Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Just another night.

I love my apartment building. Seriously, it's kind of a shit hole but everyone here is friendly and it's more like a big dorm than anything else. Some nights I'll come home to my neighbor offering beer on the front patio and then someone orders pizza and it's just a great feeling you don't get very often in this city. So one night, this Italian that lived down the hall stopped me to say hi as I'm coming up the stairs.

"Ayim leefing to night."

"To go where?"


"You mean like home-home?"

"Yes, Sweetzerlind I haff to be et the earport at fife."

I ignore the conflict of nationalities and start to tell him goodbye and he offers me a drink. I accept and we get to talking about all sorts of random shit and then I ask him what he wanted to do his final night in the states.

"Will, I kind uf wantid to go to the streep clup."

Sounds good to me. I haven't really checked any of them around here out as the laws are really lame so I usually just get my fix when I'm in Vegas. The laws state that you can have fully nude dancers and no alcohol, or you can have a bikini bar with full bar.

Seriously this is bullshit. The bible belt has better laws for a strip club? What do I want to do, go ogle some naked chick while I sip on my Capri Sun?

I choose to go with the bikini for a number of reasons. For example, the girls dancing at a bikini bar might be somewhat normal whereas the girls at a fully nude bar are swallowing xanax and E pills to try to forget the fact that they're rubbing their clit in some stranger's beard for a dollar bill. There's also the fact that one is just a bar with girls dancing in the background, where the other one there's nothing to do except watch the completely naked girls and ponder how her father would feel if he accidentally ended up in this establishment. I also find conversations incredibly awkward with only one party completely naked: can you just go put on a robe or can I just get naked too? There's also the blatant fact that one serves tequila and one doesn't and the $20 cover for the full nude would buy a few shots of Cuervo. Bikini bar has it, hands down.

When we finally get to this place, I can't help but notice that it looks like an expanded trailer with mirrors all over the walls and what looks like silver garland from an old Christmas tree draped about. Much like many strippers, a lot of makeup on an ugly face just can't hide the beast beneath. Then again I was raised in dumps, so I'm much more comfortable here than some ritzy, $500-a-bottle place.

The Italian buys a round of drinks and a couple shots of Cuervo. Now this is the sign that imminent danger is approaching. Tequila inevitably gets me fired up for the night, after a night of too much it's like everything I see I'd like to kiss it or smash it to a million, tiny pieces. I lose what little regard for social norms I have and basically make a huge mess of everything. I am a running, yelling, coherent fucking mess. The problem is I end up forgetting a lot, but if it weren't for that and the muffled cries of my liver I would simply carry around a camel bak full at all times.

The first girl that we talk to is a perfect reflection of the establishment itself: she had bleached out damaged hair, skin wrinkling from what was probably a drug habit, had no brain in her body, and fake tits that were so bad that they looked like someone stuffed two huge gumdrops just below the surface of her skin.

In the conversation, the subject came up about getting fucked up so she asked me if I did anything. I respond "Yeah, crack for 15 years I just quit," to which she responds "Hey, me too!" She's too dumb for humor and she's clearly not kidding. When she leaves for a dance, he can't control himself and explains to me his idea of economics.

"Yeh men, she iz hot huh?"

"Dude, not really."

"Yaah. I gote a dans from her lasstime. I like her becos she iz Americon. I can note fynt girls like theese back hohme. Blont heyir, beeg fake teets ant leetle waist."

"Dude, she looks worn the fuck out and those are some of the worst fake tits I've ever seen. And no brain. Do you think of American women as not having brains?"


I ignore it and pretty soon a couple of pretty girls are sitting and talking to us. I'm a few shots in and making jokes and everyone is cracking up.

"You're the funniest person ever! You remind of my friend back home."

"Really? Tell me about him."

"Well, he got suspended in high school for throwing a rubber ducky at a teacher and one time he showed up in the school cafeteria dressed up as a banana to fight this kid that was dressed as a pea pod. He got an almost perfect score on his SAT but had a 2.0 because he got in so much trouble. I love him soo much."

I feel respect for the girl's standards and secretly wish I had thought about being this cool in high school. I would love to meet this guy. Maybe he'll read this.

Then the girl looks at me and says, "I should be making money, but I don't even care." He gets up in the middle of the conversation but I don't really pay much attention. After a second one of the girls remarks in absolute shock, "Is that your friend over there getting a dance from her?" I look over to see him going into the VIP with this caricature of a woman.

"Yeah, guess so," is all I can reply.

This guy comes by and asks what kind of tequila I was drinking.

"Patron is the best."

"Fuck Patron, it's piss water. I like my tequila like I like my sex: rough and dirty."

The girls roar with laughter. He disagrees so he decides to buy me a shot of Patron. It still tastes like piss, but I don't turn it down since this helps me get closer to complete annihilation. I would probably swallow quarters at this point if I thought it would help me get drunker.

Later we find one of the girls we were talking to earlier was sitting with a couple of guys in a banquet that was reserved, so we go sit with him and start making friends. He's a huge guy from Nebraska with tattoos to his finger tips and a bald head, a nice guy but he looks mean as fuck. He kind of looks like a bigger, tougher version of the singer from Disturbed. This other guy comes by and asks if we want to buy some coke or dope whatever, he has it. Really? The guy in the strip club wearing a Kobe jersey with no undershirt and sunglasses? I could have never picked him out. The girls tell us he has been bugging them all night trying to buy them for the night. "You know what would be funny is if I acted like I wanted to buy some shit and then beat his ass," says the big cornhusker. We all laugh and agree.

I go into the bathroom for a piss only to see this guy along with this guy in the jersey behind him walk in afterwards. They duck into the stall directly behind me, and all I can see with the open door is the cornhusker. I look back and he smiles at me. I can only hear the sound. Ba-boom bam! "Oh shit! Shit!" This guy scrambles his way out of the stall but the large hand of the Nebraska man grabs his jersey. The guy ignores it and literally runs out of his jersey while the man stands there smiling and holding his jersey as it rips of the guy's back. He tears it in half and hands me one half, "Here's your souvenir."

We end up going to get something to eat with a couple of the girls and then head home since he has to catch his flight. I don't care. I don't even remember anything past the club. I don't remember saying bye to the Italian, nothing. Apparently I drunk dialed my girl back home to tell her how pretty she was. I appreciate these nights, I just wish I could remember more. Maybe I'll get a voice recorder and try wearing it all night when I go out next time.

~ Cabbage

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