A bar to avoid

This evening, I ventured into the heart of darkness and was witness to levels of douchebaggery I haven't seen since sneaking underage into cheap, student bars in DC to take advantage of all-you-can-drink rail vodka. The Cellar Bar, in the Bryant Park Hotel, set the scene for the mating rituals of drunk former nerds who are now financial services professionals. I haven't seen so many bad dance moves and so much dry humping since college. Fine, just walking in the door, I knew what I was getting, but I had to be there for two drinks regardless. The population was split evenly between ex-frat guys and sorority girls and middle-aged dudes who probably wished they weren't wearing their wedding rings. Not my scene. Ever. At least now I know where they all congregate and can avoid it like the bubonic plague. The best was when I was waiting in line to retrieve my jacket from the mandatory coat check. A group of four overly-groomed girls and two very drunk, wobbly guys named [no kidding] Brad and Todd, were getting irate because the beleaguered coat check girl took more than thirty seconds to locate Todd's man bag. Yes, I just spent an hour and a half of my precious life in the same bar as a guy named Todd who carries a navy blue dude purse and refers to it as such. It was as if a J-Crew catalog fused with a Ketel One ad and these people were the unholy product of the union. Even though that time is gone forever, I have to say that the Riesling wasn't half-bad and the hand soap in the bathroom smelled pretty.