Dirty Bingo in the Meatpacking District

I had never actually been to the Meatpacking District, and it is far more charming than I would have thought: crooked cobblestone streets lined with old brick packing plants and warehouses, now inhabited by obscenely expensive restaurants (including the only place to get poutine in this city) and clubs pretentious enough to make you line up in the red ropes for Tuesday night bingo yet. Our friend was spinning, so we laid down $20 for our bingo card, complimentary champagne cocktail, and buffet of capicolla and mortadella, soft cheeses, and pulled pork on focaccia. Bingo was called by a giant drag queen with great legs, while the balls were handed to her by one of those New Jersey gym rats who only ever works out his biceps. Winning configurations like "erect penis" won prizes like dildos and romantic restraints. We figured out that if we didn't actually mark our cards, we could re-use them for the next round rather than buying a new one. Being a graduate student requires always striking that perfect balance between decadence and thrift.

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