This is the only Beaver within a square mile of where Alysha lives. The Castro is like Chelsea in NYC is except more-so. It's like gayness cubed. Or for you mathematically inclined folks out there (Castro = gayness3). Or as Grant put it "Gayer than Nathan lane in a rainbow visor eating a banana while rollerskating." Hahaha.
But when I wandered down for a closer look (hoping I could pick a fight and kick some fucking mime ass) I noticed the tiny writing underneath the logo. Haha.
After the show, Karen and I stopped to marvel (ok, and pose) with this amazing/confusing billboard. Maybe all those Neo-Nazis will finally cut the shit when they realize they're also alienating butch-lesbian Catholic priests with all their hate. (Wait, huh?)
Here's the enormous, creepy stuffed animal perched atop of the traffic signal box on the corner of Houston and Mulberry that I saw while walking up to Bar13 to meet up with...
On the walk home through Soho this sign was taped to the brick wall surrounding the St. Patrick's Old Cathedral cemetary. How funny is it that some old priest dude at the church was smart enough to know that he could immediately dissuade any wanna be urbanite "grafiti artists" from tagging the church's wall by suggesting it's something that a person from Staten Island would do? Hahahah. You know in his original draft, the last line said "Bless Your Respect, Bee-eye-otch!"
On the ride home we were glad to see that they finally installed a word of warning for any ladies that might be following us back to our place for a romp.
The house is located on the 4,000 acre Wyle ranch;bought by Frank Wyle, Jord's maternal Grandfather, in the 60s. (Frank is one of the guys who funded the
development of the calculator!Holy crap. And her cousin is the guy from ER. You know you love
him. Don't be shy, go on and join. You know you want to).
..."Joey Ramone Place." I love the Ramones, but this was a little much. Rather than get into a rant, instead I kindly point you in the direction of Eric Gillin's most-excellent essay on this.
Lesson Learned: Don't get drunk at karaoke while worrying about what you're going to do next to earn a living or you might find yourself...PLAYA PLEASE! I'm fucking joking. I just passed this sign that was out in front of a club on Bowery while walking home. (Ok, maybe I considered it for a second...I mean, biddies love St. Ides, right?) PS - What the fuck is "High Gravity" Malt Liquor?
On the car ride back to our resort, Grant suddenly started yelling "PULL OVER! PULL OVER!" I freaked out, thinking I had accidentally clipped a Cretan nun or something, screeched to a halt only to have Grant point excitedly out his window and say "Look dude, it's my store. It's called "Grant!" See? We totally gotta get a picture." (The best part of this picture, if you look carefully, you'll notice Grant is using both hands to point to himself. Hahah).
Ok. So check it: We're a few blocks from our resort and we suddenly notice a sign that wasn't lit-up earlier in the night. "Anyone object to seeing an, ummmm, Live Show?" I asked the car. No one seemed to mind, so I pulled into the parking lot. After seeing what the regular local girls' asses looked like, we couldn't wait to see the asses on the local stripper girls!
We rushed inside like giddy morons only to be confounded by an empty stage (complete with empty stripper-pole in the middle) next to a bar where a few older Greek man sat nursing drinks. We decided to sit down at the group of couches next to the stage and have a drink hoping things would pick up. No sooner had our bums touched the faux-leather of the overstuffed stripper-couches, did four girls simultaneously appear on our laps out of NOWHERE! Seriously. If you told me that they dropped from ropes out of secret trap doors inthe ceiling, I'd believe you. It was insane.
After giving us a moment to compose ourselves, the girls introduced themselves. Upon hearing their names, it became apparent that these weren't local girls. In fact, they all were from the former Soviet Union (at which point we started frantically looking around to make sure we weren't about to get Shanghaied by their ringleader, The Babyshaker!).
The girls suggested (more with gestural pantomiming than actual words) that we buy ourselves, and them, a round of drinks. We obliged and then watched the girls toss them down like sailors and ask (mime) for another. While Chris and I exchanged awkward glances, Fatty and Grants' "strippers" somehow managed to pry them away from the group and persuaded them to fork over more Euros for private dances at another cluster of couches a few yards away. Chris and I held our girls at bay and tried to make polite conversation (while at the same time trying to keep an eye on Grant and Fatty to make sure they didn't get their kidneys stolen). The two girls we were with literally didn't speak any English (or Greek for that matter). After learning their names and their respective countries, Chris took a stab at starting a conversation:
Chris to his Stripper: "Soooooo! You ever been to the States?" Chris' Stripper (excitedly): "Ah! You wanta the sex? €100 Euros!"
At which point we realized, "Hey! Wait a minute! This place isn't a stripclub!" We started giving Grant and Fatty (who at this point were both getting gouged another €20 each for their 2nd lapdances) the frantic "Let's get the fuck out of here!" nod to the door and got up to leave.
Live Show gets the thumbsdown! Here's us in the parking lot trying to assess the financial damage. Our four Russian "strippers" managed to fleece the four of us for a grand total of €120 in less than 20 minutes! And we still didn't manage to see any heines! We hopped in the car to drive the remaing 1/4 mile back to our resort, and in the moment of silence after we were finished laughing hysterically at what had just happened we all heard Grant say quietly to himself: "Hmmmmm. A hundred Euros, eh?" Hahahahaha.
After Hallgrimskirkja, Smari took us over to the outdoor sculpture garden at the Einar Jonsson Museum. He's Iceland's most famous sculptor and his work (which was from the very early 1900's) was pretty far out there.
On the way back to the subway we made a little detour and headed into Dylan's Candy Bar - which is pretty much the biggest candy store I've ever been in.
Around 6pm, after waiting for 90 minutes and still no power, the office was getting unbearably hot and we said fuck it and left. Grant, Triple-M (that's Mr. Michael Martin to you) and myself walked over to the East Village and started looking around for a place to eat. Somewhere on Avenue C we ended up being enticed by the promise of a "Black Out BBQ" and went in.