The Rage of the Age

Yesterday after work, I arrived home and hadn't even gotten my shoes off when my roommate announced I was coming with her to an open-bar magazine party on the patio of the Soho Grand for "Sup", the creation of a friend of hers.  Afterwards, a large group made its way to Cipriani, a hotspot full of beautiful people that my friend who met up for drinks described as "a weird dream."  The crowd was thick and there seemed to be an entourage or two present.  Despite the overbooking and lack of reservation, my roommate was able to hook up a table for 7 in the back and free bellinis while we waited; I'm still not very clear on how this all happened, as I was working on a nice buzz at the time.  As we sat at our table I realized what the security outfit was for-- at the next table over was an album premiere dinner for a rapper, and there were "Won-G" posters scattered about their chairs.  I picked one up, along with a postcard bragging of his video single with Paris Hilton.  You absolutely need to check out his website, it's hilarious.

Won-G, the second oldest of Macneal and Evelyne's eleven children, was born in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. At three years old he fell from a seven-story window, miraculously landing on his feet. It is probably no coincidence that Won-G's Haitian birth name, Wondge, means "One True God".

...Probably.  A few hundred-dollar bottles of wine and a visit by Al Sharpton later, and my table was ready to have a little fun with theirs; skipping right to it, I am now in possesion of a signed Won-G album slip, across the top of which he had written for me his 310 area code cell phone number.  Won-G seemed a little overwhelmed, actually.  I think he thought everybody around him was in the music industry, even me, and his schmoozing skills were underdeveloped for the crush of Cipriani.   

The dinner was very good, but I was a bit too busy oggling to enjoy it very much.  The tab came to over a thousand dollars, but a wonderful couple my roommate met at the bar and had sit with us picked up half of it.  I was told to put away my wallet.  Last night was the sort of night I feel I ought to expect from New York City.  Now if I can just get the fuzz from my hangover off my brain... sitting here at work is killing me, even if I did sleep in until five minutes to 9.