Calling this place a "bar" would be like calling Jordan a guy who could shoot a few hoops. Picture the silliest, linen-wearing, hairy chested Europeans you could find, found the most orange, blowtastic Miami slunts they could find, who in turn located as many aspiring pouty lipped models that THEY could drag from the glass tables downstairs. Now, drop this Marvel Comic-esque league of extradordinary wackos on a rooftop bar in the Meat Packing District and you, my friend, have the Gansavordt Rooftop.
For a while, I was okay. While unsure of my aged black-V (you know, the kinda wack faded one?) the cash was flowing and I didn't hesitate to grill any passerbyer who had a problem with my shit. The problems didn't arise until I waltzed over to the bathroom to take a leak. The knob was unlocked, so, naturally, one would figure the bathroom was empty, right?... Wrong. I open the door, only to find some GQ dope, lotioning his eyebrows while checking himself in the mirror. And I'm no meteorologist, but judging by the residue above his upper lip it appeared as though a blizzard of epic proportions had just ravaged the facilities. But what does MC Sniffles do upon my arrival? Smirks at me through the mirror.
It was time to leave.
No comments:
Post a Comment