I’m wincing as I type this not because our friend was nice enough to invite us here for her birthday, but because I’m about to annihilate it. It’s not to say the evening wouldn’t have been perfectly lovely if some Upper East Side high school Lolita didn’t steal Ms. Hipster’s I.D. out of her purse. That’s right, folks. Not her money, not her plastic, not the beautiful wallet or even her purse, but her one piece of personal property that would be useful, say, some kid to pass herself off as an adult of drinking age. Up to that point of discovering the theft the place wasn’t terrible (despite being packed and very, very young). Afterwards, I might as well have poured 151 over my head and struck a match. So my theory was that a young opportunistic girl with a friend waiting outside without proper identification saw her chance, took it, and walked outside with the i.d. to get her friend in. So I went to the bouncer and made the mistake of telling him my theory. He turned a menacing eye towards me and said, “There are absolutely NO underage people in this bar!” Stifling laughter–and in my drunken beer muscle way–I said something to the effect of, “You’re shitting me, right?” I’ve come very close to being punched by guys bigger than him. Just as he was about to unleash, a gaggle of girls with unlit cigarettes in their hands tumbled out of the bar talking about My Pretty Pony and Smurfs and shit. I gave him a knowing glance and snarled, “Just keep an eye out, okay, buddy?” After my completely fictional back-and-forth, I headed back inside and spent the rest of the time watching smoke rise out of TPQ’s ears. I asked the clueless chick bartenders to look out for any suspicious looking young women waving around hot plastic, and even thought about grabbing the mic away from the dj in order to threaten and cajole and smoke the little brat out of her hole. Alas, it was not to be, and the little lady had to go down to Avenue D one afternoon to file a police report and then another afternoon at the DMV to replace the stupid i.d. All in all, the place could have been the Scores of kiddy lounges, and the night still would have sucked because of one spoiled jerk who just couldn’t wait another year to drink a woo-woo. [MF]
29 E 3rd St.