Another time, I got kicked out of the Bubble Lounge in TriBeCa. Unfortunately, I was not the manager's focal point, merely a somewhat less than innocent bystander unworthy of specific attention. This Bubble Lounge turmult was a take two of the first time I proved myself lousy at disorderly conduct. In the early '90s, Carrine cleaned the clock of a drunken, drink-tossing Asian shortie and Tom somehow got thrown out for getting in the middle.
I couldn't even manage to get kicked out of the Girl Scouts like Nikki for "inappropriate dress and foul language" despite the fact that I excel at both. I'm always the bridesmaid, never the one who gets shoved out the backdoor on her petard.
Here's the play-by-play:
- The new club president, this long-haired velvet-wearing chick named Chea, starts charging $40 for meetings, promising arcane learnings well worth the cash outlay.
- Nobody, for the most part, comes to her meetings.
- Chea sends out a series of nasty emails berating club members for not coming to her meetings and begging someone to tell her why
- I succumb to her plea and send her an email articulating, among several other things:
- my indignation for clearly believing that I am so retarded as to not recognize that this "club" is now a for-profit business venture.
- my resentment at being held accountable for her success as a business owner, as evidenced by the chastizing tone of her lengthy and frequent emails.