Last Thursday was pretty insane.  October marks the return of women to NYC because the fall semester of college starts at the same time.  It’s pretty crazy, really… all summer you can’t find a single woman worth hitting on or talking to.  Seriously, this summer I experienced the worst pussy drought in years and I almost emigrated to Brazil as a sexual asylum seeker.  I was forced to survive on a diet of MILFs for months!

Then suddenly it’s October 1st and you start to see younger and hotter women then you’ve seen for as far back as you can remember.  Within a few days (by Thursday night) the city is flooded with endless hot young women.  Women who are still free from the pressures of having to earn a living and so they smile back at you – or at you!  These women are still relatively innocent, believe in love, and haven’t been totally fucked out by every player in this city.

So for those of you who complain that NYU buys up too much downtown real estate, please go to Starbucks and order yourselves a tall shut-the-fuck-up latte.  I think they should give the entire Village to NYU if the institution pledges to bring in more young women.

Anyway, Thursday night was a bit of a shocker because I certainly didn’t have my game-face on and I was slightly traumatized by all the activity around me – like a castaway who just laid his eyes on the landing party coming to rescue him.  But as I sat there on a stoop trying to gather my wits, I got a text from a friend who just moved into my neighborhood (Murray Hill) who claimed to be hammered out of his head on Belgian ale and looking for activity.  Somehow he found his way to where I was camping out at, and we proceed to the best 50% off sushi place in town to fill up before hitting the local bars:

(Click image for directions!)

While gorging ourselves and spending money we shouldn’t – no matter how much sushi we were getting for it, I started marveling at all the women everywhere.  As my friend is a former promoter (now an aspiring serial entrepreneur), and he suddenly cast a sullen face and said:

“Yeah, wait until the local club promoters get their hands on them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, once they get all those endless free dinners at the promoter’s table they will be ruined for life.  Walking bundles of entitlement who will throw tantrums because the kitchen ran out of California rolls.”

“I see.”

“Yeah Plato, fucking bottle service destroyed America – and now the Bravo channel is finishing up the job.”

My friend is right.  I remember back in the early 1990′s I would attend trance raves at warehouse spots in what is now “TunJav.”  Nobody knew what the fuck “bottle service” was.  Both guys and girls stood on line for a while, then entered the club to do GHB and dance for hours before attempting some date-rapes.  Those were the days!  Now nobody dances at clubs anymore.  Some people stand in front of the DJ booth swaying or nodding their heads, while the vast majority are lounging on sofas or sofabeds – and for the privilege of doing so, they get to order bottles of Grey Goose or some other swill at prices ranging from $150-$600/bottle.  For those prices, I better be getting my dick sucked by a Korean midget that one of my other friends (you know who you are you sick, disgusting man) found on backpage.com and screwed while high on weed, mushrooms, molly and some Cialis that I passed him as an act of charity.

Personal note: “Yeah, I’m basically the Bodhisattva of sexual degenerates everywhere…  I routinely hand out Cialis and Priligy to people I hardly know in order to build up an awesome sexual karma.  I think one day it will all come back to me somehow in the form of an orgasm so powerful I will attain enlightenment.”

Anyway, bottle service has gotten so retarded, the other day I was at PhD in the Meat Packing and some Saudi princess was there and ordered up a bottle large enough to contain a 10-year old child.   Then again, she better live it up because if daddy back home finds out she’s been sucking off Americans in some club lavatory he’s going to drown her in the family pool.

True story: “A friend of mine’s father went to Saudi Arabia to do some business.  While there he attended the birthday of a 16-year old girl.  Unknown to everyone in attendance, the father of the 16-year old had discovered that his daughter was having pre-marital sex (OMG).  So, he wrapped her in a heavy chain and drowned her in the family pool.  On her birthday!  In front of the guests!”

(Above image is not of the Saudi princess nor the girl who met her end at the bottom of a pool.)

But everyone wants to feel important because modern culture takes everything away from you.  You feel like a big nobody so instead of hooking up (a “nobody” doesn’t have the confidence to do so), you “hold court” at your “table.”  How lame!

1990′s Nostalgia Break: “I remember coming home from a night of raving and all I saw on the long blocks home between 7-9th Avenues was the glow of “stems” (crackpipes) in every doorway in the dark.  I couldn’t actually see the crackheads because most of them were black, and my vision was somewhat impaired from all the vodka I’d been usually drinking.  All I saw were fireflys in a concrete forest.  It was a little scary, until I remembered crackheads aren’t dangerous from the moment they light up until the rush of crack is gone a few minutes later.”

Anyway, I don’t know how bottle service first came about, but if I had to venture a guess it was in response to the exorbitant rents, taxes, and excessive licensure that club owners became forced to pay for.  The unintended consequences of this solution extend much farther than the simple fact that clubs really aren’t much fun anymore – they spawn yet another generation of over-entitled ladies because the whole promoter sub-culture lavishes far more on them than simply dinners and free bottles.  These girls even get their taxis fares paid for to-and-from the club!

Do they really drive enough value to pay off these comps?  Maybe clubs should market on TV for all the thousands of dollar$ they throw away on “model” and “A-list” promoters?

Even that stupid sports bar in Flatiron called Bounce caused me and 2 friends to “bounce” the fuck out of there when they tried to rope us into buying a bottle in order to gain entrance – to a sports bar.

Yes, I know they call themselves a “sporting club.”

But they are full of shit.

Just like the entire NYC club scene.