Life at TJ's Place
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Saturday afternoon a guy who looked Andy Dick, only more muscular, sat at the stage and was getting drunk.  He was by himself.  Whenever a dancer came to him, he would spread his legs out and hold his arms out, and give the sneer with his mouth open and his tongue out, like you see a guy do when he thinks the girl he’s dancing with is about to start grinding on him.  It’s the ready position for stupid idiots in strip clubs, like they’re preparing to get blown in a porn video.  (I could write a whole post on what different guys look like when a dancer first approaches them.  I will do that.  Soon.)  I don’t know if the guy had ever been in a club before.  We had already warned him once because he practically mauled the first girl who danced for him at the stage. 
He gets up from the stage later and goes to the bathroom.  When he comes out, he’s not wearing his shirt.  In the bathroom, he took off his shirt and draped it over his shoulder, then walked back out to the stage and sat down.  I had never seen that before.  He sat down and laid his shirt across his lap, ready for action.  I looked over at Big John, who was standing in the corner with a couple of his friends.  They were all laughing at the guy.  John looked up at me and held his hands out, like what the fuck is that? which made me laugh.  I rolled my eyes and nodded towards the guy.  This is clubspeak for Go tell that fuckhead to put his shirt back on.  John’s 35 years old and the size of a truck, but it’s funny because he calls all the customers, even the dumbest little 21-year-old dipshit, Sir.  I could almost read his lips say, “Sir, you need to put your shirt back on right now.”  The guy just kind of shrugged him off.  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you don’t put your shirt back on.”  So the guy made a big move of standing up so everybody could see him and put his shirt back on, which took about ten minutes.  Later on, he practically passed out sitting at the bar.  Then he staggered out the door and was gone.  Those are the kind of guys you’ll never see again in the club.  I can spot them from a mile away.  It’s like their one shot at conquering a strip club and they fail miserably, then they’re outta here. 
From the Too Much Info Dept.
I played golf today and drank water, pop and lemonade all day, lots of water, like a big swig at every hole.  I just got home an hour ago, and I realized I hadn’t peed since I woke up this morning.  From 10:00 am to 5:00 pm, not once.  The temperature was in the 90s and the heat index hit about 180 I think.  Did my ass sweat today? 
I grew up in Illinois, and Todd Hamilton, the guy who won the British Open, is from a town called Oquawka, Illinois, which is on the Mississippi River in the western part of the state.  I don’t think I’ve ever been there, but I may have passed it boating on the Mississippi when I was in school.  I bet I’ve played some of the same golf courses he has.  Anyway, that was cool to watch this weekend.  He seems like a good guy. 

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