OK. So it’s New York, right? And there’s all these posh bars and lounges where, if you survive the scrutiny of the enormous lunkheaded individuals guarding the door while self-important, bluetooth-earpieced publicists brandishing clipboards peer at you over designer eyewear, you are admitted to the privilege of purchasing diluted, undersized “premium” cocktails, sometimes served in plastic cups, for fifteen or twenty dollars a pop. I know, it sounds like a great time, right? Well, for one thing, there’s a lot of fast money floating around this town in the hands of people who don’t know what else to do than flash it. But more importantly, only suckers actually pay full price. (A rule that applies in many settings, by the way.) The real action is when media houses, PR firms, banks, and other capitalist swine upstanding corporate citizens rent out these establishments for parties where those fortunate enough to be on The List may eat and drink unlimited and gratis, and leave with at least a big goodie bag of schwag, or better, a couple of business leads and maybe someone to share some drunk sex with at night and figure out how to get rid of in the morning.
In this world, where if it didn’t happen in the Flatiron or Meatpacking districts it might as well not have happened at all, and you’re always just in from Los Angeles, just off to London, or more likely, working as a flak for the people who truly are, this world snarkily yet slavishly celebrated by outlets like Radar magazine and Gawker.com, there reside, as you might imagine, some less than savory characters. For let’s face it: Delusions of grandeur, fantasies of power and sophistication, lots of booze, hotties, free stuff — the scene is a hustler’s delight.
And so it came to pass that a hustler rose to great heights.
And that hustler was desi.
A kind soul posted a link to the story of Priyantha Silva on the news tab yesterday, but with a description so laconic that few of you may have been drawn to click it. Really it should have said: READ THIS! THIS SHIT IS RIDICULOUS, HILARIOUS, CLASSIC! Realizing this, a number of Sepia stalwarts have been emailing us demanding that we blog it. But really, it’s one of those stories that doesn’t warrant blogging. It stands alone. It speaks for itself. How could we improve on it? So without further ado, I direct you to the Ballad of Brother Priyantha, and await your wise commentary.
