I have absolutely no decent pictures from Catherine's karoake birthday party at Winnie's on Saturday night. I trust that one of the million people there with digital camers will be able to loan me some memories of the drunken lunacy. I do remember that there seemed to be some sort of molestation issue coming from the older Asian lady who runs the karaoke machine. She seemed to have a thing for the ladies. I know she kissed me twice. On the lips. The first time I was thinking she was friendly, the second time, I'm kind of thinking she meant it. As we walked outside I heard someone say, "I swear to god she fingered me." Today I have a new theory: She might actually be a man, and she was just messing with all of us girls who automatically trust old ladies. Haven't we all learned by now? This is New York, you can't trust anyone.

Later I was dragged, kicking and screaming, to The Hole. I didn't quite get this the last time I was there, but now I have a complete understanding: It's where the hipster kids - both gay and and straight - go to get laid. Oh. I mean I guess I had heard that before, but I hadn't fully seen it in action. (No, not me. I never get laid anymore.) Pretty fascinating. I'm glad to see people are still fucking. (Memo to former member of seminal indie rock band from the early nineties who was in attendance: No one under the age of 25 has heard of your old band. I'm not sure if being a bartender is enough to get you laid in a bar like The Hole. Oh who am I kidding? This is New York, being a bartender will always get you laid.)

About halfway into my first beer, one of the kids we were with passed out in the bar. He wasn't drunk, he wasn't high, he just passes out sometimes. Um. Yea. The boys carried him out of the bar and sat him outside where nervous bouncers kept asking us to move. The passer-outer was more embarrassed than anything else it seemed. "Ah it could be worse," I said. "I bet people pass out in that bar every fifteen minutes," and it had been true, barely a soul had stopped talking, flirting, drinking, except for the people who knew the guy. There was no doctor in the house, if you know what I mean. Even as his friends carried him through the crowd the insolent young patrons only grudgingly cleared a path, as if any sudden movements might cause them to look uncool, or muss up their shitty new haircut.

I turned to his speechless friends and suggested someone get him water. They all stood there. Finally Cinde said, "I'll get him some water." Come on kids, didn't we have any emergency training at all? They seemed pretty freaked out. Then I asked if he wanted to see a doctor. He shook his head. "Do you have health insurance?" I asked. I already knew the answer. (This is New York...Ah, you know the rest.) I promised to get him the name of a great doctor who works on a sliding scale, whom I had used during my non-insured days. I sure hope he goes.

I have to wonder what the moral of the story is here. Don't go to The Hole if you have a history of passing out? Don't go to The Hole if you're over 30? Oh, I know: Don't go to The Hole. Unless you want to get laid, of course.

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