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Life at TJ's Place
Friday, May 28, 2004
 
“Women like that are like members of a secret tribe living in a forbidden city.”
George Costanza on Seinfeld

The “Forbidden City” in the club is the dancers dressing room, and that’s kind of the perception most men have when they walk down the hallway at TJ’s Place and see that shitty old wooden door that says “Dressing Room – Dancers Only.” I watch them sometimes pass by the door—they get nervous and excited. Sometimes they touch it just to say they did. Beyond that door, they’re thinking. The Forbidden City.

Kev will now be your Tour Guide through the Forbidden City. First of all, I hate going in there. I don’t want to know what happens there. The dressing room is creepy. Whenever I go there, I always knock before I enter and say, “Is everybody decent?” All the dancers mumble something that I take as a “yeah, whatever,” and I open the door and go in. There are about 100 various stages of nakedness, and I’ve seen them all. There are many, many “bad nakeds” going on in the dressing room of a topless club. (I went into the dressing room one time and a new girl who had been dancing just a few days saw me and screamed and grabbed a towel to cover up her chest. That’s why I always knock now.)

Everything in the dressing room is loud, wild, messy, outrageous. Aside from the obvious, there is nothing in the dressing room that any man would call Paradise. The first thing is the smell, a combination of 20 different perfumes and body sprays, hair products, nail polish, nail polish remover, fresh leather. It is a tidal wave of smell that will stop your heart. Once your vision returns, you are then overwhelmed with the sight of it: there are brightly colored clothes, boots, shoes and costumes strewn all over, hanging from every hook, every shelf, on every surface. The floor is not visible, there are huge trunks laying open, contents spilling out, makeup kits. The colors inside the dressing room will trigger epileptic seizures.

Then of course there are the girls. Sometimes, if just a couple of the dancers are in there, reading or doing their makeup, it’s fine. The first time I had to enter the dressing room after I became Ass Manager, as the waitstaff calls me, there were 25 girls in there just before the 8:00 shift on a Saturday night. They were screaming, wrestling, laughing, being crude, painting toenails, using the bathroom, putting on their makeup, trying to meditate. My first time there, and I had to quiet this room and make some announcement, scared to death, embarrassed. After 20 minutes I finally had their attention. I began, “Girls, I just wanted to let everyone know—“ One of them farted. The room erupted with laughter. I decided it was best to just write down the announcement and post it outside the door.

Wednesday, May 26, 2004
 
My nephew graduated from high school on Sunday and I went to his post-graduation party. I grew up and went to high school in a small town, not where I live and work now. It’s always stressful going back home to something like this, seeing people who knew me in high school and know me now. Every conversation I have with old teachers and my friends’ fathers are on the absolute surface. They’re polite and don’t ask me what I’m doing now, because they know what I’m doing now. And, yes, I’ve seen a few of them in the club. In fact, I can’t believe some of the people I’ve seen in the club—if I ever get to where I hate my hometown, I will turn it upside-down by naming names. The backlash will be felt for decades.

That’s all for another post. So my nephew Jay graduated and I sat by the fire with my brother, my brother’s brother-in-law and my brother’s father-in-law (ya followin’?) and guarded the keg from Jay and his friends. One of Jay’s friends calls me “K-Dawg” and I call him “Lil’ Bow Wow” because he’s like 4-feet 8-inches tall and listens to rap and hip-hop. He also has the attitude of a guy who’s the size of Shaq, or Peter North, if you know what I mean.

The following is an excerpt of a typical greeting between K-Dawg and Lil’ Bow Wow:

Lil’ Bow Wow: Yo, K-Dawg, what up?
K-Dawg: Yo, Bow Wow, I’m chillin’, yo!

We then go on to discuss ho's and bitches, turf, etc.

Naturally, Jay’s buddies thought I’d be their best bet for breaking down and giving them a cup of beer, which of course I did, after about my eighth. I justify this by saying it was all logical thinking and that they’d be safer having a couple glasses of beer here, at their own party, than driving off to other parties to find it (which they would have). Like the country song says, that’s my story…

Anyway, seeing your nephew graduate and stand at the beginning of his life kind of gives you the heavy feeling. You want to tell them so much. But you remember that your dad and your uncles told you the same things when you were 18, and they never really had an impact until you were older. Listen to Bob Seger. He knows.

On a lighter note, this is my favorite Deep Thought by Jack Handey:

That crow seems to be calling my name, thought Caw.

The other favorite goes kind of like this (not exact): If you ever accidentally drop your set of keys into a molten river of lava…forget ‘em, man, because they’re gone!

Tuesday, May 25, 2004
 
The waitstaff had a party after work Saturday night (according to the Monday report). Around 5:00 in the morning someone decided it would be a good idea to start shooting arrows off the deck with a compound bow. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times, it’s time to leave the party when somebody does a beer bong, vomits on the floor, and says, “Hey, let’s get out Dave’s compound bow!” It was always like that at the parties I remember. The guys who weren’t getting any decided to end the night with violence and/or dangerous activity. Hitting golf balls, tackle football, nunchuck fights, homerun hitting contests with aluminum baseball bats and golf balls. I’m amazed no one has been killed.

So the neighbor called the cops on the party, apparently. This neighbor has been awake probably since 2:15 am, when the party started. I don’t imagine she was in too good of a mood, then an arrow goes whizzing through her backyard and hits a tree and everybody on the deck cheers. I figure that was the last straw.

I wanted to tell everybody thank-you for linking me on your sites. Every day it seems like I get new referrals from somebody else, or someone mentioned the site on a forum. I visit all of your sites and try to comment when I can, but I don’t very often (comment). I’m shy, you see. I even sign up for some of the forums just so I can see what’s being said about my site. Pathetic? Yes. I’m a pig. But thank you.


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