Saturday night, as told through 3 outgoing text messages

11:36 pm:

Fuck dude,
there's a line to
get in
***END***

11:44 pm:

Fuck this bullshit dude,
ten mins and I'o
done
***END***

11:47 pm:

Ok, i an done
***END***

As you can tell, predictive typing and telling time are two arts I haven't quite mastered yet.

Actually, the night ended up being pretty non-disastrous despite the ominous start.

I entered the cultural black hole that is W 21st St between 5th and 6th Aves, stood in the freezing cold to get into Porkys of all places (happy day before your birthday, Larry) for 11 minutes longer than I should have.

Then I came to the realization that I live in New York precisely so I don't have to do this shit. And by "this shit", I mean spending my Saturday night standing in front of a velvet rope long enough to be deemed worthy of squeezing myself into a room full of over-cologned sausages dancing to Top 40 whilst paying $6 for a Bud Light.

I appreciate that girls from Long Island and New Jersey are willing to brave the elements in their short skirts for my enjoyment - seriously, that's awesome. But that's also about the only consolation and not nearly enough to make it worthwhile. So it was off to Plan B (not to be confused with the club Plan B) - double-fried, garlic mayo-covered goodness at Pommes Frites with a 22-oz Sapporo from the bodega next door. Life doesn't get much better than that.