Interpreting interpretive dance and hell... a flashlight into the abyss

Last night, Josh and I went to City Center to watch Paul Taylor's three-piece modern dance production. It was flippin' classy, people wore gowns and tuxedos, so I wore my Celebrity Punk Jeans with yellow stitching, which my mom bought for me from the Macy's Junior's department (thanks for telling me this was some freakin' gala, Josh!). The entire time I was expecting interpretive dance... but then learned that modern dance and interpretive dance are not the same thing (but can be sometimes? Whatever.). Part one was, what I can only guess, a story about a group of friends who go out for dinner and all come home with horrible salmonella poisoning.

The poising is so bad that they become delirious and take part in an orgy, creating opportunities for all the men-folk to enjoy each others masculinity without any inhibitions. The next morning everyone is hung over and wondering what happened the night before. The End. 
Part two was about a threesome of a woman and two men who are abducted by aliens from an advanced planet where 80s style and synthesized music are popular. On this planet the two men realize that they are not rivals; they were only fighting over the girl to prove their masculinity to each other. They get it on. The girl is pissed. This End.
Part three was just okay. At one point, four people dressed in KKK ceremonial head gear came out to prance and stuff, which at first made me feel uneasy, but then it became silly, so, okay, but then I went back to feeling uneasy at the end.
Thank god dancers get tired super fast, unlike those damn Met opera singers who can go on for four hours, lulling me into a light sleep (which is embarrassing because sometimes I suddenly wake up and wonder if I had farted or something). Operas make me gassy.
After the show ended, I convinced Josh to take me to Mars 2112, a themed restaurant. Much to my horror, the restaurant had closed four minutes before our arrival. I felt very sad. Remember, at this point we were dangerously close to Time Square, the turd of the devil. So sad, I hastily pointed to a diner across the street and said something like, "screw it, let us go there!" Oh... how little did I know what I was dragging my disappointed butt into.
We cross the street and entered Ellen's Stardust, a 50s diner. The host walked us through the crowded restaurant to our table. I sat in between two fat tourists. It felt like a family-friendly strip club. It was a spectacle, as most things are in and near Time Square. The lighting was bright and flashy. The music was disturbingly loud. The waiters and waitresses dressed to the era and impressively karaoked pop songs in between taking orders and serving patrons. Oh geez, it was what I imagined hell to be for performance artists. The staff exemplified: shattered dreams, depression, shame, and struggle. It was the saddest display of compromise I have ever witnessed. 

The staff was a group of young, talented singers and actors waiting for their break and wasting their years of training and practice on a bunch of tourists who wanted to hear them sing Ke$ha and Jay-Z. I wanted to go, but Josh:

was fascinated. So, I ordered a drink.
The most raw, heart-breaking, Oscar-winning moment was when waiter "Beau" took a break from requests to operatically perform Puccini. His voice was incredible. THIS was the real Coyote Ugly.

His face was wrinkled and twisted as he sung at the top of his lungs. The depth of his misery, the preponderance of nachos on my plate, the circumference of the woman sitting next to me made Ellen's Stardust the saddest place on earth. So, to our waitress, Jamie Rae, and Beau and the rest, I hope life will suck less soon. The End.