I'm a people-watcher. I like to scrutinize everyone's quirks, mannerisms, and interaction within their environment. Ok listen, I'm a regular at the Lower East Side's Hotel Chantelle off of Delancey. I've hosted there, attended numerous functions, the whole deal. On Thursday, there are two little fêtes which I attend almost on a weekly basis. There's "POGO", a pop/disco dance club scene and "Generation Wild" which is a serious affair of heavy metal/rock n'roll debauchery. It's great because one is in the basement while the other concurrently goes on in the lobby. For someone like me who has a vast music taste (my iPod looks like the UN Summit of music genres), I can just dart back and forth. So it's like hopping between the border of two states except it's more like SHE'S MY CHERRY PIE and YOU SHOW THAT LIGHTS THAT STOP ME TURN TO STONE.
So let's start our case study with the general demographic attending these weekly festivities. If you're like me, a regular Delancey street harlot, you're there to hang out with your friends who are hosting. So it's basically our excessively glamourous LES clique which varies week to week. And then there's the general public all sauntering throughout the venue's three floors. We already covered the first two, but there's also a third floor which is comprised of a bar and a terrace. That's mostly swanky, 1%-esque people and a designated smoking space outside on the roof. I love the upscale people on the third floor because when they see one of us from Dante's 10th circle of latex and leather hell come up, they totally judge us. BUT you know it's some broad named Barbara from Long Island who gets drunk off two wine coolers and her inner monlogue is "I can't wait to be home by 11 to watch Army Wives on LMN." Whatever.
And of course I love the characters and charming souls which grace the lobby to engage in heavy metal depravity. I especially love the older rockers who look like they haven't showered since the Berlin wall was taken down.
Anyway, let's move on to the focal point of this case study. And you know exactly who I'm talking about. The drunk white girls. You know, get drunk off of three vodka crans, squeal about how much they love everyone, buy chicken fingers, fall asleep in own vomit. Let me make it abundantly clear that I'm not talking about all caucasian females, rather focusing on a specific group. I'm talking about the Long Island and Jersey chicks who come to the city for a Sex and the City inspired night out. If you don't know who I'm talking about it's the girl crying by circa 3 AM and there's a 99% chance her name is Tiffany. Said subjects are usually observed dawning something overpriced from Forever 21 in Abusive Boyfriend Blue or an ensemble from Wet Seal. Shopping at Wet Seal is a great way to tell the world you will be having anal sex that night. Let us now meticulously list the peculiar characteristics of the drunk white girl:
First of all, everything is AWESOME. So AWESOME. And they love EVERYONE. Mao Zedong could have bottle service and it'd be oh em gee I love you. And then there's the piercing scream. I understand you're excited to see your friends but there is no reason to perpetually let out a squeal of such high pitched frequency that makes Mariah Carey green with envy. You do not need to scream so much. Why, why silly girl who cried during the verbal section of the SATs because you didn't know what the word "ubiquitious" meant, why? This usually occurs between the hours of midnight and 2 AM.
Now things get interesting between the hours of 2 AM and 4 AM . That's when I pull up a chair. I've got the popcorn going and I'm taking copious notes. EVERY song the DJ plays is their song. OH MY GOD IT'S OUR SONG in such a pitch that only a dog in Kuwait can hear. Every. damn. song. The DJ could play Sarah McLaughlin's "Like An Angel" from the animal abuse commercials and it'd be OH MY GOD IT'S OUR SONG.
Then two things happen. The heels come off. WHY WOULD YOU EVER? Your bare feet are touching a floor glazed with SARs and Hoboken's bodily secretions. And then the hair goes up in what I lovingly refer to as the "sorority girl bun." You know that mess of hair that clumps in a ball on top of the head? And I know I'm the last one to judge ~any~ hair style, but at least my hair is organized chaos. That bun looks like you combed it with a grenade. No.
Let's wrap up this case study by reiterating my initial prognosis on the typical behavior of the drunk white girl: you are substantiating a stereotype by perpetually demonstrating the behavior which has spawned a derogatory connotation which is unfair to other girls who don't squeal, scream, and execute any other belligerent conduct. Unfortunately, this is the curse that stereotypes bear for individuals of any community that are known for certain things but don't corroborate it. So if this description resonates with any of you by virtue of your actions whilst inebriated at a venue: please don't shout and keep your shoes on.