Last night a small group of us gathered at my apartment for a drink to toast our good fortune on having this Monday off (thanks Dr King) and to check out the ever-happening Sunday night glam slam at Hiro. We were also celebrating the New York arrival of blogger extraordinaire Brenner, who arrived looking fetch in some flannel get up with patched elbows. Given that B snagged a position at men's fashion weekly DNR we'll all be up on the latest mens accessories and I'll be at the shows. It's a classic win win.
Hiro, as always, proved to be the more happening of Sunday parties. In the basement of the Maritime hotel, this club seems to have finally secured their cabaret license - as evidenced by the SUV-sized disco ball hanging from the rafters. I forget the name of the dj, but he's phenomenal. Anyone who says fuck Mariah, I'm playing Joan Jett holds a sweet spot in my heart. That song over a continuous bed of robotic and computer noises made for a fun evening. Well, that and the dragon's head that shoots smoke.
My friends and I seem to be on some sort of anti-drinking kick of late. The rules are something like one per day allowed and 2 on one weekend day. I'm not taking it as seriously as them, but suffice to say I have not had more than 2 drinks since New Year's Eve. Clubs and bars can still be fun sober - we had a great time hanging with Boozhy and comparing notes - but I will say that by 1am it was time to pack it in and get a full 8 hours of non-alcohol induced sleep. My complexion thanks me in the morning.