For instance, there isn't the least bit of uncertainty about the cause-and-effect relationship between my fickle gut and a pizza with onions and/or sausage. There's no grey area, no middle ground, no jumping the hook. I like these toppings, they dislike me. I might as well go ahead and order up a pizza spackled with blacktop sealant and roofing nails than to try going with either of these options.

So, what do I do? As soon as it's my turn to put in my order, I neither flinch nor hesitate. I point at the pizza down on the end slathered in nothing but sausage and onions. Like I say, I like these toppings. In fact, I like them so much that I'm willing to risk sacrificing my first big night in the Big Apple for a date with the small commode. Then again, who knows? There's always the small chance that I can defy medical science and wind up pattin' my belly on a job well churned.

I return to my apartment and eat the thing. It tastes as good as a Ray's pizza possibly can… which is just another way of saying it's a tolerable alternative to starvation. Ray's doesn't cater much to the discerning palate of the average Manhattanite fussbudget. They're more in the market of coaxing drunks, urchins and out-of-towners into impromptu gastronomical rue.

And, rue I do. Approximately thirty-eight minutes later, I'm parked in the can reinventing the Stations Of The Cross while summoning Jesus in a scat-like murmur for clemency and spiritual Bromo…

"O Lord… I just wanna… GAHHHH… apologize for all these errors in judgement and promise that… GAHHHH… if you get me through this one I'll turn a new leaf and abide closer to your… GAHHHH… wishes and avoid onions and sausage and sin and temptation and… GAHHHH… let you direct me to your divine bidding and work alongside you to… GAHHHH… improve this unholy world and forever…"

Hmmm, that's weird. In just a matter of a few minutes, I suddenly feel fine. A bit lighter in the haunches, but undeniably better. I've obviously received my miracle. And, as any decent Catholic might tell you, a bargain with Jesus ain't no frivolous shake. Now it's up to me to follow through and make it right by my Savior. But what exactly do I do? More to the point, what would Jesus do? Since I know him only casually, I guess I'm just gonna have to improvise based on what I remember about his list of What's Hot and What's not.

An hour later, Jesus watches me ditch into Flashdancers, an upscale titty bar a few blocks over from where I'm staying. I really hadn't any intent of winding up there. I just went out for a stroll of my new neighborhood and this is where I happened to land.

Ok. I suppose it would be a rather large and illogical stretch to assume that Jesus would ever purposely steer me to any venue that charges a whopping fifteen dollar admission fee just to slug overpriced hootch and peer blankly at mood-lit implants but, then again, isn't there some verse in the Bible that says something about loving all thy neighbors with no prejudice whatsoever to their given race, creed, color or glandular deformity? And even if not, the only commandment I could possibly be in danger of fouling up is that tricky one regarding coveting some other fella's wife, though, with God as my witness, I can't see a ring on a finger or, for that matter, anything else.

It takes about five minutes for my eyes to fully adjust, just long enough to get shook down for another three bucks to have my jacket pried off me and slung in a side coatroom. So far I'm out eighteen dollars and I've yet to see anything more risque than a bouncer with a blotch of alfredo sauce on his tuxedo shirt. Recalling that my agreement with the Bravo Brass alots me a seventy-five-dollar daily per diem, I figure I've got just enough left to swig a couple well-brand vodkas, put a swizzle stick in layaway and tip the coat gal before I start to infringe upon my own net worthlessness.

Ah, but I didn't come all the way to the City That Never Sleeps (via the Hamlet That Always Snores) to be a total nickel-pinchin' pilgrim, so I sidle up to the back of the mammoth squared-off bar section and order up my old standby, Jim Beam and Coke. The barmaid, sort of a weird cross between Penny Marshall and Candy Samples, gives me a short glance that seems to acknowledge the fact that this morning I woke up in a county where they recently shot down a license request from the Hooter's Restaurant chain on the grounds that it would be a triumphal endorsement of metro-type porn… as if trailer mamas in hot pants and pantyhose were somehow vaguely erotic.

"Sorry, honey, we don't have any Jim Beam," the barmaid informs me. And before she even says it, I fucking know the next two words out of her mouth will be…

"Jack Daniels?"

GAHHHH! What the hell is it with this town that 1) they never have a quintessential American libation like Jim Beam anywhere on the premises, and 2) just as soon as they inform you of this disgusting national betrayal, they immediately wanna assume you're gonna opt for the Jack like if you'd had a taste for that rabble mash you wouldn't have just ordered it up in the first place? It's frustrating. Just because someone might resemble Keith Richards (though I look a lot more like Michael Richards… or even Renee) that doesn't mean he wants to drink like him. In other words…

"I'll just have a Budweiser, ma'am."

"That'll be eight dollars, hon." I nod my head as if this is a reasonable rate. Over in the corner, Jesus rolls his eyes and snickers.

Flashdancers isn't all that different from the strip bars we'd hang out at back in Flint (last seen rated #4 in the country in strip bars per capita… yea, yet another glowing hometown achievement that our pal Mike so insensitively glossed over in Roger & Me) with the exception that it's way more expensive and they have a helluva lot more women. They've got tall chicks, skinny chicks, chicks who climb on poles… tough chicks, sissy chicks, even chicks with fanny moles. No kiddin', they come in every shape and swerve under the sun… though the cups all tend toward the runneth-over variety. This really doesn't bother me all that much. I've always been known as a very keen supporter of a woman's right to bare arms… and legs and midriffs and whatnot.

However, being that I'm no great aficionado of the lapdance (twenty bucks for three minutes of "mind-if-I-use-your-lower-trunk-for-an-ass-chamois?"), I prefer a barseat over a table. The area behind the bar features four dancers who rotate the inside corners every couple of tunes. The system goes like this: disrobe, scoot down, re-robe. Disrobe, scoot down, re-robe. Disrobe, scoot down, re-robe. Fourth verse, same as the first. Or, to borrow a quote from an old Yes radio relic: "Mountains come out of the sky, they stand there."

I'm hereby presented with a problem that sorta provides ironic muddling to the whole general concept of why I might be here at all… namely: what in the hell do I do with my eyes? Sure, it's all carte blanche from the toes on up and geared for thoroughgoing gazing, but go ahead and poll a hundred grads from voyeur's ed and at least a healthy smattering might tell ya that it's downright awkward to have a topless woman lumberin' around directly in front of you with her eyes stapled to yours as she awaits the obligatory pan-down while your eyes do everything in their power to look vague and disinterested when both the dancer and glancer both know you wanna stare at the damn things cuz why the hell else would ya be here and not at one of the 856,001 other boffo tourist hangouts this preposterous island has to offer? I'm telling you it's too much goddamn pressure. And I handle pressure about as well as I pen follow-ups to best-sellers.

I imagine this is why they invented beer. I order up another Bud which at least provides me with a logical distraction from the gaze of this Amy Fisher buxom sort who seems to be making a real crusade out of directing my attention away from matchbox covers and imaginary neck kinks and transparent attempts to situate my coaster at just the right immaculate angle so that the Bud bottle girdles it in perfect formation. I take a peek at Jesus. He's moved from the corner to a seat directly across from me and he sits there, laughing his ass off.

Obviously, most guys don't share my silly trepidations. Either that or they're just a whole lot drunker than I am. Right down from me, there's this well-dressed business slick who's invited a pair of dancers to take up a couple stools next to him. He signals the barmaid for more cash and she brings him a fresh stack of one hundred singles. I can't hear any of their conversation, but it appears that he wants the one dancer to perform a lapdance on her friend while he stands right alongside and choreographs. Everybody's in showbiz.

A new tune begins and the dancers go to it. Meanwhile, the businessman begins to shower them in a steady downpour of dollar bills. They flutter down upon their heads and breasts like leaves descending on tiny green schedules. Another tune, another stack of bills. This goes on for several songs and I find myself being mesmerized. Clearly, this is one of the most relentlessly American visions I've ever encountered. Tits bobbing in a dollar bill monsoon. Apple pies and neutron bombs. Garter belts and Chevrolets. Jimmy cracked corn and I don't give a fuck.

Jesus loves me… yes, I know.