Elitist Slumbers

There is a certain brand of ridiculous that can be found only on this island in two rivers. What’s more, there are stupendous, stupefying things that are acceptable in Manhattan and practically nowhere else. A club that looks like a bedroom where you sip cocktails while leaning against a headboard next to a total stranger? Oh, fine. A theater festival where ‘pretentious’ is the new ‘black’ (but, with ‘theater people,’ it’s never been new) and theater bloggers (here, here) come together to blog about theater blogging. I mean, that’s graight. Bring it to the apple, and it is almost guaranteed to attract some grade of hipster and last long enough to keep you warm in the limelight until they realize you’re hip and abandon you completely for some other ostensibly post-modern act of non-conformity.

Rant-isms aside, I base much of my attraction to New York on my affinity for the ridiculous (i.e Paula Deen, dinosaur comics). So, imagine my utter joy when I uttered the words (in all seriousness, folks),

“I would like a thirty-minute nap, please.”

That’s right, kids. I paid money to take a nap. But not just any nap. I’m talking the king of all naps. The nine-course-meal-at-Per Se-that-would-make-Alastair-hard kind of nap. A nap that put me in a reclining chair designed to make you feel weightless (zero gravity napping is pretty extreme) with 500-thread-count sheets and a cashmere blanket, allowed me to choose from soothing sounds as diverse as “whales calling” and “springtime meadow” (I opted for golden silence for my golden slumbers) woke me with a simulated sunrise, and left me in a mood so zen (near zen stupor) that even Columbus Circle at peak rush hour couldn’t break.

It’s true. I paid for a nap. Not out of necessity, but to display my love of New-ridiculous-York to the world with my half-hour, midday, $18.50 luxury purchase; out of a desire to feel ridiculous (which I certainly did when I stepped into Yelo at 57th and 8th, or, rather, stepped into what looked like the lovechild of 2001: A Space Odyssey and Barbie’s Dream House). When I left, I felt ridiculous, but in a super-bad-ass kind of way. Hell yes. I’m a New Yorker. And I can take a nap better than anyone else.

(PS, I know some of you are judging me. But, somewhere along the line, you’ve paid $12 for a Jack-and-Coke weaker than my grandma. Who’s ridiculous now?)

Yelo
315 W. 57th St.
Between 8th and 9th Avenues