The Concierge's Birthday

The Concierge celebrated his 29th birthday Saturday night at the Blue Owl in the East Village. It's down the street from a defunct gay bar, appropriately named "Dick's." The Owl is next to the local neighborhood rub-n-tug.



I was only involved in two conversations the whole night: people only wanted to talk to me about The Poop and Baby Poop.

Half the people wanted to make their own baby and half the people want to make The Poop.

Juice's new gal pal seemed willing to do anything to make the blog and I stupidly forgot to ask her to show her tits. TallSkott and I spent 15 minutes grilling Michelle (we want Juice to find someone special). The leggy 24 year old seems really cool and I think her and Juice will get along very well as long as they can keep their ADHD medications separate.



Funniest moment of the night of course goes to the Concierge on his own birthday. For some reason there was a locked door, behind where we were standing. We had no idea what was behind it, but The Conch said "I bet I can jimmy this lock in 10 seconds." Two seconds later he slams his credit card through crack in the door and 'click' the door opened. Turns out it was just a hallway.



Focks made it out despite his injuries. But here he looks like he's about to vomit on Julie's cleavage.





Juice and his new paramour wanted to dance (probably because neither of them can sit still) so they begged the DJ to play something other than 1920s jazz. Turns out he had an old Tribe record and played about 3 songs in a row. He also played "Respect" off "Ready to Die" and we argued about who the reggae singer was, I said Diana King and of course I was right.

The Blue Owl is the only Manhattan bar I've ever been in that's crowded at 10 and empty at 1. So we cleared out pretty early and while some went back to Focks's sister's to play Guitar Hero I went home secure in the notion that although the Concierge had gotten a year older, he definitely hasn't gotten a year more mature. And that's a good thing.