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While I was at ImaginAsianTV, the more Asian-centric co-workers often complained how there were so few Asian entertainers in America. The answer is because Asians aren’t funny.
Oh sure, there are occasional exceptions here and there. But let’s face it, most Asian guys are so whipped by their mothers that they will seldom do anything in school that doesn’t involve studying. This pattern repeats itself throughout their lives. I call it Asian Mother Syndrome (AMS).
However, this type of person can STILL be quite entertaining. But you won’t be laughing with them. You’ll be laughing at them.
With that, I present to you… Si Chun Lam. The reason why the people who made Garageband and iMovie are going to hell. Enjoy.
So last night Trevor and I ended up at his local bar Black Rabbit because it was our bartender friend Karen’s last day. After she closed the bar we were deciding on what to do next, and when someone suggested food, I whipped out my new iPhone to see what UrbanSpoon suggested.
The first suggestion ended up being a joke entry: Gentleman’s Club VIP, the brothel that got Eliot Spitzer busted. Karen was excited to visit a strip club, though, so with three of us on our smartphones, we quickly researched other area alternatives. We found one by her place: an adult bar in Williamsburg called “Pumps.” We were especially intrigued by one online review…
“Everybody loves a strip club. Even Pumps, with its tasteless women who forget how to take care of their bodies. This is the only place that I’ve been to where the girls have bigger gutts than the men do. I mean come on now, we go to strip clubs to see pretty women and instead we see the average woman, with sloppy bodies and over priced drinks. Its OK if you like to just do it for the hell of it, but don’t get so upset when you realize that the stripper you saw at Pumps is also the one bagging your groceries.”
Karen got visibly excited when she read that. We piled (literally) into Matty’s tiny car and made our way to Pumps, which looked as seedy as one could imagine of a place. We walked in, got our ID’s checked, got padded down by a 400 lb. security guard, and went in. No cover charge, no dress code.
The place looked like the sort of strip bar you find along an interstate hundreds of miles from the nearest city. The girls looked pretty much exactly like the type that would otherwise be working at a fast food joint. All the stripper poles were behind the bar, along with mirrors with so much caked on grease and handprints they looked like they were from a preschool. Instead of putting dollar bills in their G-strings as they dance, they finish their set and come up to the bar and mash their tits together so you can put the dollar bill in their cleavage and feel them at the same time. I did that once or twice. It was like handling rocks through a latex glove.
Trevor volunteered me to get a lap dance and report on the experience, knowing that I’d probably be offensive about it and be the last one to be grossed out by the experience (and sadly, he was probably right). I selected the girl in front of me, who had just completed her entire dance with an empty Corona bottle stuck between her butt-cheeks (hot!), and waved her down. The cashier asked me for $20, which I gave her, and was handed a token, redeemable for a lap dance. It felt like I was buying school lunch. Which was appropriate, since I was clearly about to get a lap dance from a school cafeteria worker.
All the lap dances took place in this dark little back room. I sat down uncomfortably, and as she ground into my crotch, I started to gross out a little, but at the same time worried about offending her. I glanced around to the other creepy guys getting lap dances and noticed they all had their hands all over their dancers, so I did that a bit too. She then turned around and squeezed my face between her breasts a few times. She didn’t smell bad or anything, but thinking what else those breasts had touched THAT NIGHT made me a little queasy. I just could NOT enjoy this. It was too gross.
Five minutes later I wandered out and sat down with a dazed expression on my face. A few minutes went by. Trevor turned and asked me, “did pretty much every rule just go out the window?”
“Full contact,” I agreed. I thought for a minute. “It’s sort of like taking a shit at Port Authority without a protective seat cover.”
Right as I said this, the music faded out. And suddenly EVERYBODY could hear me. Awkward silence. I looked around. My dancer wasn’t in sight, but I was SURE the cashier heard me. I sheepishly sat down as Trevor and our friend Matty cracked up.
Karen and Sam both got lap dances as well, but I was pretty much done. It was really late. After a 20 minute wait for the car service to arrive, I went home, grateful I hadn’t been mugged or contracted herpes. That I know of. Karen went to the bathroom there and took a picture of a sign that said, “don’t bother squatting, our crabs jump 30 feet!”
How was your tuesday night? 
If everybody is playing an organized game, but slowly getting drunk, make sure you’re the LAST one who still wants to play. Then you will win.
A really lame dirty martini resulted in nearly 24 hours of gastronomic instability, a sure sign that I ain’t a kid no more. That, and Absolut is really terrible shit.
On the awesome nerdy side of things, that last blog post? Done on my iPhone. In a cab. I am a gigantic nerd.
I went out to a gathering with my buddy Trevor tonight and totally succeeded in being that guy that everyone has to learn the name of, but otherwise completely blends into the background unnoticed by everyone. Go me!
HELLO. MY NAME IS HEALTHY REQUEST®. I TASTE LIKE BABY VOMIT.
You know what you get when you take the sodium out of chicken noodle soup? FUCKING WATER. THICK, NASTY WATER WITH PIECES OF OLD CARROT AND DEAD BIRD.
And fuck me for buying 4 cans by accident.
I freely admit to being a little metro. But I don’t think it’s metrosexual to be a little upset by still getting zits when you’re approaching 30. So a few weeks ago I went to a dermatologist. He told me to use this stuff called Gly-Derm. It basically involves lightly spraying your face with acid before bed.
It’s not pleasant. In fact, it stings in this annoying surface-deep sort of way that almost feels like an itch. But damn does it work. My face is less greasy, to the point where I don’t think I could smear an issue of Newsweek with my forehead anymore. (Yes I can and yes I have.)
If I look like Darkman next time you see me, we’ll know this went too far.
I like karaoke. Really, I do. But man was not made to do it for six hours at a stretch.
Case in point: I joined my friend Eddie, his wife and a couple of his friends at Duet on the East Side. 6 hours.
I wanted to die around hour five. But boy, did I belt out every Jim Steinman song that I could find. Eddie’s friends (all Japanese) sang about every Blue Hearts song they could find. Petrina came late, fresh from dealing with the maid club affiliated with NYAF. She was as ready to kill people as I’d ever seen her (which means that she was still soft-spoken), fresh from having to deal with ridiculous drama queens whose sole claim to fame is dressing like a fucking little french maid.
I’m tired. My iPhone is tired. We all deserve a break.
I have decided to write a blog for two reasons: first, to stave off the apathy that working from home has allowed to break into my life and make itself at home like a semi-abusive uncle that farts a lot and calls you a heathen for listening to pop music. Second, I find myself full of thoughts most days that seem interesting at the time and never seem to go anywhere. I figured it would be nice to have a place to share them, so that others may tell me that they are not, in fact, interesting at all.
Case in point: today I bought an iphone. Five hours in line to pay $400 (as I did not qualify for the cheap pricing, having bought a new RAZR only a year ago and having had it die twice in that time), spent mostly with nice, agreeable people. This included a big friendly Russian acupuncturist with bad breath and a few assorted nerds and normal people. Truth be known, I didn’t mind one bit. They made for occasional good conversation, shut up (most of the time) when I decided to escape by putting on my earphones, and with the nice weather and the atmosphere of a sunny afternoon just outside Central Park in the summer, it was just the day out of the apartment I badly needed. Even if it WAS 5 hours on my feet.
About a line length ahead of me was this group of unholy over-educated group of young adults. (I’d use the term “yuppies” if it didn’t both date me and include me.) They were loud, and discussing current movies. “Did you see Batman? Oh, it was good, but not as good as Batman Begins. And Heath Ledger? He was great. I heard he went nuts playing the role, that’s why he killed himself. He’s a method actor, you know. That’s when you basically live that character all the time! Yeah, I heard he didn’t sleep for weeks. Who’s that other actor who does that… uh… you know, he was in National Treasure. Nick Cage! That’s it.”
After taking in about as much of this inane and stupid banter as I could stand, I put on my earphones to silence it, tuning my iPod to one of the 3 songs I’m currently obsessing over. I examined them closely, and assumed they had to have attended a good, if not Ivy League college, and clearly thought the world of themselves. This was an assumption proved accurate when the proclaimation of one female in the group, “Oh my god, we are SO movie critics!” managed to break through the protective wall of my earphone. I looked down, noticing that one guy was wearing these obnoxious shorts, the kind they carry at Macy’s next to the penny loafers. White plaid shorts with leather sandals.
Nobody who wears shorts like that is a good person. These people single-handedly reminded me why I will forever avoid the suburbs. Catty, self-important know-it-alls. So, for that, I thank you. Mr. Asshole Shorts.
If you wear them, it is because you are a douche.
