sex and the city: the fake ID edition

Once upon a time, the Summer of 2001, to be exact, my home was below 14th street. Ellen, Chef Steph, and I lived in a prison-like NYU dorm called Third North, while FAB lived above the Subway (the sandwich shop and the train) on 14th and 1st. Dr. Dre's Chronic 2001 was our soundtrack as we lived, we learned, and we drank. A lot.

*The Alannas. As I said, three of us lived in the dorm. The dorm's suites, however, were for four people. I pitied the fourth girl before I even met her, as I sure as hell would not want to share a small living space with three girls who are already tight. But I didn't have to pity her for long. Alanna Number One had dyed platinum blonde hair, was in a sorority at one of those big southern schools, and wore hot pink thongs that "accidentally" peeked above her jeans. She was in New York to study acting, and study she did, by watching movies on the common room couch all day while eating her diet of raw mushrooms with ketchup. She moved out at the end of the first summer session and was replaced by, I kid you not, another Alanna. Alanna Number Two made me long for Number One. Number Two epitomized the Upper East Side JAP stereotype: she had her name monogrammed on her towels, wore Marc Jacobs, not Marc by Marc, and criticized the clothing choices of the attendees at her father's best friend's funeral (click that link--I am so not kidding.) Her finest moment came when, after being away for the weekend, she found a brand new box of Cinnamon Life cereal on her desk (Steph had consumed what she'd had and replaced it with more than she'd had to begin with) and a rumpled comforter on her bed (I'd slept in her bed drunk and naked, but as far as she ever knew I just sat on it.) I believe her response to this was, with classic bitch inflections, "Don't TOUCH...my STUFF." Sadly, Alanna Number Two moved out before Steph and I could carry out our plan of mashing up Life cereal in the pockets of her Marc Jacobs pants.

*Finance 101. The world was my proverbial oyster, as I had just gotten my first cell phone and my first credit card. Surely my lucrative job at the Doggy Daycare and the parent-paid rent would allow me to use both with abandon. Gina, meet Insurmountable Debt. Insurmountable Debt, Gina. (Three hundred minutes divided by twenty weekdays equals only fifteen minutes per day, and college sophomores who need to pay for their own books and food have no business going to Bergdorf and Barneys every weekend. Nineteen-year-old Gina, you are a moron.) But I'd deal with the crippling anxiety attacks later. Nothing a little Wisconsin R&R and Mom's homemade raspberry crisp couldn't take care of!

*Team Rockstar. Now for the drinking. There's just too much to talk about in one paragraph, but most of the drinking can be put into two categories: The W Hotel Union Square, and Danny Kane. Aaaah the W. I could write a novel about the drama that transpired at this place for all four of us, both together and individually. But I am not exaggerating when I say that careers were made, hearts were broken, and free cosmopolitans (apple martinis when cosmos quickly became passe) flowed like water. Then one fateful evening...somewhere, Steph and I were pulled into a basement kitchen by a man named Danny Kane. From then on, we were on Danny Kane's List, velvet ropes meant nothing, and we thought we were the shit, er, shizzle. Michael Musto summed up that scene well.

Yesterday I received an email from Danny:

Subject: your birthday

Please let me know if you want to have a birthday party.I know it's comin up this month.It won't cost you anything and I will give you drinks,and a free guest list.Please let me know by email or call me at 212-229-XXXX if your interested.

Thanks,
Danny Kane

Thanks, Danny, but no thanks. It was fun, but I think we've all moved onto *ahem* the next episode.