Ok, let's start with the ridiculous over-swank of the building... There were no less than 3 finely tailored gentlemen working as concierges, and no less than 5 finely tailored persons (complete with white gloves) directing people through the lobby...which MIGHT have been 30 by 30 feet. Not exactly the tantamount to crossing the Sahara...but you wouldn't know to look.
...Then I wander in.
I'd classify my "style" as awesome. Or at least faux-hipster chic...or at least artsy. Ok, NOT hobo.
I feel pretty cool, I'm going to a party at the Trump tower, I got muh cool shoes on (only $14.95!):
My Mom's blue jacket circa 1970-something:
And my little green cowl that I done did knit:
I am rocking out hardcore, and yet...one of the many monkey butlers at the Trump tower immediately descended on me as soon as I tripped through the revolving door and very curtly asked me "Excuse me, can I help you...?"
In my super-cool-professional voice I respond:
Double chin is not part of a fanciful reconstruction. That shit comes for free.
Amid raised eyebrows I was directed to the elevators and the 10th floor. I received equal treatment at both of the open bars at the event... Listen guy, you pour drinks, and you pour them without smarm or you no get tip. Capiche? Oh no, you did NOT just raise your eyebrows at my fantastic striped shirt that was only $12.95... *sassy head bobble*
|I am classy as poop, yo.|
I don't what kind of a ship you run Trump, but I don't like it. Take your terrible hair and get out of my city.
Also, who changes an open bar event into a $13.50/wine event half way through? *tsk tsk tsk*