The Art Of Ass Kissery:

Since I blew my promoter off the other night at the 13 Step, I figured that I needed to do something to get back into his good graces. I sacrificed my innate morals (not what you’re thinking, I promise), and decided to wear the pants. I thought it would be a nice gesture to ask him out to dinner on me. My other encumbrance was that since he’ll be providing my friends and I with free drinks/entrance into clubs for the entire summer, the least I could do was drop $60 bucks on a nice dinner and my cab ride home. Right? Right… as usual.

I’m just going to out myself right now and say that I’m probably the biggest ass kisser in the world. I’m a people pleaser and I avoid confrontation at all cost. In fact, I love kissing ass if it means people will like me. I don’t really think there is anything wrong with sucking up a little. When sucking up, you make the person feel empowered while simultaneously/sneakily getting your foot in the door. Sounds completely manipulative, I know, but I feel as if most important advancements in life take place because of a heavy dose of brown nosing. You can hem and haw and disagree, but deep down you know it’s the ugly truth.

Simon agreed to my dinner date and told me that he knew of a good place we could go. I left my house at 8pm, like he insisted. These days, I always try to take the subway because it’s only $2.50 no matter your destination. New York has had sloppy weather the last few days, so the underground railways were dirtier than normal. I was slipping in puddles down the stairs because I saw my train approaching. I saw people ahead of me running, so I definitely had to run in order to catch that train. I darted through slow moving people, as I saw the doors start closing. Diving in, I thrust both arms between the crack in the subway door… that was my w-o-r-s-t idea all day and hurt considerably more than expected.

Soaking, I made it to Simon’s apartment building and texted him, “I’m the drowned rat waiting outside your building.” I swear the rain here makes me feel like a Wheatie that’s been in milk for far too long. He lives near the West Village, which is not on a grid like it is up where I live. At some intersections, there were 3 roads that crossed. Good thing he knew where we were going, because I certainly did not. The restaurant was a cute little Italian place that served (oddly decent) gluten-free breadsticks. Neither of us could read the menu, however, so I went with a Panini because that word is used cross-culturally. Simon ordered some sort of jambalaya that the waitress refused to admit was soup. It was 100%, hands down, soup.

Simon was actually a genuinely nice guy, and after all was said and done, he refused to let me pay for our dinner. He picked up the tab, and instead of making me take the subway, he actually drove me home! I was rather impressed with his courtesy and even more impressed by the fact that his car started from 50 feet away with the push of a button! He took me home and told me about the one and only place I HAD to be this weekend: a rooftop club that overlooks Manhattan. Attending terrace parties is apparently a sign of elite social standing. Dresses, heels, men in business suits, the NY skyline, and the summer air are not something I’d willingly miss out on. We’ll all be there Friday night keeping it classy above the busy streets below.


Alena Netia Horowitz

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