Several Christmases ago, my glamorous in-laws were living in the Big Apple, and it was great. Living in New York one often ends up spending most of one's recreation time barricaded in a 200 sq. foot apartment preying for sweet sleep to take the pain away, rarely taking advantage of all the city has to offer. Well, thanks to my in-laws, I was partaking in Gotham's cultural highlights at an unprecedented rate. All said and done, I saw Katie Holmes' "escape from Tom Cruise" play, a truly magnificent adaptation of August Wilson's The Piano Lesson, Alvin Ailey, and a musical parody of Silence of the Lambs replete with a lively musical number dubbed "If I Could Smell Her Cunt"(an ode to Miggs if you remember) and many more.
One night, however, we all did our own thing. While my in laws went to a flamenco show, Manimal submitted a few writhing men, and I inadvertently got happy hour drinks with my friend at a lesbian bar. When we all arrived home we compared our experiences via email. Here is the result.
The original email by my in-laws:
Flamenco in the Big Apple. If you're not interested, hit Ctrl Alt Del right now. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. To unsubscribe, reply saying Please Unsubscribe Me.
It was in Joe's Pub on Lafayette St. What a misnomer. A night club in a former municipal building. Superb restaurant upstairs--"The Library", with ribs to die for. Very eclectic crowd. Beside us, 2 elderly German ladies who went suddenly silent when we said that E. was from Lebanon. But the majority were hispanophone and shouted Olé wildly at every possible opportunity.
Men in black--a very talented guitarist (just one--this is not the Gypsy Kings); the singer (in constant agony, clearly he has major issues, since he kept clasping desperately at his lower rib cage); and, last but not least, the guy who claps with cupped hands for the entire show.
The star, the principal dancer; tall and lean in a tight-fitting tan suit; black untucked shirt, with sleeves hoisted to the elbows; black patent leather shoes with enormous wooden tap-dancing heels (gotta get a pair of those); Mick Jagger hair to the shoulders, only lots more greasy; and enough energy to light up Sevilla from dusk to dawn. Two women dancers; fiercely handsome, Gypsy style; gave the male dancer something to dance for.
The show lasted just one hour. The artists were exhausted--and so were we, the passive audience on our bar stools, with bourbon and mojitos. A stunning blonde on the adjacent barstool spilled her mojito on my Montebellucci tartan trousers. I very rapidly forgave her and struck up a lively conversation. She graciously agreed to walk home with me to West 12th street. End of music/dance review...
Brazilian Jiu Jitsu in Brooklyn. If you're not interested, hit Ctrl Alt Del right now. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. To unsubscribe, reply saying Please Unsubscribe Me.
I was late, but not too late. An evening at work trolling through real estate listings and gasping at their inaccuracies had taken its toll. As the train went over the bridge the bright lights were behind me, getting dimmer with the same steady cadence as the awkward half beats rhythmically burping from the tracks. Upon disembarking I scrambled through the streets dimmed by the elevated tracks that shadowed the eclectic array of fry shops and cell phone merchants. I walked, under the tracks, over the highway intersection, past the siren smell of the Peter Luger's (with steak to die for), to my destination - SOMA GYM. What a misnomer. This was not the Soma drug of Bradbury repute that made all problems seem trivial, this was a vast sweaty empire housed in a converted factory building with rust detailing.
The men, dressed in shorts and black skin tight shirts, wicked their sweat over the well worn mats. Once they saw me at the entrance door they all suddenly went silent, mouths swollen from containing their protruding neon mouthpieces. Formalities aside, I sat on the mats. At first, I moved enough to crack the winter's chill but not enough to instigate lethargy. After beating my cupped hands together repeatedly, I was ready to fight.
The star, the principal instructor, a thin well coiffed Mick Jagger, only a lot more dapper and with almost enough energy to light up Louisville, lorded over us with his instruction. He looked over our motley assortment and pushed us towards conflict; each man had an opponent, and each opponent would fight you with the violence of a bobcat but with the awkward intimacy reserved for a fleeting conquest. He kept our pace at a steady four minutes a round.
In the finale I looked across the wet mats to my final opponent. An overgrown Inca and Hispanophone enthusiastically greeted me while managing to spill his spit laden mouthpiece over my shorts. We looked long into each other's eyes, slapped hands in sport, and proceded to grapple with abandon. He gripped my wrist with his ape like hands and swatted me behind the head in an effort to conquer my defenses. We tugged, pushed, sprawled, and tumbled; each man was looking for an advantage until our wind expired or until the boxing bell reached its crescendo.
The session last over an hour. I was exhausted and so were my opponents. We went to an adjacent bar and drowned our bruises in beer. We rapidly forgave each other for the misplaced elbows to the teeth and thumbs in our eyes. Graciously, a broken opponent offered to drive me home to Sterling Place. End of grappling review . . .
The Cubby Hole- an unsolicited review of my own evening. Or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Village Lesbian Bar". If you're not interested, hit Ctrl Alt Del right now. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. To unsubscribe, reply saying Please Unsubscribe Me.
After work drinks with an old coworker in the Big Apple. Post performance evaluation at the cube farm and recent breakups requiring equal parts analysis and gin-soaked sympathy. The Cubby Hole on West 4th. What a misnomer. A modern day shanty adorned with oversized Christmas decorations and the pent up frustrations of the marginalized. Free pizza, and popcorn to die for. Very eclectic crowd.
Beside us, at first, two French lesbians baby talking "sotto voce" and letting the world pass them by. On the other, a bat faced older man trying valiantly to pass as a woman. His demure gold hoops at odds with his rangy body. But the majority were saphophones and sang along enthusiastically to The Divinyls.
A bathroom break. The subtle changeover from insouciant happy hour to something quite different. I return to the star: an inebriated young woman with the face of Justin Bieber and the personality of a young John Belushi was climbing the back of my empty chair with a capuchin agility. My "date" guffaws like a man angling for a bank loan.
Lily is in the Air Force and has just "made out hard for, like, 20 minutes" with her best friend Tanya who is now ignoring her. She is in constant agony, clearly she has major issues, since she keeps
pantomiming her prior make out session by turning her meager Mick Jagger-esque back to us and running her hands theatrically up and down it in a simulcra of two-personed lust.
Our session lasted just one hour. In that scant time, Lily endeavored to teach us the proper method of saluting, which seemingly required her to graze my companion's breasts repeatedly. Tanya, her indignation rendering her fiercely handsome in the mottled glare of the fairy lights, finally intervened asking if my lady friend and I were "together" and spilling her beer on my Montebellucci parts. I very rapidly forgave her and struck up a lively conversation regarding taking my friend to Minetta Tavern for a romantic dinner. Exhausted, we graciously agreed to step off, and left the unlikely lovers to beat
on, boats against the currents, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
End of watering hole review...