My Almost Fabulous Night With the Almost Apprentice

Saturday night found S. and I at a pseudo-hip club when someone grabbed me, kissed my hand and began to dance with me. Or rather, began to dance around me. I stood perfectly still and watched him, my usual approach to the very drunk.

"S." I whispered. "He looks familiar. I think I may have gone to high school with him." She rolled her eyes. Our requisite gay male sidekick leaned into me.

"That’s Raj, the bow-tie guy from The Apprentice," he hissed. "Idiot."

Raj tried to pull me closer. D-list celebrity or no D-list celebrity, he was incredibly short. "Um, this is my boyfriend," I said, giving GMS a huge hug. GMS (very gayly) licked my cheek in a gesture of support.

With a little "I am so too cool to care" shrug, Raj turned to JP, another girl in S's and my little group. They tangoed about the dance floor. Things began to get blurry.

Soon enough Raj was trying to make out with JP and his trust fund friend was beginning to hit on me, the boyfriend pretext having dissolved as soon as GMS had a few drinks and began running around the club grabbing the asses of cute boys. Being a multi-tasker, I was also trying to call Ex-Boyfriend while convincing S. that I was not, in fact, calling Ex-Boyfriend.

Suddenly Raj and his trust fund friend announced they were leaving. Really, we were all too drunk and happy too care.

Until Raj leaned into JP and murmured seductively, "We’re going to Bungalow 8."

Though I was about 10 feet away, I heard this the way dogs hear high-pitched whistles that go unnoticed by ordinary humans. It was piercing. "We’re coming" I yelled involuntarily. It was how I've always imagined a fit of Tourette’s would feel.

I found it hard to believe that Bungalow 8, who let no one in except the most rich, fabulous and slutty people, would bend that rule for Raj and whatever vagabonds he picked up off the street. But how could I not try?

I filed into a cab with Raj, JP and Trust Fund. GMS and S. followed in another cab. (S. told me they literally followed. As in, she jumped in and yelled "Follow that cab." The driver looked at her like she was an asshole but complied. He sensed it was important.)

In our cab, Raj began to sing "Glory, glory hallejuah." When he gestured for others to join in, I shared a look with JP, but ultimately we sang along, smiling. You sing for Bungalow 8.

Of course when we got there, a bouncer stuck his head outside the door, looked Raj up and down, said flatly “We’re closed,” and then closed the door.

Huh. I had thought as much.

Switching tactics, we went to Marquee, where the trust fund friend bought table service for us all, probably to prove that though not cool enough to get into Bungalow 8, he was cool enough to throw money around for the benefit of people he did not know. We downed the over-priced vodka to wash away the shame of getting turned away at the door while other club goers actually took pictures of Raj with their little cell phone cameras. I suppose I am no one to judge since I probably appeared to be a groupie of some sort. But who knew he had groupies at all? He was on a reality show and he didn’t even win.

I amused myself the rest of the night by fucking with the trust fund friend like so:

"Do you like JP’s shirt? It’s Gucci." It was from The Limited.
"Yeah, it’s great. Do you like my shoes, they’re Gucci too." They were white leather and hideous.
"Yeah, they’re great."

Though ordinarily annoying, the various iterations of this conversation became absolutely hysterical to me, and really, that’s all that matters. And free vodka. Free vodka always matters.