Thursday morning, I woke up and was actually relieved that there was no Knicks or Rangers game that night. I had gotten tired of going to sleep annoyed at close playoff losses every night. So, in my mind, Thursday would involve getting home from work, watching some TV, then going to bed nice and early.
But, I got a text.
It was about 5:30 in the afternoon. SCP friend and commenter, BShrek, had an extra ticket to see the band CAKE that night. I met him at 7:20 at a restaurant on the Upper West Side. He was with two “Daddy Friends” (a term defined as the husbands of women his wife had befriended while the women partook in various Mommy activities with their young children.) They were nice guys, but were clearly more excited to be getting out the house than they were to see CAKE. That point was driven home when one of the guys asked “what band are we seeing?”
The show was at a venue called Terminal 5, which is a big open room with three floors and bars all over the place. This fact contributed to what I thought was a slightly subpar show. The band really didn’t “have” the crowd at any point. A lot of people were talking the entire time. That includes the married couple BShrek and I ended up standing next to. At one point, they ordered shots. The woman was just holding hers. So, I grabbed it and drank it. This was before we had even spoken to them yet. I just saw a shot in front of my face and grabbed it. Luckily, that worked as an ice breaker instead of making the husband punch me. So, we were friends now. At one point, she mentioned that she had recently gotten implants (It was pretty obvious before she mentioned it,) and her husband decided she should show them to another woman standing next to us. We were very excited for a moment, but then the wife vetoed that plan.
Speaking of giant fake titties, BShrek’s two friends got bored about 5 songs in to the concert, so they left and went two blocks down to the Hustler club (an establishment where incest victims and Russian immigrants dance exotically for money). When the show ended, we went to meet them. One of the “daddy friends” decided to buy us lap dances. Multiple lap dances. 2 or 3 each. It was very nice of him.
At one point, BShrek and I made our way to the men’s room, for bathroom going purposes. While we were standing at the urinals, one of the strippers walked in, as if that was a normal thing, and asked the attendant for a Snickers Bar.
Yes, that happened. Not only did a 7/8ths naked woman walk into a disgusting men’s room full of people who had spent the evening having their libidos tickled and now had their penises out, but she did it to get a snack.
At this point, it was getting late. BShrek and one of the other guys decided they wanted to go home. That left me and the lapdance payer. He asked me where I lived, and when I told him I lived in the city, he asked if I wanted to go grab something to eat. I figured he meant the diner, but he said he wanted a steak. I said ok. He said he knew a place, so we jumped in a cab.
It was midnight.
It turns out, The place he knew is a restaurant called Abe and Arthur’s in the Meatpacking district. When we pulled up, there was a huge crowd outside. Exclusively hot chicks and rich dudes. I was concerned, but the guy I’m with just skips the line and walks inside, so I follow. We take a seat at the bar, and both order steaks and drinks and sides, then proceed have a fantastic meal, while making random small talk. At this point, we realize neither of us even knows the other guy’s name. So, we re-introduce ourselves.
When the check comes, he doesn’t even let me look at it. Just pays. It was at least 200 bucks, probably more. But, hey, I sprang for the cab on the way there, so that’s cool.
Then, we walk out, grab separate cabs and leave. And that’s it.
Just another quiet Thursday night.
Steve Rushin takes a really serious and important issue and decides to make a joke out of it. I understand that he was trying to make a greater point about the added scrutiny all public figures face in the internet age, but he could have done it more artfully. This reads as if Kobe Bryant calling someone a “fucking faggot” in public is equally bad as a coach getting caught picking his nose.
And while we are on the subject of Bryant’s outburst, I think it’s important to make a distinction. Kobe did not make a homophobic comment, he made an anti-gay comment. Homophobes are worried that the gays are infiltrating our way of life and our coming to get them. That’s not what Kobe did. He used the concept and identification of homosexuality as an insult. It’s different. If you call me a Kike, you’re not a hebrophobe. You’re a dick.
The Quarterback Quandry by Peter King
I simply don’t care about the NFL draft. Why would I get excited about some lineman the Giants are going to draft in the 7th round, when there’s an excellent chance that I won’t see the team play for at least another year. Am I going to remember this guy’s name then? No. And when the first round is underway, I’ll be watching Steve Carell’s last episode of “The Office,” anyway.
Jake Locker Was It Worth The Wait? by Jim Trotter
Here’s a quote from Locker’s dad, Scott, which I think sums up everything I hate about football culture.
“There was always that little jab that says, Too bad he’s never going to reach that goal,” says Scott. “People are quick to jump on something when it goes wrong, even if someone has done the right thing. I had a lot of people say, ‘Does he just not think about his future and setting up the people around him to have things?’ Jake knows you’ve got to do the things that make your life rich and not worry about being rich.”
Buck Showalter on how the Orioles would have been viewed for a possible story at ESPN, where he was an analyst before taking over as Baltimore’s manager last season: “I’ve been in those meetings where they go, ‘Listen, the Orioles aren’t going to be in this for very long, so let’s go ahead and do a piece on them.'”