Tater Tits

We’ve been keeping our gimlet eyes on the über-clubs popping up around town. Even though the club scene is not our thing, we still have to laud ’em for opening in areas we hope will revitalize soon. Take Chakra, the relatively new place in the West Bottoms. We’d been meaning to check it out, but what finally got us out there? Three words: mashed-potato wrestling. Spud-fucking-tastic! We had also heard that strippers would partake in the wrestling. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t too hard to recruit Research Assistants Kevin, Laura, DJ Brent and Dave to go with us on September 17.

For those who are leery about navigating the West Bottoms, Chakra is fairly easy to find; take an immediate right after crossing the 12th Street Bridge, and the big, two-story building is right behind the haunted houses. The interior is pretty cool. The first level is somewhat sparse, but the upstairs contains a beautiful lounge, with dark-peach walls and gauzy canopies swooping above plush black sofas.

But really, we weren’t there to lounge. We wanted some wrasslin’, so we made our way to the pit, a wide, round, shallow pool. (“There’s a certain shame in arriving first to be ringside for mashed-potato wrestling,” RA Kevin said.) Two bikini-clad chicks — cute but decidedly not strippers — came out and went at it. They started on their feet, then one threw down the other and they pretty much just rolled around in the muck. The predominantly testostee crowd (it was a snausagefest — not to mix our food metaphors or anything) stood as close as they could to the pool and ogled and snapped pictures. The match soon became less a fight to the death than a faux-lesbian fantasy scene that played to the pliable crowd. Backs were arched, legs were splayed, and all the while, glops of the surprisingly aerodynamic spud-mush flew, spattering the audience and slowly crustifying on our clothes and shoes.

We later talked to Jeremy Scheuch, one of the organizers of the MP wrestling.

“So, why mashed potatoes and not some other medium, like pudding or Jell-O?” we inquired.

“Because it’s different than mud or anything else,” he said. “It’s something more exciting, and it smells like home.” He told us that the pool contained around eight industrial-sized bags of potato flakes plus water. But what we wanted to know was: Where were the strippers?

“They never showed up,” he said. “So we used all sorts of random people. We called a few people — some happened to be there, and we had changes of clothes … ‘Wanna wrestle? C’mon, we’ll buy you a few drinks!'” he said, imitating his sales pitch.

We also tracked down Kristin, 21, one of the randoms with punky, spiked hair and a lip ring, and asked her what it was like to wallow about in potatoes.

“It’s warm — it’s really heavy,” she said. “There’s an underpull to it, so it’s hard to get up.”

“Like quicksand?” we asked. She agreed.

“I got sick of wrestling and wanted to just slip and slide with [my partner]!” she added.

Kristin told us that she’s usually one of the shadow dancers at the club (she dances behind a backlit screen) and that she got interested in dancing because of her dad. “He’s a stripper. He used to dance and take me out,” she said.

“Where did he dance?” we queried.

“In Liberty,” she said.

“Did he strip down all the way, or just to a thong or what?” we asked.

“I didn’t want to know,” she said, grimacing.

Little did we know that we’d soon see something we’d been longing to run into while out Night Rangering: someone carrying a Paris Hilton dog. Our white whale! Sadly, Pico, a teacup Chihuahua, wasn’t being toted in a Louis Vuitton carrier by a Paris wannabe. We spotted him peeking out of the shirt of Josh, 21. He told us he bought Pico from a neighbor for $500. Then he randomly offered us some chocolate. “It’s Godiva,” he said. “Two trays cost me forty bucks.”

He kindly let us pass Pico around. “He’s totally trembling!” RA Laura said.

“Come back here,” Josh cooed to Pico, taking him back. “They’re evil.”

“He doesn’t freak out from all this noise?” we wondered.

“I take him to all the rave parties,” he said. “He’s used to it.”

“Do you have a little doggie pacifier for him, then?” we asked.

“I don’t do that kind of stuff,” he said indignantly. Just Godiva, apparently.

According to Scheuch, the crowd has picked up a bit at Chakra. We’re hoping it’ll be a boon for the Bottoms, for, despite the haunted houses, it’s much less scary to us than chotch-filled Westport.