er, maybe not

When I was 20, I loved me a good frat party. Crissy too. The lukewarm keg beer, the public vomiting, the fight!fight!fight! What wasn’t to love?

Now? I’m not so into it. Especially when it’s happening all around you in your $300/night hotel room in Montauk.

Crissy, Fran, and I had been planning to head out to Montauk over Memorial Day weekend, but the Great Suck of ’09 (the pitch) forced me to cancel, so we rescheduled for this past weekend.

About an hour into the 4-hour trip, we pulled off the highway for a bite. While we were eating outside, a scabby, neck-tattooed couple approached us to say hello to Franny. As they reached out their open-sored hands to pet her, Crissy and I blushed at Fran's growl, which said what we were all thinking. "Hey meth heads. Beat it. We're trying to eat here."

We arrived at the hotel a few hours later, only to discover that they were hosting a Nylon Magazine party from 3pm-9pm. 22-year old pretend rich kids (Crissy tells me these people are called faux-cialites) poured through the front doors of the hotel, which was as soundproof as a cereal box.

Suddenly the entire place exploded with queeny gay guys wearing sunglasses indoors, startlingly anorexic girls shout-speaking with armfuls of ice-filled pint glasses, and people screaming conversations across hallways from open doors.

First we tried changing rooms. Which, in terms of annoyingness, was like going from firetruck sirens to firecrackers in a garbage can. When we couldn't take it one second longer, I went down to ask them to move us to their hotel's alternate location.

At first, the woman behind the counter was surprised. "The party only goes til 9," she said. "Yeah, I know. It's 3:30 right now." Puke, puke, glassbreak, puke. "Let me see if we have anything available."

We headed over to the other hotel, grabbed our key from the front desk, and poked our head into the room. The first thing we noticed was an unplugged tv on the floor, and a table in the fireplace. Crissy coined a new adjective, noting that it felt "a little serial killery."

We took a nap, awoke to what sounded like a herd of woolly mammoths stomping through the room above us, and took a peek outside. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees, covering the entire area with a thick, gray fog. Just then, the woolly mammoths began bashing their way down the wooden staircase directly in front of our window, cigarettes dangling off their lips. "Jesus. Look at these f*&#ing fatasses," I groaned as I twirled our miniblinds shut.

"Who said that?" one of them said to the other, stopping in front of our window. The insulation was so bad the window might as well have been open. "Did they just call us fatasses?" I hit the floor and army crawled to the middle of the room.

The missus and I weighed our options.

We could stay here, where the restaurants aren't as dog friendly as we'd hoped, it's 55 degrees, we might get mauled by a herd of pissed off wooly mammoths, if we don't get Dahmered in this hotel room first.

Or we could drive the 4 hours back to Manhattan right now.

So we bailed. What the hell. We got back to Tribeca around 10:15, dumped the Zipcar, flopped onto our couch, and enjoyed our non-serial killery surroundings.