5?You’ve probably heard of “blackface”—the practice of white actors in black makeup doing horribly racist portrayals of Black folks, which was common “entertainment” well into the twentieth century. (If you haven’t already, watch Spike Lee’s Bamboozled.) We rightfully shame people who do that sort of thing nowadays, treating it like the awful historical artifact it should be. And yet, there I stood, in the year 2000, staring at a white actor who had covered himself in brown makeup to audition for the role of Taj Mahal in a major Hollywood movie.
6?In reality, obviously this made no sense. The cinematographer also told the standin to do this to avoid a situation in which a brown standin (who wouldn’t have to paint his face) could replace him. Nobody would ever ask a black or brown person to lighten their face as a qualification to stand in for a white actor. I should also note that the producers at the top didn’t know it was happening. I share this to illustrate how systemic this stuff is. It was still early enough in my career—in an industry that saw nothing wrong with this—that I didn’t even know how to have a conversation about it with anyone to begin with.
7?I look back at that time using today’s metrics and think to myself, It would have been amazing to get the part, turn it down, and then have the studio explain why they hired a white actor in brownface to play the role. But today is not the year 2000. It wouldn’t have mattered, and that dude would have gotten a credit on his résumé.
8?I couldn’t resist.
9?The ones that look like tubes, not even the ones that look like normal bottles!
CHAPTER NINE OF SALINGER AND STRIP CLUBS
It was at least 3 o’clock on a Sunday morning when we stumbled into the Crazy Horse Too for Kenny Burton’s Vegas bachelor party.
Ken was the first in our group of UCLA buddies to get married—he wed his wonderful college girlfriend, Stacy, a few years after graduation. After two solid nights of drinks, gambling, and roller coasters, Kenny wanted to hit a strip club. Our job was to take him to one.
At twenty-five years old, none of us were from the area, and most of us knew nothing about Las Vegas strip clubs. This was the same bunch of guys who stayed up all night cramming for sciency university exams. Someone decided to ask a cabdriver, and on the second of Kenny’s four-night extravaganza, eighteen hammered dudes descended on the Crazy Horse Too in a caravan of taxis. It was festive, if that’s an appropriate way to describe such an establishment being invaded by a group of nerds like us.
For those of you who don’t know how adult entertainment venues? dens of sin? Is there another phrase I can use to make my participation in this story sound less bad? no? okay then strip clubs work, allow me to explain. You pay your entry fee at the front and walk inside. You can sit anywhere in the main room and watch the main stage. Women will approach you every so often and ask, “Would you like a dance?” If you say yes, they begin the entertainment? Act of sin? Is there another phrase I can use to make this sound less shady? No? okay then stripping. The stripper (actual job title) charges the strippee (not a technical word) a standard flat rate per song.
Strip clubs don’t play the entirety of each song, only about a minute or two. That way they can charge you more. So, don’t bother trying to request “Bohemian Rhapsody” because you think it’s a good deal, you won’t make it anywhere near “Scaramouch.” I haven’t attempted this. I’m just clarifying, on background, for the educational purposes of this story.
Our group sat watching the main stage, declining various lap dance offers, when a particularly striking and articulate young woman hovered over me. “Hey baby. I’m Sunny. Would you like a dance?”
“No, I’m all right, thank you.”
Sunny leaned in. “Hey! I know who you are! You’re Kal Penn! I’m a really big fan. Are you sure you don’t want a dance?”
My buddies were floored, saying things like, “Dude, that stripper knows who Kal is. Unbelievable—he had one small part in that Van Wilder movie!”
“Come on, one dance?”
I again politely declined her offer. “That’s not really my thing but thank you very much.”
Sunny sized up our group and slid into the open chair next to mine.
“I’m just going to sit here and talk to you for a while then!”
“You’re talking to me off the clock?” I clarified. (My immigrant parents raised me right.)
“Yeah, off the clock, don’t worry. I just think it’s so cool that you’re here. I’m a really big fan of your movie. I’m Indian too!”
Oh shit! I thought. That’s amazing, an Indian American stripper! A note for you, dear reader: For all the impressive headway the Indian American community has made in lots of professions—medicine, engineering, the law—there are shamefully few of us in Sunny’s line of work.
For the next twenty minutes, Sunny and I got to know each other.
SUNNY: What was it like making Van Wilder?
ME: (sweating) I really enjoyed it.
SUNNY: What brings you to Vegas?
ME: (sweating and smiling) A college buddy’s bachelor party!
SUNNY: Are your Indian parents supportive of your acting career?
ME: You know, my dad moved to America with twelve dollars in his pocket and other ideas for their son, but they’re coming around! Okay, my turn. (sweating and smiling and trying to be funny) Are your Indian parents supportive of your stripping career?
SUNNY: It’s more of a side hustle than a career, so I don’t tell them about it.
ME: I figured; I was just joking.
An awkward pause.
SUNNY: Oh, so you think my life is a joke?
ME: No, not at all! I was totally kidd—
SUNNY: Relax, Taj, I’m kidding too.
Sunny winked.
ME: That was impressive. Pretty sure I just shit my pants, Sunny, thanks.
My buddies were watching every move in total amazement. One of my friends drunkenly reasoned that since I had started dating dudes recently, I must be having an excruciating time dealing with naked Sunny’s fangirl questions and tried to save me. “Hey, you don’t have to do this just to impress any of us.”
I gave him a stern smile that umistakably conveyed, “Back off, Ryan, I am loving this! It’s not every day a stripper tells me she’s a fan of my work! (An Indian American stripper no less.) She likes Van Wilder! You can impress her with the Excel spreadsheets you crunch at PwC later. Don’t cockblock my platonic moment! I am living liiiiiiffffe!”
ME: Sunny is a stage name, right?
SUNNY: Yup.
ME: Did you pick it because you’re a Catcher in the Rye fan?
SUNNY: Umm… no. Sorry.
ME: “No, that’s not why I picked it” or “No, I’m not a fan”?
SUNNY: No offense, but I’ve always thought Catcher was overrated. Franny and Zooey is way better Salinger.
ME: My God, who are you?!
It turned out that Sunny was a psychology doctoral student from the Bay Area who flew to Vegas a few times a month to work at the Crazy Horse Too.
Look at me, I thought. I really am a regular Holden Caulfield!1
Sunny excused herself every few minutes to make her lap dance rounds. Several of the guys in our group ordered some dances as well, but she always came right back to the open seat next to mine. At some point around four thirty, the bachelor decided it was time to return to the hotel.
“Kal, it was so nice to meet you!” Sunny said. “We should stay in touch!” The guys had formed a semicircle behind her. Did she just say we should stay in touch?