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Life at TJ's Place
Saturday, June 12, 2004
 
Last night was such a great night at work. I haven’t had that much fun in a long time. It was one of those nights where it feels like everybody wants to be there, everybody was in a good mood. The place was packed, all the guys were cool, we had four stages of dancers going. No fights, no ejections. Not even any real warnings to guys for getting too frisky. And the girls were great. There are nights when a lot of them just go through the motions, make their money and leave. There are other nights when they really dance. Some of our girls are really amazing dancers, but you so rarely get to see it, and especially see all of them doing it on one night. For awhile, it was like every dancer’s set was like a challenge to the next girl to top it. All the songs rocked. It was great.

And I got to see Darby dance to “Little Bit More.” That’s one of the coolest things about my job, getting to enjoy music like that. It’s like you get to hear the song for the first time twice. You hear it, you love it and listen to it fifty times. Then you get to see one of your favorite dancers just absolutely blow the roof off the place dancing to it. Darby is a little goth chick with short dark hair. She has a couple tattoos and some piercings and wears dark lipstick and eye makeup. She’s a lot more sexy than scary looking, but the funny thing is that she’s a total sweetheart. She has an incredible body and man, can she dance. It was so great. I didn’t let her listen to the song before, but I told her I had a new one and she’d have to wing it. She wung it. It’s amazing watching a good dancer like that, just improvise when she’s never even heard the song before, anticipating all the big shifts in the music and everything. When she got off stage the first time, she ran over to the booth and said, “Oh, my God, that song is so fucking awesome!”

A good night. I loved it.

Thursday, June 10, 2004
 
This rain will never stop. I wanted to golf about a thousand holes today, but no go. So I’m going to chip and putt golf balls while I think about this post, and I'll stop every once in a while stop and write. That’s what I’m doing right now.

This is the only part of my game that doesn’t take a shit over the winter, because I chip and putt all year around. My dog used to chase the golf balls. It was impossible to hole a shot that way. It’s also impossible to get in a groove when every shot you take only gets halfway to its target before a dog darts out from the bathroom and grabs it. I play a game with him sometimes with my little foam golf balls. He stands at the end of the hall and I try to chip the balls past him and hit the wall like he’s a hockey goalie. He’s unbeatable, unless I chip the ball over his head. Then he looks pissed. Satch appreciates heated competition, but he demands a level playing field. If I just keep lobbing shots over his head, he loses interest. That’s the only time I can get one past him. I bore him to death with flop shots that he can’t reach, then I sneak one past him. Also, unlike a real hockey goalie, Satch has no 5-hole because he sits on his hind legs. You have to beat him to the stick side.

Television at this time of the day is awful. My two big TV viewing times are usually from about noon until 2:00 pm, and 3:00 am until 5:00 am. There ain’t much happening on those two time slots.

I just heard a song by Tony C. & the Truth called “Little Bit More” and it’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard. The name of the album is Demonophonic Blues. I hope the rest of the album is half that cool. I’m going to buy it right now. As soon as I heard the song, I thought of one of the dancers, Darby. When she shows up for work tomorrow night, I’ll wave her over to the booth and let her listen to “Little Bit More” in cue on my headphones. She’ll freak, because it’s the kind of stuff she loves. Funky stuff that totally rocks. She’ll demand that I play the song for her first set. I’ll be her hero. This is what I do.

Wednesday, June 09, 2004
 
Yesterday I called Mitch, whose real name isn’t Mitch, Mitch. He said, “Who the fuck’s Mitch?” and I said, “That’s what I’m asking you.” He looked confused. He was busy at the bar, so that was the end of it. The names I use for dancers are all names I’ve heard of for dancers, and many of the names I use I actually know a dancer by that name, only it’s not the same dancer. The dancer I call Logan has almost taken on an identity of her own. I know her very well, I see her about every other day, but the blog Logan is becoming different in my mind from the real Logan. And I have to admit that this all is going on more in my head than in the blog here, because I write probably 400% more than I actually end up posting, so a lot of the time I have to say, Did I actually post that, or did I write it and dump it? My blog life is taking over my real life. Soon it will suffocate it and kill it and all will be blog.

I like to post interesting little tidbits every once in awhile. Most of the time when I write something like, Here’s a really cool thing I learned today, people comment and say, “Kev, you fuckin dipshit, you didn’t know that?” And I go, Nope, wouldn’t have said I learned it today if I had. Then I remember I only had 1.3333333 years of college, and those weren’t the most productive in US collegiate history.

So here’s my little fun fact of the day. If you don’t know this, you can say, “Kev, you rock, that’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever heard!” If you do know this, bite my ass. Just kidding.

Also, it’s not my intention for this to be the sleaze-bag blog or anything, but this is gross, so, you know, fair warning. There was a radio story I heard today and I’m not sure where this happened (it wasn’t a local story), but a guy in a fast-food place was arrested for masturbating in people’s food. One of the people he did it to was a cop. Here’s the fascinating part: They charged him with aggravated battery. Isn’t that bizarre? That must be like the maximum penalty or something, but I would have never guessed they could charge a guy for battery when he never even touched someone. Then I thought about, what happens if you spit on somebody? I suppose technically that would be battery too.

Reading back on this, it’s not nearly as fascinating as I thought it would be. Oh well.

Tuesday, June 08, 2004
 
My best friend Kyle works for an insurance company. He travels all over two states visiting insurance agencies. He’s the guy who tells the insurance agent, “Can I get you anything?” And the insurance agent says, “Yes, we need some more promotional water bottles and a dozen company sticky-pads,” and Kyle takes care of that for them. I tell Kyle he has the perfect job for listening to books-on-tape because he’s in his car all day. He could “read” 100 novels a year. Or I can listen to the first ten pages of one novel, he says, and fall asleep at the wheel and drive off a bridge. I tell him he better stick to sports talk radio.

Whenever he’s in the area he times it out and stops in the club, which he did yesterday. I was best man at Kyle’s wedding. I had just started working at the club and his wife wasn’t too happy, to have me, nudie club bartender, giving the toast at her wedding. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want a stripper being my wife’s maid of honor, to be completely honest. I’m trying to think if that’s being hyprocritical…hmmm…Yes. I’ve decided it is.

Nothing much happened yesterday because Kyle has been in the club a hundred times and we just hang out. The very first time he came in after I had become manager, we were sitting in the office together and a couple of the dancers, who had just gotten off stage, came in, still with no tops on. They said hello to Kyle, he said hello, one of them had a question for me about something, we made a joke, everybody laughed. The other one walked around the side of the desk to check her schedule. I introduced Kyle to them, they said Hey and stood around for awhile and talked. Okay, thanks, Kev. They left and closed the door. Kyle looked at me totally deadpan and said, “Dude, that was maybe the greatest five minutes of my life.”

The guy who owns the club, Charlie, didn’t make it to the meeting yesterday for the second week in a row. That has never happened before. He has some disease that’s not supposed to be life-threatening, but I can’t remember which one. I’ll find out today at work. If Charlie dies, I wonder if Ravishing Ron would get the club? If Charlie hasn’t already died, I’ll ask him the next time I see him. I’ll say, “Hey, Charlie, when you drop dead does your scumbag son get the club?” Then Charlie and I will have a good laugh. Then he’ll fire me.

Sunday, June 06, 2004
 
When I worked Friday night, I talked to a dancer named Jenna. Jenna had some shingles blown off her roof in the storms we’ve been having. She lives in a house with her 3-year-old son and whatever loser she’s currently dating. Jenna’s boyfriends move in with her usually after the second or third date. I asked Jenna, “How does a guy move in with you after you’ve been seeing each other for two weeks? Where was he living before?” They usually live with their parents or a friend. From the looks of them, many may actually be homeless. She likes the dangerous guys, but around here, the dangerous ones are usually just fucking idiots. I know two pretty nice guys who come into the club occasionally who are in love with Jenna and she won’t give them a second thought.

Her roof is leaking into her bathroom, she told me, and she doesn’t know what to do. I told her to call a roofer. She did, she said, and he told her she needed a new roof. She called her insurance man and the adjuster came out. Jenna has a $1,000 deductible because her credit is poor and the house is in bad shape. The adjuster told her the damage wouldn’t meet the deductible. She doesn’t know what to do. She was almost crying. I asked her how many shingles were off and she held out her arms to show that it was probably just a couple. She knows I used to work construction, and she’s seen me in action doing amazing feats of maintenance around the club. One time I was outside before the club opened, mentally preparing myself for my shift, making pretty shapes out of the clouds, when one of the dancers came out and screamed for me to get inside. A pipe had burst in the dressing and was spraying all over the place. They had managed to throw a towel over it, but it was still soaking the floor. I shut off the water valve and now all the dancers think I’m Bob Villa. After about 10 minutes of listening to her beating around the bush, I said, “Jenna, how about I come over tomorrow and patch your roof?” She squealed.

First I went to her house to see what color shingles she had. Then to Lowe’s to buy a bundle of shingles. Then back. Then she didn’t have a ladder. We borrowed one from her neighbor. I got on the roof. There were three shingles missing. The shingles I bought were the same color as her shingles when her shingles were new, about 30 years ago. I got busy.

Jenna came out a little while later and asked me if I wanted a cookie. She was baking cookies for something her son was involved in. I said yes to be nice, but I didn’t want to come down the ladder just to get a cookie. I told her to come up. No, she’s afraid of heights. Just throw it. The first throw I could have caught if I had taken three steps and dove from the roof and landed on the driveway. The second one hit the gutter. I told her to just forget it, she’s wasting her cookies. No, one more. She heaved this one and it went over my head, but it landed on the roof. I got it before the 5-second rule and dusted it off. She stood there until she saw me eat it, then she went back inside.

So I fixed her roof. I had to use three times the number of shingles that were missing because her roof was so old, I kept breaking shingles trying to tie them in. I’m praying the next time it rains she doesn’t come in and say the roof is still leaking.

Also, I got my heart broken on Saturday. By a guy. Named Smarty Jones. Oh, Smarty.


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