the eXile - bar-dak - Vijay Maheshwari

Issue #20/101, October 12 - 26, 2000

b a r r e v i e w
By Dan Higgins

SCORE!!!

Higgins101

So I finally scored a bag. It took me fucking two weeks of intense searching, and I mean I was fiending. And then some guy comes up to me on the street and hooks me up right by Lubyanka. Talk about ironic. At first I thought that it was just some fucking oregano that I paid like R500 for, but I started feeling the effect once I started drinking a bit. I guess it’s Russian weed or something, you gotta get fucked up to get fucked up, you know.

By the time I was on my way to Strike, this new bowling club, I already had put away a couple brewskys and was feeling real good. But the car let me out a ways from the club and I had to walk there myself. It’s in this real shitty neighborhood and I started to get all paranoid and shit. I mean, fuck, it was like the hood. No lights anywhere and some dogs going fucking nuts in a parking lot and I started to think that they were going to break their chains and take off after me. You know that feeling when your shoulders start getting all hunched and you can’t do anything? That’s what I was feeling. Dude, this was fucking KGB weed, I mean that’s how paranoid I was.

I know being in some shitty neighborhood doesn’t mean a place sucks. I mean, Graf Orloff is in the middle of fucking nowhere but they have a bad collection of Cubans in the city. And I don’t mean bad bad. But that’s not the point. I mean, the point is I was wigging out.

I must have looked for an hour. When I finally found this place I figured I could relax. But no fucking way. There are all these fucking stylish journalists who wouldn’t know a bowling ball from a bong, because it’s some fucking grand opening for this Strike. At least that meant everything was free. Which was pretty fucking cool.

But I mean, they’re all these journalists who don’t even want to talk to me, even though I am obviously the only fucking person there who knows what a fucking full length lane is supposed to look like. And it doesn’t look like the lanes at Strike. I mean, these were about the length of a shuffleboard court. Even with these junior league lanes, no one got over a 50. Except me, of course. I mean, this ritzy place has shit like these monitors that you can watch yourself on a replay, but they can’t figure out a regulation bowling lane. What a fucked up country. I say give me regulation and some pitchers of Natty Light, and I’ll bowl all night.

But everything being like it was, I decided to jet early. The pot was wearing off; those fucking matchboxes aren’t good for much more than a joint. Besides, I told a couple brothers of mine who were in town for the weekend to meet me at Champion, where they opened new part of the club called Cube.

So I took off and it turns out that my couple bros turned into four. Two Phi Delts from ASU were in town for the weekend and they came along for the ride. So we go in Champion to find this Cube, which is way at the end, back by the bowling lanes (which looked about the right size). Some nervous looking manager chick brought us into the club, which has - get this - separate face control from Champion, and we settled in to start drinking.

It was cool even if the music sucked and the boys at home can design better interiors for the annual luaus. Cool, until some fucking African dude there tried to tell me that I didn’t work at the eXile. He was all like, I know Mark, as if only one guy works at the eXile. He tried to humiliate me in front of my bros. He even wanted to kick out my bro cause he came in sneakers. I say, if it’s called face control why are they looking at my bro’s feet?

I used some of my charm though, and he laid off. And just to piss the fuck off, we started running up a tab drinking free margaritas even though I fucking hate margaritas. Don’t be stingy with Higgins. You should have seen the fucking waitress - she looked like she was going to get beating from the African manager after we left. Too bad, cause she was pretty cute.

In Cube, there were actually a lot of them, cute chicks I mean. I couldn’t tell the difference between them and the whores, but there were a lot of both; you know those places with no cover. Actually, I almost got myself smacked propositioning this one bitch who was painted up like a whore even if she didn’t take money.

I was like, where you from, and she didn’t even answer me. So I asked her how much. You should have seen how mad she was, but she just looked away. As if I don’t know that every chick has her price. So I named mine, and that’s when she said something unprintable and took off.

I was drinking with my bros, though, so I didn’t really give a shit about being rejected. There was no need to rent a VIP room, so to speak, even though Champion has plenty. We keep up with the margaritas, and I turned my attention to the strippers who were caged out of reach. They were all painted up with body paint, like some fucking savages. Maybe the African dude thought that one up. Who ever did, it was real fucking hot.

We even got in a couple games of games of pool on some decent tables. They had that fucking Russian pool there as well as two fucking snooker tables for any faggots or Brits you might want to bring along. I’d say more, but I’m out of fucking space. Later, dudes.

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