From the desk of Oliver Hartman – Resident Bargain Whorespondent
I’m sitting at the computer in my sleeping bag today and it’s not even that cold. This apartment is like a walk-in with furniture; some sick chef’s pet Truman Show. Feel anything like Fat Tuesday, like I even know what it’s about. I equate it with Girls Gone Wild and Rio’s Carnival. Anything involving fatally drunk people showing their privates in public; doesn’t matter if it’s beaded breasts, pissing dicks, or stomach linings. Way to keep your celebration’s integrity France.
Call me an old man, but I actually feel like some Dooley’s, a toffee-vodka liqueur. On the rocks. But not more than a few, because they get worse the more you drink. I’ll overlook the minutiae though because these guys are open-barring all around town as of late. The bad thing is sometimes you have to go to Murray Hill to get some. That’s ok, some spineless person told me a healthy relationship is about compromise. I love you Dooley’s, your cheesy-ass bottle design and all, as long as you’re free.
Tonight it’s Midtown at â€œski-lodge chicâ€ Aspen (30 West 22nd Street) from 6pm-8pm. But it isn’t really Colorado, so leave the Uggs at home.
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