A self-satirical train wreck that you can witness word by word...
And for those who doubt my son Armand Bovoso, indeed he is part Black. I'm Black and Italian. Armand is Black, italian, and Ukranian Jewish. Send me an email if you can't accept this.
And for those who doubt my son Armand Bovoso, indeed he is part Black. I'm Black and Italian. Armand is Black, italian, and Ukranian Jewish. Send me an email if you can't accept this.
If you've read my previous post you know that I started working in the New York City club scene when I was 20 years old. Back then the best clubs in NYC didn't card but rather let you in based up your look. I knew one girl who claimed that she was actually 14. We all called her the Chocolate Girl as she worked her way into clubs by giving out free chocolates to everyone. She looked older and that's all anyone cared about. So being 20 in the club naturally meant that I had to turn 21 at some point during my employment there. That night came and boy was it a night.
On the night of my 21st birthday after we closed up the club the head of security decided to have all of the liquor cabinets opened up. They lined up shots of some evil concoction called an Orange Crush.
Here is the order in which I remember things.
The club closed.
The head of security asked the manager to open the liquor cabinets.
About 20 shots Orange Crush were being poured into glasses.
The DJ, Mark Kamins, fired up some music. He was thrilled to find out that I liked his music.
I was running across the dance floor.
I was throwing up into a trash can on the dance floor.
I was throwing up next to a co-worked into a trash can on the dance floor.
The morning sun of West Broadway hitting me.
Me being put into a cab worrying that I had no money to get home. Someone yelled out that it was paid for.
Trying to find the keys to get into my loft on Chambers St.
Me giving up on the key and falling asleep with my knees tucked to my chest in the doorway.
My neighbor Jim finding me asleep with my knees tucked to my chest in the doorway.
My literally having to crawl out of the elevator and into the loft.
My brother laughing his ass off.
The painful 12 hours that resumed after that.
It was one hell of a night not to remember.
On the night of my 21st birthday after we closed up the club the head of security decided to have all of the liquor cabinets opened up. They lined up shots of some evil concoction called an Orange Crush.
Here is the order in which I remember things.
The club closed.
The head of security asked the manager to open the liquor cabinets.
About 20 shots Orange Crush were being poured into glasses.
The DJ, Mark Kamins, fired up some music. He was thrilled to find out that I liked his music.
I was running across the dance floor.
I was throwing up into a trash can on the dance floor.
I was throwing up next to a co-worked into a trash can on the dance floor.
The morning sun of West Broadway hitting me.
Me being put into a cab worrying that I had no money to get home. Someone yelled out that it was paid for.
Trying to find the keys to get into my loft on Chambers St.
Me giving up on the key and falling asleep with my knees tucked to my chest in the doorway.
My neighbor Jim finding me asleep with my knees tucked to my chest in the doorway.
My literally having to crawl out of the elevator and into the loft.
My brother laughing his ass off.
The painful 12 hours that resumed after that.
It was one hell of a night not to remember.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! I've missed your blogs. Glad to see you back in the swing of things... this is hilarious. My 21st birthday was mild, but my 20th... oh, boy, that's a story (the parts I remember, at least).