I am convinced there are two types of people in New York City. Those that go places and those that know places. Butang is always up on his shit. He knows what restaurant to go to, what club just opened, or something fun to do on Avenue A. In short, he knows places. I have no fucking idea about any of that sort of stuff, so when he (or anyone else) says we’re going somewhere I go. In short, I go places.
Both of these types of people have advantages and disadvantages. A “knower” has the ability to steer plans around their social agenda as well as knowingly avoiding places they do not like. A “goer” doesn’t have to waste time being up on things, and they don’t have to worry about making plans for the evening. While “knowers” and “goers” may disagree at points, each person is vital to the other’s social survival. Knowers need goers to go, and goers need knowers to know.
In New York City, social survival is really what it’s all about. Because of the nature of the scene, it is often whom you are with and where you are that determines your social worth. For example, if I told you I was at Bar Harbor with some kids from Vanderbilt, you’d think I was tooling it up with a bunch of white shoe wearing rich kids. If I told you I was at Urge with some friends, you’d know I had come out of the closet and was a full-fledged homosexual. But if I told you I was at Happy Ending with my boys, you would be incredibly confused. Am I in Chinatown getting a man-chowder inducing massage or am I out at a bar?
The correct answer lies somewhere in-between and that brings me to the point of this article. Club names in New York are out of control. It’s one thing to be trendy and chic, its quite another when that chic becomes intentionally misleading. I have picked out some prime examples of this foolishness for your enjoyment.
· Fat Baby: “I went to Fat Baby last night and it was awesome.” “Did you say Fat Baby?” It doesn’t matter how good of a time you ever have at Fat Baby, people won’t listen past “Fat Baby”. Try saying, out loud: “My favorite club in New York City is Fat Baby”. You smiled right? You can’t even take yourself seriously when you say it. There is no way Fat Baby is ever going to be taken seriously, it sounds like someone's talking shit at a briss......no schlomo.
· Kiss and Fly: The first time I heard this name, I thought it was the strip club next to Laguardia. You know the one where they give you $3 lap dances during takeoffs and landings? The rumbling makes it extra sexy time! Since then I have found out that it’s a dance club in the Meat Packing District. That makes for a whole new definition. People are basically high on cocaine (flying) and making out all over the place (kissing). It doesn’t sound like a bad time, just not what I’m looking for at this point in my life. Cocaine is one hell of a drug.
· Naked Lunch: I was stunned when I showed up in my birthday suit at 1pm and was turned away. What the fuck? I know its exclusive and all, but they didn’t need to embarrass me like that.
· Trailer Park: I was really excited when this club opened. I was picturing hardcore rappers free styling and coming up in the game. Methed out women and alcoholic dudes in plaid shirts. However, when I walked in it was immediately evident that they didn’t even try to make it like 8 Mile. Poor form.
· Burp Castle: I drank like three bottles of Schweppes Club Soda before I commenced my session at this darling establishment. I got in there, started belching my face off, and they sent a bouncer over to tell me to shut up. I informed him I felt slighted because it wasn’t a castle fit for the King of Burps. He told me to go fuck myself.
· The Four Faced Liar: Or as I like to call it “Two Face Liar Squared”, I always keep my wits about me when I’m hanging out here. Any place that has a dishonest name probably has some dishonest creatures running around. Sure enough, while I was there I saw OJ Simpson. It’s whack that he lied about assaulting that dude in Vegas, makes you wonder if he ever did anything else fucked up.
· Café Wha?: I think the proprietor of said establishment had a string of other clubs. Maybe like twenty of them, and when it came time to name this one he was working on like three things at the same time. Some dipshit assistant asks him: “What do you want to name that new club?” At that point he was ordering lunch and says into the phone: “I want Café…” then he turns to the assistant and goes “wha?” There you have it, pretty stupid rationale, but whatever. Personally I like the French Canadian take: Café Roy.
· Fresh Salt: I knew a guy who insisted on being a dick at restaurants. He used to ask waitresses for extra scallions. Other times he would have waiters go find out what types of milk they had. After the poor guy came back, he’d ask for Root Beer. Quite possibly his funniest line used to be when he asked for salt because: “I hear this place has the freshest salt in the world! People come here for the salt, right?” Sometimes I like to wonder how much excrement he’s eaten in his lifetime as a result. Gallons.
I really don’t like clubs I prefer bars. Their names are so much less confusing and so much more realistic. That’s why you can catch me at The Hairy Monk; it’s a religious experience, but less Joel Osteen and more Carolingian Renaissance. That’s perfection, I’m Theodore Jones, and this is The Gumption.
We got some SUPER DINGLE BERRIES coming at your face tomorrow! Duck!
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