Skinvestigative Reporting

For the most part I have lived a sheltered life. Well, if you ignore things like the unstable fathering from the old man and subsequent broken home, the teenage antics that led to me being expelled from school, the tattoos, the street fights, and all the chaos and tumult that comes with playing bass in a heavy metal band, then yeah, I have lived a sheltered life.

Totally my family.

And so it was that I found myself in the seedy, smelly, body-hairless dressing room of a male strip club.

As you may recall from a previous posting, the drummer for my band is an “entertainer.” Every year for his birthday he throws a party at his place of employment. He invites a handful of bands, including his own, to play. For one day of the year the club sets aside its oily studs for a night of local music.

Excluding pizza deliveries, I have never paid a visit to a strip club of any kind. I don’t understand dancing to begin with—much less dancing for dollars—and am not enticed in the least to stuff my hard earned cash into the dingy undies of alcoholic and drug addled mothers of five, no matter how sexy their cesarean scar. What’s more, being a male, I have what is arguably considered a male body, and honestly ladies, we aren’t works of art. Dudes are hairy, sweaty, and stinky. What, other than the same errant impulse that spurs one to put their hand into an alligator’s mouth, would inspire women to stick dollars into the shaved taint of some dude with a pseudonym? As it turns out a nice set of abs is ample motivation.

Even on a Sunday the ladies are willing to throw alimony and child support at strangers. Combine that with a mass of people that want to see heavy metal and you have a sizable and rabid crowd, even though there wasn’t any actual stripage going on. This is plenty reason for me to not be around. I don’t like crowds, or people…or roaches…or wasps. There weren’t any insects, so yeah, I had to focus on the first of that list of not-likes and sought the relative safety of the dressing room.

Naked male wasp. Probably a stripper too.

I can’t say I’ve ever wondered what it is like being backstage at a strip joint, but surprise, now I know! It is a smorgasbord (I hate that word) for the senses, to say the least.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It is reminiscent of a locker room, but there was a hint of something else in the air. Near the stairs that led from the dressing room to the stage there was a small table loaded with hand sanitizer and other liquidy products. They smell good. The rest of the place? Not so much.

The walls are bedecked with photo-collages, performance routines and schedules, and promotional posters featuring more glistening muscles than the meat market at your local grocer. Couple that with the exercise equipment—including curling weights that were so heavy my back hurt just looking at them—and you have plenty of reasons for a scrawny and unimpressive dude like me to commit suicide.

I was struck by the amount of props and costuming that goes into a typical production. I had always just assumed that a muscled up dude dancing to terrible music was enough for a female. Apparently I am wrong. One locker contained a boxing outfit. Another had canes, walkers, and an old man mask. There were even plastic guitar controllers for Guitar Hero in one. Swords: check. Torches: check. Children's Videos: wtfcheck. What else, ligature strangulation props for your murder fantasy? As far as I know, things of this nature aren’t put to use at clubs with female dancers. Just seeing naked girls is enough for most guys, but I guess ladies like to dress up the festivities a bit. Boy howdy am I boring!

More fun than Xbox.

The backstage restroom is totally non-private. The door was tiny and useless, and the urinal was just out in the open. I mean, if you have already been jiggling about all naked and stuff, what’s a little privacy for your dirty business? The main restroom for the club—conveniently located under the pink neon sign that read: The Powder Room—is unisex. Being subjected to seeing, hearing, and smelling a lady poo is pretty much my definition of Hell a little bit. I am sure this feeling transcends both sexes, so why make everyone share the same facilities? It’s savage, I tell you!

I make the place sound terrible. In fact, it is the premier club of its kind in our town and the lovely folks that constitute the staff and performers are very nice and totally cool. Not to mention, their clothing is totally fabulous. I am honored to have played there.

Now I can say I have performed on stage at a male strip club. What a life.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Still Alive: Monkeys and Juices

For the most part I am a terrible manger of time. There are many things I should do, but don't. There are many things I want to do, but don't, and that is a problem. Well, it would be a problem if I cared.

Bills should pay themselves. Or at least we should all be assigned bill-paying monkeys. I would plant, water, and provide sunshine for a bill-paying monkey. You are supposed to keep monkeys in damp soil, right? Well, I suppose there is the problem of depending on a potted monkey to earn money, but we’ll peel that banana when we get to it.

Where can I get seeds for this?

So what have I been ignoring and what have I been doing?

One thing I have obviously been procrastinating on is this blog. Though I still jot notes and brainstorm over possible postings, I haven’t taken the time to actually write one in a while. This is mostly due to me being like a creativity lemon. My juices have been squeezed out and deposited into too many drinks. Some drinks have been made more tasteful at the expense of others. I’ve been over squozen, as it were.

My band—another time and creativity-juice sink—is doing OK. We play shows and stuff. It has been strange getting out and playing shows again after a year break. The music scene kind of sucks now compared to how it was half a dozen years ago, but that may just be Good Ol’ Days Syndrome. Either way, gigging has not been as fun or rewarding as I had hoped. My band rocks but it doesn’t seem like too many others agree with me. I’ll just take that to mean the world cannot fathom the depth of our awesomeness.

Getting together with my old pals and playing a ton of Magic: The Gathering has been fun. We play so much that we have our own meta-game brewing. Building new decks to try against my foes is time consuming, but it sure beats sweeping up the pube farm that’s growing around my toilet. It’s a game of strategy and creative design. My juices are all over it.

I have devoted most of my attention, however, to a story I am writing. With any luck it will be my ticket out of the pizza biz, as not fun and unrewarding as delivery is. If I can make a cool million off a book, then hopefully, I can accomplish my dreams. Like moving to New Mexico and growing a potted monkey farm.

Squozen.

Love,
Smiley Grimm