Jake's Dilemma = My Home

While I live on the Upper West Side, I rarely party there. It's never crowded or loud enough, and the clientele is often just a bunch of white people who I think I remember going to college with. (Which means I think I can remember them ignoring me or not letting me into their frat houses.) But occasionally, when I'm going out with someone I don't like that much and basically just want the evening to be convenient (for me) and over faster, I will bring them to one of my UWS haunts: usually The Dead Poet. The Dead Poet has impressive mahogany-paneled walls peppered with quotations and poems "pertaining to the universal quandaries of life" and cocktails named after dead poets, such as Edgar Allan Poe. The Dead Poet is what I think I want people to think I like. When I take people to The Dead Poet, they say, "this is a nice bar."

Nobody would say, "This is a nice bar" about Jake's Dilemma, but somehow I end up there several times a month. I have memories of being delightfully wasted, sweaty, thirsty, and dancing in complete darkness, only to look up and see the neon letters that spell out "Jake's Dilemma". How am I at Jake's Dilemma again? I think. Is Jake's Dilemma following me? I have been with friends and when most bars are too crowded I eventually say, "I bet there's room at Jake's Dilemma." (There always is.) Sometimes I will walk by and see a sign for the insanely cheap happy hour specials and think, "why the hell not?"

If you couldn't tell from the somewhat aggressive yet confusing sounding name Jake's Dilemma or the less than pristine exterior, you will realize soon after entering that Jake's Dilemma is one big frat party. There are tables designated for Beer Pong and Foos Ball, a stretched out bar, ample chill space, comfy couches that people have probably had sex in, retardedly strong, cheap drinks, outdoor seating, and a dirty, sticky looking dance floor. While this is charming in its own way, I like to think of myself as a Dead-Poet-Sort-Of-Girl, not a Jake's-Dilemma-Sort -Of-Girl.

In the past, when my attempts to bring people to The Dead Poet would fail, I'd gently suggest maybe possibly trying Jake's Dilemma. "I really don't like this place, but I'm sure we can get in," I'd say. "But really, it's kind of a horrible bar." The fourteenth time this happened, I interrupted myself and exclaimed, "who am I kidding? I fucking love this place!"

And it has nothing to do with the fact that one of the lesbian bar tenders has a crush on me and treats me like a movie star. And it has nothing to do with the fact that sometimes they forget to put anything other than vodka in their martinis. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I can sit outside on a hot summer evening, after a long day at work, and drink two ass-kickingly strong gimlets for $5. Actually, it has everything to do with all of this.

One night, after getting drunk in Columbus Circle with Eric and Nikki, we found ourselves in Jake's Dilemma circled with about 8 complete strangers dancing The Running Man and The Scarecrow to Billie Jean and Push It. I think it was at the climax of Come on Eileen, where the music is its fastest and the corresponding dance moves are its wildest that I realized I had found a place where I belong. Realizing I'm not too good for Jake's Dilemma was like an anorexic person realizing it's okay to have meat on her bones or a young, first-generation Chinese boy embarrassed by his heritage but finally coming to terms with it.

Jake, I don't know what your dilemma is, but I'm happy to call you home. Thanks for having me.