Retrograde runoff
It’s probably too late to even be reporting on the happenings of 10 days ago, but here I go anyway. Last Thursday, June 2, was the evening of the epic boat party hosted by me, celebrating me, etc. That night also coincided, or so we thought, with the end of a truly heinous retrograde. Now, let me make this clear. I know nothing about astrology nor do I care. But I lost my apartment, fucked any chance of normalcy with my ex and it rained on my birthday, so I can only blame the moon…obviously. Anyway, as it turns out, retrograde gave me a little treat and kept the festivities going. The boat party was but a glimmer in the retrograde run off that followed. Like Icarus, I flew too close to the sun and drank too many spicy pineapple margs.
Friday morning rolls around and I spend nearly 6 hours vomiting up my spicy pinas. There is but the smallest bit of hope in my eyes, though, because soon I will be spending the night at the dimes square hotel (at this point, not yet open to the public). Meetka has invited me as a little bday treat to stay with her. We’re both hungover. She says we’ll have our Ignacio Mattos comped meal then return to the north facing, 9th floor room, for face masks and Keeping Up. As a true Altro Paradiso and Estela lover/frequenter, I can, without question, tell you, despite what Nate Freeman’s derivative article said, the food is….not there yet. The Au Poivre was too sweet and the fries were too uniform in color and shape to not vibe frozen. Anyway, we enjoyed our free $700 meal and went to the roof for another drink. I retired around midnight leaving Meetka, Maryam and Sam, etc upstairs. I used all of Meetka’s BR products, got into my ankle-length nightgown and went to sleep. Approximately one REM cycle in, at 2:45, the door bursts open and there are six people jumping around me screaming ‘wake up Callan! It’s champagne time!’ I yelled/ moaned and pulled the covers over my head thinking maybe it would only last a few minutes when they realized Callan is sleeping, the room is ten by ten, and it would be crazy to start a party at 3am while Callan is literally SLEEPING in her nightgown in the room she was invited to SLEEP in. Meetka hopped on the bed a few minutes later and said, “Here baby, have a drink,” hoisting half of an iceless negroni into my face. “I don’t want a drink. I’m sleeping.” About seven minutes later, when Sam asked if four more guys could come up, I realized there was no battle to win and quietly got out of bed, put my sneakers on without socks, grabbed my bags and walked home in my nightgown.
Without a word, like a true ghost leaving what I now deem a haunted space, I floated in my Belgian linens down Division Street at 4am coming up with ideas of how I would aggressively respond to the apology texts. They didn’t come until the next day and I didn’t really get that mad. It was humiliating, but Meetka likes to party and Sam hasn’t figured out how to move to the beat of his own drum or whatever. So I let it slide. I also had to prepare myself for the evening to come.
P.S. Someone stole Maryam Nassir Zadeh’s phone from the bar at Nine Orchard that night. Find my friends says it’s in downtown BK if any of you are over there and can check it out.
Anyway, Carly Mark’s bday bash at Primo’s was to be slut-themed, drug-fueled and makeout-heavy. If the hotel was sleep paralysis, the party was a waking nightmare. This is not to say it didn’t rock. I saw every single one of the hottest women I’ve ever met in New York. And they were all dressed like sluts. Face painting kicked off the evening to ensure that, as things started to fall apart, everyone would feel even more disoriented. I showed up wearing the exact same thing as Thistle’s new assistant and the party quickly splintered into focus groups. There were the sober hotties, forcefully retired models, coked-up jocks and c-list HBO actors. When the molly hit, things went truly sideways. The EMTs were called for a k-hole, Jemima Kirke split her khaki pants looking for drugs on the bathroom floor, and I was reportedly screaming, “there are no cigarettes at this party!!!!” in Mike Eckhaus’ face. Rachel and I realized we had to leave soon after Dev Hynes started hiding from me and the cops showed up to take photos with Julia Fox.
The twelve minute walk home felt like centuries, but Claude took us to the most amazing 7-Eleven I’ve ever seen. Rachel vomited up water and Civic Center lit up like we had rented the place out just for us. We lit every candle in the house and put on white dresses. Anywhere Is by Enya played on repeat until 5am and retrograde finally came to an end.