New York is Anti the Ice Cream of the Future

I thought long and hard about whether it was worth it to even publicize this matter, but since many of my loyal readers hail from New York and probably get occasional ice cream cravings, I feel I am doing society a favor in relating this tale. For the last few months or so, Devra and I have been desperately trying to track down an establishment that sells Dippin' Dots, the ice cream of the future. For those of you who have never gone on a pilgrimage to a suburban mall, they look like this:

They're incredible. I haven't had them in years. It's just ice cream in the form of dots. Logic suggests that the cost of producing dotted ice cream is a bit more considerable than, say, making regular ice cream, which may be one of the reasons that this amazingness has yet to catch on. However, the fact remains that it's fucking good and...it's in the form of dots.

About two months ago, Devra located the official Website for the Dippin' Dots, which conveniently included a list of all of its locations in the country. According to the New York directory, there was one at Yankee Stadium, one at the Mets Double-A affiliate in Binghamton, one on Ninth Ave, one at Radio City and one at the Hudson River piers off of 42nd St. This mission was postponed for several weeks, as commitments to society dominated the itinerary et cetera.

Approximately three weeks ago, we decided to go to Burger Joint at the Le Parker Meridian on 57th St, which I heartily recommend, as it's in a secret location and has Christine Lahti's autograph on its wall. Also, the bovine is juicy. Ooh, quick poll: Does anyone think I should start another blog called Bovine Goodness that would document my life-long quest for the perfect cow? Why am I even bothering. No one actually comments on my blog ever. Because my readers possess several cunty qualities. Scowl. Anyway. We ate our cows and realized that we were pretty close to the Dippin' Dots on Ninth Avenue. I won't bore you with the many trivial, high schoolish details of the adventure, but we discovered that its location was boarded up, and there was no Dippin' Dots. No one was pleased.

Before I forget, there is NO WAY I would even consider going into Yankee Stadium to get this ice cream. If I did, I would be wearing full Mets regalia, and would be butt-raped within seconds of entering the venue. Fuck them, they have enough of the taxpayer's money without my $30 ticket contribution. Though if someone paid for my ticket and...protected me from rectal penile penetrations, I would reconsider my stance. Also, the Binghamton stadium is hours away, and I'm not made of money. Fuck that as well.

Several days after the Ninth Avenue debacle, Devra and I decided to try and get into Radio City to sample their dotty wares. Unfortunately, this excursion coincided with the BET fashion show, which meant I got an eyeful of Kelly Rowland (did she make a song with Nelly a few years ago where she called him a boo? when did it become 'in' to start calling people boos? make note: i am going to release a crappy r&b song called...'my (insert cliche ghost saying).' literally. it's going to be called that, and i'll wear a scooby doo bandaid and get sued by nelly for copying his look. word.) So the whole area around Radio City was full of blinged out black people with Humvees and Hummer limos, and they were looking at my puffy vest and sneering. Clearly, the puffy vest does not rate with black socialite cunty people during Fashion Week. Our choices were limited. They were obviously not going to let us wander around Radio City, but I DID bike 44 blocks to get there, so something had to be done. I approached one of the ushers at the front (with Devra tittering in the background) and asked him where the Dippin' Dots was. He looked at me blankly. I explained that they were dots of ice cream, ergo the ice cream of the future. More blank gaping. Then I launched into a prepared statement about how my friend and I went on the official Website and saw that Radio City was listed as a location for the said dots. Even though he had no idea what the dots were, he was at least starting to get a basic sense of what I was babbling about. He shook his head vehemently. "We only sell Radio City shirts." "But...the site said..." "No. We don't have it. Are you feeling okay?" (emphasis mine) What a CUNT. Now, it's possible that the official site got it wrong, such things happen. They didn't update the closing of the Ninth Ave one. But why is it assumed that I must be SICK IN THE HEAD because I think Radio City sells Dippin' Dots? Later on, Devra and I realized that the best strategy would have been to have mentioned Fink, the drag queen who used to be employed at Radio City until last month. However, we didn't, the official word is that there is no Dot Goodness at the Music Hall, so we were basically at square one again.

Fuck Radio City and its non-dots.

Dear Boo, you will never be Beyonce.

After this second failure, I relegated myself to never tasting the futuristic ice cream again, unless I summoned up the courage to go into the Bridgewater Commons Mall. Which I won't do, because there's probably a shitload of people from my high school that still go there, as no one ever leaves Hunterdon County. It's a cesspool. I am a success story.net.

About a week after this dreadfulness, Devra announces that there IS a Dippin' Dots at the piers, which, if you'll recall, was the last Manhattan location on the official site. She actually went to the trouble of calling Circle Line Cruises and getting the confirmation. So we go, though it's a huge mother hassle because it requires switching subway lines and whatnot, but troopers we are. Of course we get there and the place is closed. I was ornery like the wolf.

THEN, last Saturday, Malsta calls me and says that there is a Dippin' Dots on 14th and 2nd next to the Nathan's. Huge news. Devra and I go. The dots are melted. I pay $3 for what looks like regular melty ice cream that's the color of the urine from a dehydrated person, aka nasty.

So if you are like me and enjoy dotted ice cream, New York is not the place for it. This shit will tear you a new asshole if you let it. Fuck the dots. I'm done.

On to important things. We are in serious negotiations to get the most amazing interview subject in the face of human existence. There was quite a bit of positive feedback from our interview with Bobbie Ragsdale, and while this subject does not have...the credibility of a West Point cadet, almost everyone knows this person, they're basically famous, and they have agreed to do an interview. It's just a matter of setting up an appropriate time to converse with them.

Perhaps I can tantilize you with a snapshot of our impending interviewee:

Yeah, that's right. We are interviewing MR BALL. What what.

Update: 1:15 AM
Devra is a traitor like no other. She just went to a Bar Mitzvah and ate Dippin' Dots. Since I will always be a cunty high schooler at heart, this means I'm going to the piers one of these days and getting dots without her. This hurts my soul. It's the equivalent of someone going to Hillary's house in Westchester to stalk her for a few days and NOT bringing me along. Or having an Arnold Schwarzenegger marathon without me. Or having a Moldy Stuffed Animals from Childhood Convention and not acknowledging Big Bear. Hiss.