Life at TJ's Place
Saturday, March 27, 2004
I live across the street from a grocery store. A car is blowing its horn in short bursts and has been for the last two minutes. It isn’t a car alarm. It has to be a little kid, or a couple little kids, messing in the front seat while Mom is inside buying groceries for dinner. It’s been funny since it started, but now it’s getting annoying.


The kids are no doubt screaming with laughter inside the car. Mom is squeezing lettuce heads in the store and has no idea what is going on.

One of the kids just honked the horn for 20 seconds straight. For a moment, I wonder if someone has pointed a gun inside the car and killed the little kid like in the movies, and he’s slumped against the steering wheel, blaring the horn. But soon they’re back to the morse code-type honking.


What if they really did honk SOS? You would almost have to go outside and see what the little dildos were doing, wouldn’t you? What if they honked SOS and I did nothing, then in an hour I saw ambulance and police cars in the grocery store parking lot? My town would be villified in the national news. Two small children were murdered today by a child molester moments after they honked SOS a dozen times on the family sedan’s car horn, but nobody offered assistance, thinking it was a prank. Can you imagine?

Thursday, March 25, 2004
Date: So, what do you do?
Kev: Let’s talk about you.
Date: No, seriously!
Kev: I manage a bar.
Date: Really? Which one?
Kev: It’s one you’ve never been in before.
Date: How do you know?
Kev: I know.
Date: Come on! Tell me which one it is.
Kev: It’s a gentlemen’s club.
Date: Like a strip club?

Kev’s answers to this question: 1) It’s not like that. 2) Yes, a strip club. 3) (tries to play it cute and put his hand over his eyes, embarrassed) 4) Would you have a problem with that? 5) No, I’m just kidding. I’m an electrician.

I have had the best results with #3. I tried #1 once, and it was like I admitted I had once trained at an al-Qaida camp in Afghanistan. #2 was a conversation stopper, probably because I tried to put it serious and straightforward, like I was admitting I worked for the CIA. When I said #4, the answer from my date was: “Uh, yeah.” When I used #5, I ended up sleeping with her, but eventually I had to give her the #2, and she thanked me for lying to her so I could fuck her. I told her I was scared, and I’m sorry, and then said “Call me,” as she was walking to her car. Satch was barking at her. Satch knows the ladies, and he never barks at “the one.”

Tuesday, March 23, 2004
I hope everybody understands that I am using aliases here. I never thought to mention that before, but I don't want to mislead anyone. I was going to do like some bloggers do and say M. said this and P. is an idiot, but I decided to just re-name practically every person I know. That has been hard. Thank you, telephone book.
It appears that one of the girls has been jerking guys off in the VIP room. I was told at Monday afternoon’s meeting that the cleaning lady has been finding used condoms on the floor in the VIP Booth (this is a semi-private room where girls do lap dances and private dances for guys). Although Mike, my boss, and Charlie, the owner, are circling the wagons, my thoughts lie with the poor cleaning lady. She is 50 years old and has a grandchild, I know from talking with her. I imagine she hates cleaning back in the VIP room anyway, then this. The VIP room at night with the strobes on and music pumping through the house is a dangerous and exotic place, the most forbidden spot in the city. In the morning, with the lights up and complete silence, the VIP room is like the backseat of a taxi. The floor is sticky from spilled drinks, there are gum and candy wrappers, the wood paneling is old and shitty looking, the seats are cheap and ugly. At night, men come to this room to have their dreams come true. During the day, a grandmother curses and picks up used rubbers from the floor.

Our plan of attack to find the handjob girl is to keep a better eye on the VIP room. Our bouncers will be told individually that they are to report anything suspicious going on up there, like slapping sounds or men moaning in ecstasy. I’m joking about this, but it is kind of serious. Next Sunday, we are going to have a mandatory staff meeting (I call them “team meetings”) with the dancers and lay down the law. Usually, team meetings put an end to stuff like this. The girls who do not jack-off their customers will go on a rampage of vigilance. The new girls will feel threatened. One or two girls may quit because of the accusations. This will be unfortunate, but it is a necessary weeding-out process, and there’s a 100% chance that, if anyone quits, it will be the guilty one.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
I know I'm posting too much, but I had to mention the Illini game today. They destroyed trash-talking Cincinnati in possibly the greatest game an Illini team has ever played, and play Duke next week in the Sweet 16. I will not sleep good this week. Go Illini! Please, God, give us the strength to beat Duke. My predictions up to this point (see earlier posts) have been almost perfect. We will beat Duke.
One of the dancers caught me last night chatting online with a girl from Vietnam. The girl’s screen name is kietvan18 and she has invited me to view her webcam. She is in a net shop somewhere in Vietnam, where it is after noon. Soon Wade, Jessica and two dancers are watching my conversation over my shoulder.

Wade says, “Tell her to show you her tits.” I tell him I see enough tits in the course of a day. The girls laugh at this. I have talked with kietvan18 before. She’s a delicate little flower. A comment like that would devastate her, coming from someone she’s beginning to trust (Kev). Jessica, a waitress, says, “God, look how pretty she is.” She is right. The girl on the screen is small and very cute. She wears glasses and her hair is pulled back. She has on a white shirt with buttons and a collar. I type funny things to her just so I can see her laugh, because her laugh would melt a diamond.

“Ask her if she’s a virgin,” Wade requests. There are 10,000 American Wades on the internet right now, asking Asian girls such questions. I can see why people from other countries hate Americans so bad, if this is the best team we field. Misty, a dancer there who has been absolutely riveted by the online conversation, tells Wade to shut the fuck up. Wade shuts up, and before long I notice that he has left the room. The women in the club don’t like him.

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