It's in the Jane Street Hotel.
The hotel (*actually called the Riverview) is an old SRO that currently houses near-homeless old people, junkies, and the occasional unfortunate tourist that happens to book it accidentally through Orbitz or Expedia, lured in by the "in the heart of the charming West Village" tagline. During the day you can see its residents hanging out on the front steps, all looking a little comatose and like maybe they're not 100%. Their mouths hang open and they just stare forward.... I don't know if it's drink or drugs, or maybe PTSD. One day I saw a guy there with no legs, in a wheelchair, and he was talking about 'Nam and how the government fucked him over. The older black gentleman sitting on the steps seemed to be listening to him intently, but I think maybe he was dead. And now, housed in the basement of this fabulous hotel, is Socialista (pronounced soh-sha-LEES-taaahhhhhhh).
The key to getting in seems to be how you look. The girls all wear a little black dress, and giggle. The guys all dress like they're in Cuba: Dickies-type pants, t-shirt or embroidered button-down short-sleeve shirts, and a Cuban hat. Oh yes, a CUBAN. HAT. Those fucking hats. And the thing is, as they stand outside waiting to get in, they start to ACT like they're in Cuba... the guys talk in a faux accent and start to change their body movements and the way that they stand... they slouch in a sultry, it's-too-hot-these-days way (it's 58 degrees outside).... they hit each other in the arm and laugh really, really loud.. TOO loud. It's a testosterone-filled laugh that feels a bit like a competition. And lined up on the street outside are limos and SUV's with tinted windows, a driver seated in each, waiting for their passengers to emerge. A slickster-looking 30-ish Latino-ish guy in a shiny suit saunters by, flanked by four giggling girls (3 blondes, 1 brunette) who aren't a day over 23, all in way-too-short little black dresses, acting WAY too happy about whatever this guy is saying. They look so eager. I think each one of them is hoping to go home with him at the end of the night, because there's a slightly catty vibe that exists between these women. How disappointed will they be when "home" turns out to be a cab ride all the way back to this guy's apartment in Astoria? The women's movement has just been set back 50 years, and I was a witness to it. My money is on the date-rape of at least one of them before the night is out.
So what pushed me over the edge?
Two nights ago there was this young guy on the street outside, dressed in the uniform (polyester pants, white t-shirt, Cuban hat): he looked like he was a former fratboy, probably about 26, his last name was probably "Smith" and I bet he lived on the Upper East Side somewhere (I wish I could GPS these people because I'd be willing to bet that they all live in those high-rises around 86th and 2nd). Anyway, this guy was playing STICKBALL. On JANE STREET. STICK BALL. What the FUCK??!?! Does he think this is all some sepia-toned flashback to someone's childhood in Brooklyn?? You're waiting outside of the fucking JANE STREET HOTEL, dressed in a Cuban costume and a HAT and talking with some kind of Latino accent even though you were raised in Scarsdale, while you play STICKBALL right next to the West Side Highway??? I've never prayed harder for an errant bus to lose control, jump the curb, and flatten a crowded sidewalk full of people.
In other news, we got our dog microchipped and I think it's boosting the cell signal in my apartment.
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