The Assimilated Negro is the issuing authority for your own personal Ghetto Pass, helping you safely navigate among the people and places of browner territories.
First off, can I just say, FUCK GAWKER. These motherfuckers pimp a negro with a win-a-date contest, then get all George Bush-during-Katrina and totally neglect my ass. Can you believe they WOULDN'T SEND A PHOTOGRAPHER? Plus, let's be
racist honest here, all that really mattered was getting visual proof of my date's "DAMN! You got a BLACK ass!" claim. [Ed. Note: In the next 24 hours, there'll be video. Hold yer horses!] Despite Mama Gawker leaving her negro child out in the cold, as it turns out, a little privacy may have been for the best. No photographer meant this would be more like a real date. And who can act photo-pretentious when they're sucking down slyders at White Castle? So this week's Ghetto Pass profiles a real uptown story of possible love (?) and definite slyders at White Castle. Let's dig in.
Planning A Trip
We selected the winner of the contest on Monday, and Rachel made the first move later that night by sending me a note via MySpace. Awww, how cute and earnest. Now from my perspective this was good and bad. Good: obviously I get to take a peek at a picture or two, and get an idea of whether I'll need to bring mace or Axe Bodyspray (ooooh). Bad: who the hell contacts people through MySpace? Haven't you heard, Rachel? MySpace is dead. Not a good sign there. But her profile pic was — wait for it — cute, as you can see at right, so I didn't immediately IM Gawker HQ about a do-over. Not that they would have listened anyways, you'll notice they didn't even send a photographer. In the subsequent exchange of notes I come to find out Rachel doesn't even eat burgers. Which is initially a bit of a shock, but then very encouraging since I figure you either entered the contest for TAN or the White Castle. Holla!
Are We There Yet?
So can I just say how apropos it is that the first snowstorm of the year comes on Valentine's Day? Such a tragically appropriate metaphor for the bone-chilling Nor'easter that rages in my cold frigid heart. Or heartless soul. Whatever, it all applies. I'm dead inside. What the fuck is love anyways? Fuck Valentine's Day. And with that in mind, sometime in the afternoon I sent an email to Rachel to feel out if she wants to cancel, "hey Rach, pretty snowy out there. Looking forward to our artificial date, on this artificial holiday. Should be great since you don't eat burgers. Cheers, TAN" She was undaunted and told me she was wearing a gown for the occasion and would be showing up promptly. We were officially on.
Slyders Are Served
I only live two blocks away, and Rachel was coming from the Flatiron District, but lo and behold she got there first, and I was late. I'm not into all that "faux-classy showing up on time pizazz" anyways. Here were some other highlights from the dinner:
Ambient Castle Lighting
White Castle advertised "dinner by candlelight," but by "candlelight" they meant "the same fluorescent lights we always use." Sweet, everyone looks sexy under fluorescents, especially people eating greasy hamburgers. DELICIOUS!
The Ol' Ghetto Try
Of course it's not as if you'd nitpick with White Castle about the lighting when you see their obvious effort in other areas. For example, there were paper printouts that said "reserved" on each table, and the font leads me to believe they were impressively printed out by a Commodore 64. The red plastic tablecloths adorning the tables were pretty and shiny. There was also a "waitress," and by "waitress" I mean someone in a White Castle uniform ignoring my requests for water.
As for conversation, it flowed like Hi-C fruit punch from a soda machine. Rachel peppered me with the usual basic questions like:
Where's the photographer?
Is there really no photographer?
Where's the alcohol?
Is there really no alcohol?
If the photographer comes, might he have alcohol?
Time To Eat
Eventually the "waitress" decided to come by. I ordered twenty hamburgers, ten chicken sandwiches, two milkshakes and then in my deepest alpha-romantic voice said, "... and the lady will have the same." Rachel seemed stunned, but I reminded her, "the meal's on Gawker, so don't be shy." Still, her enthusiasm remained muted. The food came, it was delicious. Rachel's food was good too. The parting "gift bag" contained a coffee mug. That's all. Did anyone know White Castle sells coffee? Apparently it's the best coffee in the world.
Unsure of the etiquette, I actually did ask our waitress if I should leave a tip. She just shrugged her shoulders. So I didn't. HA! No, no I'm kidding, I actually told her reading Ghetto Pass every Thursday would help change her life for the better.
• Did you know Rachel's mom is currently reading this right now and thinking, "I knew I should have told her she could pierce her belly button. This 'Assimilated Negro' phase looks like trouble." (Hi Rachel's Mom! Guess who's coming to dinner?!!?)
Dinner at White Castle: $12
Drinks after dinner at White Castle: $90 (holla!)
Having a Valentine's Day Story to remember:
[Ed. Note: TAN is clearly being a tease here. So we grabbed him on IM for some questions.
Gawker: SO? Don't MAKE ME ASK THE OBVIOUS!
TAN: I'm just a slow negro boy ...
Gawker: Don't gimme that shit. 1. At any point in the evening, did one person's hand touch another's?
TAN: Yes. It was fun...
Gawker: Will you and Rachel ever meet again?
TAN: I suspect so...
Gawker: Have you talked today? Or, have you SEEN each other today?
TAN: No seen. She's on chat with me right now.
So there you have it. Or at least some of it. Maybe the internet makes love happen!]