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I made a horrible mistake today.
You see, I love Indian food, and I live dangerously close to what is considered by most to be the best Indian restaurant in New York, Jackson Diner in Sunnyside, Queens. It’s only a short subway ride away. To make matters even more dangerous, they have an all-you-can-eat buffet for only $9.95 EVERY DAY UNTIL 4 PM!
I was weak.
But my stomach was weaker. Having been on the edge for weeks due to an antibiotic I’m on (I’m clean now, ladies!), it decided that curry was, in fact, not the answer it was looking for.
I spent this afternoon in an unholy combination of food coma and fever dream, with frequent pained jaunts to the bathroom. My intestines may never forgive me.
How in the world do Indian people get ANY work done, with that food of theirs? And if they get an upset stomach, is that just it for them? Do they shoot Indians when they can’t deal with spices, as if they’re a horse that’s splintered his femur?
‘Cause I think they do that in Korea.
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? 
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.
