So, yay. I got my eeys checked, and I need slight correction. Due to the ammount of time I spend in front of a monitor and having diabetes, I opted for the specs. So, in a weeks time, I will have corrected vision. Hooray, I guess. It’ll be cool. I’ll look smart and educated.

May 22nd, 2009 | Blog | No comments

It all started with my boss indicating that he found a bar that was worth going to, after our failed attempt at drinking in one of the other casinos in town. And I mean failed. The best beer on hand was Michelob, there was no food, no actual bar. It was a gambling pit. A very bad one. So I was game to go try a bar that might at least have a decent whiskey or something on hand. I didn’t get that. Here’s how the night went.

We get in the rental and start driving. I realize soon that we are driving AWAY from Mississippi and into Louisiana. There is no major city accross the river, so I’m already a little worried. A salt and pepper out-of-town duo might not be received well in a roadside locals watering hole. But I’m still game for a real drink. Soon, we cross the mighty, muddy, Mississippi River and immediately leave the highway. The Boss makes a wrong turn, but I don’t know this. I see a bar ahead. I’m ready to get some booze in me. He says “That’s the wrong one” and we make a u-turn. We drive on the road the follows the highway. For a while. And I see a sign ahead that says “Daiquiri World”. I’m not prepared to spend my night in someplace named after a frou-frou drink. But I can take it, right. I can man up and drink that shit if needed. But we don’t stop there. We go next door to a place called The Long Branch Saloon. All sorts of worry enters my head. “It could be a gay bar. My boss is going to take me to a gay bar. I’ve found the secret fruit loop of the backwoods south. How am I going to be able to look this dude in the face. Will there be good booze at least?” But, I soldier on. We get out and walk to the door. I realize that this place is really, really dive-y. Like, not even a little attention paid to the exterior. This cannot be a gay bar. But something doesn’t add up. It’s windowless. The door is not even a little inviting. And the parking lot is not even a little full, unlike the other bar. I hadn’t done all the mental math until we walk in…

…to a strip club. I recognize it immediately. There’s a bouncer right inside of the door and you cannot see inside from the entrance. And the smell of old booze and bad perfume is present. The music is too dancey and the lights are REALLY low. I don’t have the cash for a strip club booze up. But the boss is not about to let that stop us. He’s floating the bill. Great. But it can’t be all that bad, right? I mean, there is still the promise of boobies on display and booze in my belly, right. I CAN tell you I had a great time. And it wasn’t at all about the sensuality of the ladies.

First thing I notice? I’m a sun spot. I’m the lone black ranger. And all three black strippers all but queue up to talk to me. I was pounced on the by the really old black one before I so much as touched the bar. After dodging that bullet and getting drink, the slightly less older one escorts me to our seats, much to the dismay of the waitress, who seemed to be annoyed that I haven’t sat down before getting propositioned. We sit down. She goes away, and the younger one come over. She was quick to realize that I really wasn’t interested in getting my wallet rolled before I’ve had a chance to sit down. She was more apologetic for her two sisters in arms than anything else. After that’s done, I breathe a sigh of relief. All too soon. Ole Blackberry number one is back at it. For  while. Trying to work me. Trying to work my boss. Trying to work one of us into working the other one. We stood strong. She went away. This was a 15 minute process.

And then, I was, for the most part, left alone and able to observe. There were things I’ve never seen before. Over half the strippers had something in their clear heels. One had some sort of jelly beans or something. One had actually money (to go with the wife beater with dollar signs airbrushed on). She was a hoot. She had money IN her light up shoes. Of which one worked. Amazing. Two had regular high heels. Three had sneakers. And, the topper, one was barefoot or in flip-flops. Yes, the barefooted stripper does exist! By now, I am prepared for ANYTHING. And that was a good thing!

After about 30 or so minutes, the barefooted stripper has made her mark. That mark was my boss. And boy did he get worked over. My guess is he blew ~150-200 dollars on her. Worked over, indeed. She pulled it all. Sob stories of bad baby-daddy drama. Inter-stripper drama. Sick kid drama. And he just felt so sorry for her. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but notice the lack of stretch marks indicative of child birth. It was a pleasure to watch.

I also couldn’t help but notice the patrons. Most were non-discript. At first. Then the magic hour came when everyone started showing up. There were the hispanic laborers, interested in anything that had any meat on their bones. There were the wannabe superstars who were showing the strippers… in singles. But a shower non-the less! There were the old man clubbers. They mostly sat in perv row and bought dances and did nothing else. The owner was there with some people. Clearly some of which were also not prepared for the environment in which they were placed. There was some hootin and hollerin. Quite a few were there to have a grand ole time. It was neat to watch.

So were the dances. Most were clearly not the best at stage work. One was doing the climb-the-pole-spin-down-the-pole trick… And sent a dollar laden clear heel flying across the club. Quite a few started out bad, and ended up rolling around and trying to settle on looking sexy instead of dancing sexy. Few got that far. One, who I had not even noticed till she go on stage had  John Deere tattoo. Right on her hip. She was also part of the sneaker crew. It was amazing. There were two cages (that even I could have slipped through the bars of). And that was kind of creepy, once they were occupied. And, oddly enough, the best actual dancer was part of the sneaker crew. She actually danced. Something you rarely find in a strip club anywhere. I don’t think it was a coincidence that the crowd had picked up by the time she was on stage. About then, the mother-daughter duo showed up to explain this. And to let us know that both me and my boss could go with them for a good time. I declined, and my boss was still busy getting worked over. Yay for dodging another bullet!

Thankfully, the boss got tired of being worked over. I was really ready to go by then, as the patron to dancer ratio had moved to the point where the only thing to watch was the girl on stage and the guys waiting for their turn with the girl of their choice. And so we left. But not before one more interaction with the oldest stripper in the club. She wanted to know if we had contacts in Vegas. We both said no. She called us a couple of names, the bouncers laughed. And we bounced.

And so ends the night at the strip club in the backwoods of Louisiana.

April 13th, 2009 | Blog | No comments