I'll have the mojito with a side of Hep-A please.

Hmmm.... what goes really well with a mojito and a $600-per-table minimum? Yep, you guessed it:  Hepatitis A!  Check this out:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23282963

For the 3 of you that read this blog way back when, you'll recognize Socialista as the really annoying bar that I've ragged on ever since it opened. It couldn't have happened to a nicer place.

MacLaren or Bugaboo?

What a pickle!  Which stroller to choose? MacLaren or Bugaboo? A good MacLaren will set you back $600, but the Bugaboo Chameleon (that's what allll the WV moms have) will cost you 1200 smackers.  So does this fabulous Bugaboo stroller live up to the price tag? Does it make your baby safer and happier, and you a better mother? Will it make your husband stop fucking his secretary and start to love you again?  Let's take a look at the facts.

A commonly-read guide-to-having-babies-and-all-the-things-you-should-buy-to-prepare-for-them makes comparison charts of all of the strollers that are out there, and the Bugaboo Chameleon is in the "You've Got To Be Kidding Me" category. It's twice as expensive as the most expensive MacLaren, but half the quality. The official book actually says "if you buy a Bugaboo, you are buying a name, not quality."   So if you're like me, you're now asking yourself, "Then why do all the mothers in the WV have a Bugaboo?" 

Because that's what Charlotte and Miranda had on Sex & The City.  Yep.  Watch those last few episodes, and you'll see 'em, plain as day. 

I've become an expert on baby strollers because they're now more populous here in the WV than they are in the UWS. The double-wides (for twins) are especially popular down here because sooooo many people are having babies-in-a-jar these days. A girlfriend clued me in about why it's so rampant...  here's the process:

- woman gets married, insists on purchasing townhouse

- hubby buys townhouse, wife starts talking about having a baby

- wife's physician hears "I'm thinking about getting pregnant soon" and instantly prescribes dozens of fertility medications, even though they're not needed, and even though the woman is in the 28-32 age range.  NB: feels like payola going on here. (Or maybe yesterday's Zoloft is wearing off cuz I forgot to take one today, and I'm starting to get paranoid about stuff.)

Then, BINGO -- ya got twins.  I saw something recently though, that really and truly took the cake.

Two African nannies were walking strollers side-by-side with babies in them, and the mothers were trailing behind them, talking and drinking lattes. They were on their way over to the playground on the pier at Horatio Street, and the part of the convo I heard as I walked past was, "... well I have pilates tomorrow, but maybe we can do it the next day?" and the other mother replied, "Oh I caaaaan't because that's when I have my mommy support group."

OK, let's recap:

- you have nannies taking care of the kids even though you're there.

- you have a MOMMY SUPPORT GROUP???!!!?  Because living in an $8M townhouse and having someone else raise your child is pretty fuckin' tough.

What's really sad is the realization that some of these women (OK, most) have had these kids not because they want kids, but because 1) they're competing with their neighbors, and because 2) the kids are an insurance policy against the husband ever leaving.  Cuz if he books, they get the townhouse and 50% of everything for the rest of his life.  

Cynical? Not really... live here for a while and look around and do some listening and you'll realize how true it is.  You'll look at these people and you'll see that something just isn't quite right, but you won't be able to articulate it.  You'll see the husband + wife + twins exiting the $8M townhouse, but the vibe surrounding them is weird...  distant, angry, maybe even a little bit mean. You'll see that even though they're very fit and thin and attractive, they really just look brittle.  I guess that's what unhappiness will do to you.   But if it worked for Charlotte and Miranda, then hey -- I guess these women have something to aspire to.

There's a new kind of entitlement that has moved into this neighborhood, and it ain't pretty. 

False Alarm: Socialista

I walked past Socialista (which, moving forward, we will just call "The Jane Street Hotel") last night, around 12:30, and I'm sad to say... it's back in full swing. Apparently the slow Thursday night was just an anomaly.  There was even a fight that broke out outside, but I missed it!  It must've been the combination of the heat, humidity, and all of that faux-Cuban-testosterone goin' on at the Jane Street Hotel.

New TV show update: I've gotten hooked on HBO's "Tell Me You Love Me" series, in that can't-avert-the-eyes-from-a-trainwreck sort of way. I think someone is spying on the West Village for info on how straight couples interact here, then writing it down in script form. It's an interesting take on coupledom: the women are all very unlikeable, and the men are all henpecked and put-upon, but you feel for them.  Makes me happy I'm into guys.... much lower maintenance and no hissy-fits over why I bought a new flat-screen TV when I should've been spending that time worrying about her ovaries.

This is why people hate Americans.

This was the conversation between two girls in the laundry room of my building two nights ago. For the purposes of context: just roommates, between 30 and 32, look like sorority girls, from the area but have that Valley-Girl accent that early-20-something girls often have. I entered the room partway through the convo. Capitalization and bold/italics used for proper conveyance of tone.

Girl1: ohmy GAWD, like what did you DO??!?
Girl2: Well I had this other credit card, BUT...
G1: NO. WHAT HAPPENED.
G2: Well it's like one of those credit cards where everyone in the whole FAMily has one, yknow? Because it's my dad's credit card. And here I am in EUROPE (pronounced "uh-YER-up" with combination eyeroll-sharp exhale) and I HAD to use it because my credit card wouldn't WORK!
G1: Oh my GOD, and that all HAD to happen while you were in EUROPE. Oh my GOD.
G2: RIGHT??!? So it set off some kind of alarm or something and everyone in my family got a PHONE CALL about like, is there some kind of like unAUTHORIZED activity on your credit card? And I'm like, I'm in EUROPE right now, I TOTALLY don't need this. So my mom was totally freaking but my dad, he was laughing. He thought it was fucking hysTERical.
G1: Totally. I mean, it's Europe, it's not like you're in some third-world country or something. Ga-AWD.
G2: No but wait, it gets WORSE. So we go down to the front desk to see the concierge, because you know, we want to go OUT (pronounced OW-out), and we were like, can you tell us where the best clubs are? And you know what he said? "What age range are you looking for?"
G1: NO. WAY. GOD, it's almost like he was talking back to you!
G2: I KNOW, right??!? I was like, UMM, we didn't come to EUROPE just to sit in our hotel room! You're like the CONCIERGE at the ST. REGIS in ROME, you should totally know where to go if I ask you.
G1: RIGHT?? I mean, you're in EUROPE and you already had that whole problem with the credit card. I mean, how could it even GET any worse?
G2: Well he told us where to go but he said there would be thousands of people in line, and I was like, UMMM, we're from new YORK, does it LOOK like we'd have to wait in a line? Ga-AWD.
G1: This whole thing is like SO unbelievable, it makes me not ever even want to GO.
G2: Totally. So we got to this club and there were like, SO many people in line, so we just skipped it and went back to the hotel.

Hmmmmm.....

It's Thursday night, 11:28 pm, and I just came in after walking past Socialista, the latest scourge on the West Village.  I think we can officially declare "it's over" cuz there aren't too many people there, and if a new club isn't busy on a Thursday night, it's not long for this world.  Maybe there is a God after all?

Latest conundrum: I love Sex & the City, but I hate Sex & the City. I've seen the blurbs about it on gawker.com and I wonder if I'll actually go to see the movie, or if I'll just wait for Netflix so I can watch it in secret, like the guilty pleasure it will probably be.  But here's the thing:

Now that there has been several years' worth of women running around my neighborhood acting like they're Carrie Bradshaw, when I actually see SJP as Carrie Bradshaw in the on-set pictures for the upcoming movie, I think she looks like a parody of a parody of herself.  You can't picture Carrie Bradshaw like she was during the TV series, because now we have to see her through the filter of a few years' distance, and it just ain't workin' fer me.  Six years ago, when I watched Carrie Bradshaw on HBO every Sunday night, I saw a really cool person. Now when I look at Carrie Bradshaw, all I see is a freak who's trying way too hard.  And that really sucks.

Is "Socialista" over already?

Could it be that the uber-fabulous Havana-wannabe bar "Socialista" is already on its way out? It's been quite empty the last few nights.... seems like they shot their wad a little too early. Tomorrow's Thursday night though, which will be the best indicator of this pretentious and annoying club's fate.  Stay tuned.

Cuba is SO last week.

Just when you thought the West Village (hereinafter referred to as just WV; limiting keystrokes is so green) couldn't cram another ounce of fabulousness into it, along comes a new club called Socialista. It's right at the end of Jane Street, at the West Side Highway, and apparently it was backed by Sting and Harvey Weinstein and some douchebag bouncer from Bungalow 8.  It's all the rage at the moment because the inside has been decorated to look like Havana.  If you are lucky enough to have the secret telephone number, you can book a table in the DOWNSTAIRS part, where there's a $600 per-table minimum. Here's the REAL kicker though:

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.