Sometimes we think we're a little psychic. This week at RDV was one of those times. DJ Moss, Kiss, Chachi, KO, and Berrie spun, while we shuddered from powerful oracular insight.-
Yelp may be full of girls who say things like, "RDV . . . Would I ever come to the Meatpacking District and buy my own drinks?" but RDV's tight, secret-ish space is prime real estate for getting in touch with your inner Nostradamus/Ingo Swann/Miss Cleo.
Years later, she will lose her fingers in a George Foreman grill accident. "Why did I waste so much time flashing those foolish V-signs?" she will ask herself.
A wealthy count will see her dancing and, smitten, will whisk her away. Things will quickly go downhill because of his excessive drinking and all-consuming stamp collecting.
Wine will be spilled.
The young lady on the left will throw up; the man in blue will not care.
His future children will mock him for his youthful wardrobe.
They will have a falling-out over a missing curling iron.
Hugs. Lots of hugs.
The guy on the left will bleach his hair and be mistaken for Jay Mohr.
He will try to escape, but will be unsuccessful. The rest of the night will be spent curled into a fetal position in the corner, sobbing.
She will become a star and her husband, Kris Kristofferson, will be jealous.
She will eat the camera.
Soon she will regain the use of her legs.
In 2 seconds, his nose will be broken.
No one will believe how big the monster fish was.
This will end badly.
As an old, old man lying on his deathbed, he will reminisce to himself about those halcyon days when he still had teeth, and when he used them to chew shirts, and when he felt gloriously alive.
As an old, old man lying on his deathbed, he will reminisce to himself about those halcyon days when he still could walk and when he used them to let girls cling to his back, and when he felt gloriously alive, but also suffered from sharp lumbar pains.
He will be smushed.
[All photos courtesy of KirillWasHere]