Attack of the Weeble Wobble

Special K and I recently went to see Thievery Corporation in Central Park. It was a blast, and a fascinating anthropological experiment, as we were introduced to a cross-section of New York City that apparently doesn't make it out of the house very often.

One guy was puking all over himself by 7 p.m. Hhhmmmm...know your limit and drink (or do enough drugs to kill a horse) within it, boss. We also saw a guy who was a few scant hairs away from being a certified little person, dancing like a maniac. He was fascinating--neither a certified little person, nor a short man, but somewhere in between. Trip that light fantastic, Mandget! Throw in a few Stevie-Nicks-ensemble-wearing, henna-tattooed, world-music-loving ingenues whirling around in intensely self-interested fashion for good measure and voila!--just another bizarro evening at Summer Stage.

After the show we headed to the LES (somebody stop us!!), to Fat Baby, where a not-too-shabby DJ was spinning a crazy variety of tunes. Sashaying onto the dance floor, we were promptly accosted by a bobbing Weeble Wobble from Jerusalem, complete with giant Hasidic curls that hung to his Santa belly and a raging case of halitosis. A tiger-striped cowboy hat rounded out his singular look nicely, and he bounced up and down like a pogo ball as he tried to lure us into the forbidden dance...or any dance, for that matter.

Not feeling the love, I broke into a signature acrobatic, jumping-rave-style dance in attempt to shake him—which worked, as he turned his attention to Special K. Rocking out next to my 6-foot-tall blonde friend in all of his 5-foot, Hasidic-Weeble-Wobble glory, he was quite the Robin to Special K's Batman, and the entire bar was transfixed by the sight.

Not to be upstaged, I decided to break out my Emasculate-the-Moron Move: the secret-butt-pirate pelvic thrust/arm-curl pump. With a lion's cunning, I stealthily sneak up on men who have been torturing us or other women on the dance floor, and pretend to, well, "pull a Sodom" on them dramatically from behind, unbeknownst to them, for the entertainment of fellow patrons (I'm here all week, people!) and my own personal satisfaction. My mission was successful on both counts, and went entirely unnoticed by my unharmed victim.

As if the Hasidic-Weeble-Wobble-seduction-dance episode wasn't enough excitement for one evening, I was then temporarily stalked by a creepy scarecrow with wiry dreadlocks, skin-tight white jeans, striped sunglasses, and elfin cowboy booties (Singular Look #2). Regretfully mired in freaky percocet-induced catatonia, he whispered to me, in true serial killer form: "I like the way you daaaaannnncccce-aahhh. Can I buy you a driiinnnkkk-aahhh?" No thanks, Romeo.

He said he couldn't open a tab unless he drank $30 worth of drinks and didn't have enough cash on him, so he was hoping I would help him meet the minimum. I said I wasn't drinking anything but water, so he'd need to find someone else to help him out or find an ATM. He asked where he could find one. It's NYC, Sherlock—here's to betting you can track one down.

I returned to dancing and he continued leering at me as if hypnotized, his 25"-waist white jeans illuminating the dance floor like the Northern Lights. Awesome.

Special K and I were eventually rescued by a super-sweet guy with a great sense of humor, whose comment upon observing the Hasidic Weeble Wobble was, "You gotta love this town." Indeed.