 "Photo: James Cavin")
In the past eight hours, I've been publicly and inappropriately touched against my will by members of both sexes, witnessed a street fight broken up by bicycle cops, missed my car ride and had a bird poop on me. Yeah - it's been an awesome night. Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I'm going to go shower off some of the shame. And by "shame," I mean, "pigeon excrement and drunk girl vomit and something that I'm going to tell myself is oatmeal because the alternatives are too frightening."
Northgate. A teeming mass of fetid corruption, if ever there was one. I've never really felt the desire to go to Northgate before, mostly because I've never felt the desire to be publicly violated by a man-rapist in a Bubba baseball cap and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. That, and I can never bring myself to order anything because there's some unstated rule that all mixed shots must be named after some combination of a disgusting biological function and a felony carrying no less than a 30-year sentence: "Yeah, I'll take the milky discharge, ***** ****ing bikini, ***** serial strangler ******* on a beach and two bloody ****ulations." For the record, that last one is equal parts Bailey's and Tabasco.
OK, I'll admit that "man-rapist" might be exaggerating things a little. All he really did was try to undress me, and I didn't stick around to find out what the rest of his plans were, even though he was probably just making them up on the fly.
"Thanks," I said, making a mental note to purchase a combination Taser/emasculator device at the next possible chance.
"GHDGHSSK," he said, a vacant look on his face and a single shimmering line of drool running down his Three Musketeers-style goatee and onto Led Zeppelin's drummer.
Unfortunately, I didn't have time to start a street fight. I was on the job, (maybe he was, too.) I was undercover, reporting on the secret seedy world of Northgate. There were only two rules for my assignment: 1) Don't drink anything; 2) Write down everything that happens. I needed a clear head and an unbiased observer's perspective. I also needed this freak to stop unzipping my clothes.
I had been pacing up and down the strip for a quarter of an hour. I couldn't decide which establishment to patronize, mostly because they all looked identical: inebriated individuals wearing far less clothing than their frame required grinding on each other. I almost broke my no-drinking rule so I could wash the vomit taste out of my mouth. The only place that looked even somewhat original was the sushi restaurant that apparently turns into a bar, Transformers-style, at night. All I know is I walked by and there was a huge line outside of it, alongside a "21 & Up" sign. That's some serious sushi.
"Hey there, sailor, can I interest you in some adult seafood?"
"AAAAHHHH!!! THE TENTACLES!"
"Looking's for free...but the California rolls are gonna cost ya."
"Adult Sushi...for those who like it raw."
Finally, I wandered into a random bar because the bouncers on the street were starting to look at me suspiciously as I passed them for the third time. If there's one thing I don't like looking at me suspiciously, it's a 250-pound, six-foot-five-inch guy in a black T-shirt with a look on his face that says, "I overcompensate for anatomical deficiencies by committing random acts of violence and talking really loud at movie theaters." (However, if it was a red T-shirt, I'd take my chances.
Random aside: great money-making scheme - put on a black T-shirt and a surly expression and stand outside of a bar collecting a $2 cover charge from people too drunk to tell that you're three inches and 100 pounds underweight for the job and only overcompensate for anatomical deficiencies by making snarky comments behind people's backs.)
Anyway, I ended up walking into this joint called the "V Club." What does the "V" stand for? My guess: Venereal Club. Motto: gotta catch 'em all. Actually, based off of experience, that guess really isn't far off from the truth. Inside, things got really dicey, but that's another story entirely.
Be sure to tune in tomorrow for my follow-up article, "Finding Love on Northgate: how to get your butt fondled by a complete stranger."
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