) and his band, the My Tvs, were playing.

I gotta say, I usually hate the emo/punk-scene kinda music, but they actually sounded damn good. I kept thinking that all the people from boyskissing would have loved to have been there, because... yeah. I really wanted the Percussive Ad Master and the frontman to make out, because they're both quite hot, but no dice, alas. Maybe next time-- must find some discreet way to suggest this to the Freedom Curatrix.

Wych got hit on (of course) by five guys who all dressed alike and knew each other, which was pretty sketch, but then four of them dropped away and left her to the attentions of the cutest of the bunch, Dan who worked in some bank and was actually quite friendly, if geeky. I think he realized that I was the chaperon for the night, and that pissing me off would hurt his chances. Ah, heterosexuals. Such silly creatures.

We left Plaid around 1:30 to head up to the VIP lounge at Suede (and what is it with NY clubs being named after types of fabric these days?), where the band apparently had a table reserved. Since both of us had been working all day, Wych and I elected to drive home after dropping off the other happy couple, because we were both too wiped out to stand up. Got home around 2:30, promptly crashed, and then awakened to a rather lovely springy day.

I'll be sad when this semester's over, but I can't wait for it either.

That dirty old town.

Last night, Wych and I went out on the town. We drove down into the city about 6-ish, after Rocky begged out due to stomachy complaints. We took 9A down the island, looking for our exit to West Houston. Having discovered we'd somehow missed it by ten blocks due to lack of signage, we turned off and went back through downtown. All was peachy until some cop standing in the middle of a completely normal, nondescript lane refused to move and made us turn left instead of going straight. Now, this would normally not have been too huge a problem, except for the fact that we were then stuck on a one-way street-- that led directly into the Holland Tunnel.

Yeah. We had ourselves a nifty little side trip to Jersey. Wych had her parentally provided SpeedPass, and it really only took us 20 minutes to get turned around and back to Manhattan, but for fuck's sake. The toll on the Jersey side is six bleedin' dollars. I think that the reason the signage is so crappy in the Tri-State area is that they want everyone to mess up and have to pay more tolls.

Anyway, we got to the East Village without too much time lost, and found a parking spot after circling only three blocks, which in NYC is a bloody miracle. We then traipsed up to the Freedom Curatrix's boyfriend's cute and infinitesimally small apartment, where we picked up the aforementioned lady to go to dinner before the aforementioned boyfriend's show.

We went to Jeollato (anyone out there who knows Japanese: wtf? It looks like Spanish to me, but unless I somehow missed the anciently established Asian colony in Mexico, that's not the first language of anyone who works there), which is a fuckin' awesome sushi place that gives massive, massive portions. The only time I've had better unagi in my life is on Broadway in Seattle, and the prices were even reasonable. Hot damn!

We then went up to Plaid, the club at which the boyfriend (need a nickname... hmm... how 'bout... the Percussive Ad Master? Eh. Good 'nuff) and his band, the My Tvs, were playing.

I gotta say, I usually hate the emo/punk-scene kinda music, but they actually sounded damn good. I kept thinking that all the people from boyskissing would have loved to have been there, because... yeah. I really wanted the Percussive Ad Master and the frontman to make out, because they're both quite hot, but no dice, alas. Maybe next time-- must find some discreet way to suggest this to the Freedom Curatrix.

Wych got hit on (of course) by five guys who all dressed alike and knew each other, which was pretty sketch, but then four of them dropped away and left her to the attentions of the cutest of the bunch, Dan who worked in some bank and was actually quite friendly, if geeky. I think he realized that I was the chaperon for the night, and that pissing me off would hurt his chances. Ah, heterosexuals. Such silly creatures.

We left Plaid around 1:30 to head up to the VIP lounge at Suede (and what is it with NY clubs being named after types of fabric these days?), where the band apparently had a table reserved. Since both of us had been working all day, Wych and I elected to drive home after dropping off the other happy couple, because we were both too wiped out to stand up. Got home around 2:30, promptly crashed, and then awakened to a rather lovely springy day.

I'll be sad when this semester's over, but I can't wait for it either.