So I keep telling you that I'm not going to be writing anymore, and then I keep going to Kinko's and letting their computer chew on my credit card while I madly tap out little messages to you. Well, I also have to check my e-mail once a day, because if I don't people like my Mom and various editors and potential employers get all panicky and huffy and threaten to fire me/disown me/not mail me my checks.
But anyway, I just couldn't wait to tell you that the lady from the chi-chi phone domination company called me yesterday and we had a lovely talk and she sent me an application (by e-mail -- see what I mean?) and I filled it out and sent it back and wheeeeeeeeee! I'm totally terrified, actually. I'm sure I wouldn't actually be able to tell a stranger on the phone that he should be so priviledged as to lick my boots, even if it's true. But you never CAN really do anything before you HAVE done it, or such is my own experience. I never really rise to the occasion until the occasion is upon me, so I'm sure I'll be fine, when and if.
Oh, also, Writing Project #1 is published and creating a tiny but gratifying stir. I'm supposed to talk to some guy on the radio some time tomorrow.
Today I almost told my class of nine-year-olds that they were badasses, cause they were standing on their heads and it was totally impressive. The "bad" part slipped out before I could think, and then there was a long pause and then I said "monkeys." Because it was all I could think of. They were confused, but at least they didn't go home and teach a new word to Mom and Dad.
Love you. This is the last one til the computer is fixed. Really. Bye.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Saturday, June 24, 2006
holla
Just checking in, lovers. My computer is still at the garage, where the handsome tech geek told me he could rebuild my hard-drive for under $200. Nice.
So you have not and will not be hearing much from me for a week or so, but on the other hand you aren't missing too much, as I've taken last week and this week off from titty dancing to teach yoga at a summer day camp. While I have many adorable stories of the things 3-to-10-year-olds say and do when asked to assume the Pose of the Downward-Facing Dog, I doubt they would give you to same sort of voyeuristic thrills to which you have become accustomed.
Peace.
So you have not and will not be hearing much from me for a week or so, but on the other hand you aren't missing too much, as I've taken last week and this week off from titty dancing to teach yoga at a summer day camp. While I have many adorable stories of the things 3-to-10-year-olds say and do when asked to assume the Pose of the Downward-Facing Dog, I doubt they would give you to same sort of voyeuristic thrills to which you have become accustomed.
Peace.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
silent so long
I forgot to mention, but my laptop died an ignoble death on Tuesday, and so I will not be posting with the regularity you have hitherto enjoyed until I have wrung and conned enough cashola out of the titty bar-going public to purchase a replacement. I just want you to know that it's not your fault and your father and I still love you.
Out.
Out.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
the song of the bard
You know when you get so pissed off that you're actually amused by your own pissed-offness? Get this. Your buddy Grace got played last night -- played my honies. Twanged like a little banjo and by none other than the Bard. Remember him?
So he was there again last night, sitting by fourth stage like last time. I noticed him halfway through the set, staring at the wares, which is fine, but then he did the whole thing where he looked away and pretended he didn't see me and then spent the rest of the set sort of staring carefull into space just over my shoulder. Please. Is this middle school? Because if it is, I forgot my lunch.
I didn't particularly want to reacquaint myself with the Bard and his ancient lore after I got off stage, but it the club was S L O W and other prospects were dim. In fact, every other customer in the place was surrounded by one or two or three other girls, like breadcrumbs in a pond of hungry trout. It was sit with the Bard or go back the dressing room and read that old copy of People magazine from right after Brad dumped Jen. (God, it seems so long ago, doesn't it?)
You may recall that on our last encounter the Bard wasted a good twenty minutes of my life telling tales of his awesomeness. I quite literally could not get a word in to ask for a dance, and finally just had to get up and walk away. I guess I had some idea that if I could sell him a dance or two this time, I could recover those losses. In retrospect, I would have better off with Brad and Jen. Because get this. The Bard has brought in a notebook of his poetry and writings, and he wants to read it to me. I let him read on to me out loud. I cannot begin to describe the badness of it. It was a close contender for worst poetry I have ever read, and I have read poetry by adolescent girls. It was Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings bad, and if you get that reference, please marry me. I wish I could remember even one line of it to quote for you, but it was such drivel that it doesn't seem to have stuck in my head. It was all about himself, of course. Apparently, others see him as a Warrior and a Man of Honor but inside he is tormented by demons and whatnot.
So I take Brad K's advice, and pretend to be a very busy librarian. I decide what a very busy librarian would do under these circumstances is pretend to be fascinated with the author while resting her arm casually across the pages of the notebook, so that it is impossible to turn the page. Then I ask if he would like to dance. "Dear Lady," sez he, "I could never refuse you." Alrighty then. So I dance. He's a hands-off dance recipient, which is a perk, but then on the downside he goes ON and ON about how huge his penis is, and how it is probably the biggest penis in the club, but please don't tell anyone that, please, because he would hate for word to get around that he has the biggest penis in the club because then all the girls would want to go home with him and he just can't handle that because he wants to be loved for who he really is, not feared and adored for his enormous penis. Three songs is all I can do of this, so I ask him if he'd like to take a break. He says yes, and I put all my clothes back on and perch on the edge of the chair, waiting for him to reach for his wallet. He doesn't. "You know, I don't normally pay for dances," he says.
Uh huh. And? But? I wait for him to go on, but that seems to be all he has to say.
I blink. "So, uh, you'd rather pay me for my time, then?"
"Dear Lady," says the Bard, only he probably would spell it Ladye. "To pay for what has passed between us would be demean what is to me..."
I can't imagine what my face looks like, but it must be scary, because he stops right there. "I don't pay for dances. I didn't even bring any money with me," he says. "Why should I pay a woman for what she enjoys?"
There have to literally thousands of great come-backs to a line like this. I know, because they've been coming to me all morning. But at that moment, I was rendered absolutely speechless. I just stared at him for a little while, praying that my eyeballs would turn into lasers. A waitress wandered by and I broke contact to grab her by the arm. "This man needs to charge three dances to his credit card."
She trots off and we sit in silence. He looks uncomfortable. Good.I'm glad. Waitress comes back with his card, which has been denied. "How embarrassing," he says, but he can't hide the little moment of triumph.
"Wait there," I say. I go to look for a manager, because if I can't get my money, I want to see this man's ass get kicked. But the manager is elusive. When I finally track him down at the poker table, he's sympathetic, but the Bard is gone, of course.
I'm pissed, at least as much at myself as anything. I could have done so many things. I should have taken his credit card from the waitress and held it ransom. I should have taken his wallet and rifled through it. I should have SHAKEN THAT ASSHOLE DOWN. I got rolled, and I am ashamed. I'm never really prepared for people to be that shitty, you know?
I almost called it a day after that, but I stuck it out to til closing, and I'm glad I did. In the end, I made pretty decent money. A large chunk of it from some high-rolling white guy who was there to see another girl, but tipped me multiple bennies "just for looking good." Another large chunk from the Gambler, a tiny man with a fierce mustache who, if he were one foot shorter, I would pick up and toss in the air. The rest here and there -- diesel mechanics, insurance salesmen, dudes in Hawaiian shirts. You know, the usual.
So he was there again last night, sitting by fourth stage like last time. I noticed him halfway through the set, staring at the wares, which is fine, but then he did the whole thing where he looked away and pretended he didn't see me and then spent the rest of the set sort of staring carefull into space just over my shoulder. Please. Is this middle school? Because if it is, I forgot my lunch.
I didn't particularly want to reacquaint myself with the Bard and his ancient lore after I got off stage, but it the club was S L O W and other prospects were dim. In fact, every other customer in the place was surrounded by one or two or three other girls, like breadcrumbs in a pond of hungry trout. It was sit with the Bard or go back the dressing room and read that old copy of People magazine from right after Brad dumped Jen. (God, it seems so long ago, doesn't it?)
You may recall that on our last encounter the Bard wasted a good twenty minutes of my life telling tales of his awesomeness. I quite literally could not get a word in to ask for a dance, and finally just had to get up and walk away. I guess I had some idea that if I could sell him a dance or two this time, I could recover those losses. In retrospect, I would have better off with Brad and Jen. Because get this. The Bard has brought in a notebook of his poetry and writings, and he wants to read it to me. I let him read on to me out loud. I cannot begin to describe the badness of it. It was a close contender for worst poetry I have ever read, and I have read poetry by adolescent girls. It was Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings bad, and if you get that reference, please marry me. I wish I could remember even one line of it to quote for you, but it was such drivel that it doesn't seem to have stuck in my head. It was all about himself, of course. Apparently, others see him as a Warrior and a Man of Honor but inside he is tormented by demons and whatnot.
So I take Brad K's advice, and pretend to be a very busy librarian. I decide what a very busy librarian would do under these circumstances is pretend to be fascinated with the author while resting her arm casually across the pages of the notebook, so that it is impossible to turn the page. Then I ask if he would like to dance. "Dear Lady," sez he, "I could never refuse you." Alrighty then. So I dance. He's a hands-off dance recipient, which is a perk, but then on the downside he goes ON and ON about how huge his penis is, and how it is probably the biggest penis in the club, but please don't tell anyone that, please, because he would hate for word to get around that he has the biggest penis in the club because then all the girls would want to go home with him and he just can't handle that because he wants to be loved for who he really is, not feared and adored for his enormous penis. Three songs is all I can do of this, so I ask him if he'd like to take a break. He says yes, and I put all my clothes back on and perch on the edge of the chair, waiting for him to reach for his wallet. He doesn't. "You know, I don't normally pay for dances," he says.
Uh huh. And? But? I wait for him to go on, but that seems to be all he has to say.
I blink. "So, uh, you'd rather pay me for my time, then?"
"Dear Lady," says the Bard, only he probably would spell it Ladye. "To pay for what has passed between us would be demean what is to me..."
I can't imagine what my face looks like, but it must be scary, because he stops right there. "I don't pay for dances. I didn't even bring any money with me," he says. "Why should I pay a woman for what she enjoys?"
There have to literally thousands of great come-backs to a line like this. I know, because they've been coming to me all morning. But at that moment, I was rendered absolutely speechless. I just stared at him for a little while, praying that my eyeballs would turn into lasers. A waitress wandered by and I broke contact to grab her by the arm. "This man needs to charge three dances to his credit card."
She trots off and we sit in silence. He looks uncomfortable. Good.I'm glad. Waitress comes back with his card, which has been denied. "How embarrassing," he says, but he can't hide the little moment of triumph.
"Wait there," I say. I go to look for a manager, because if I can't get my money, I want to see this man's ass get kicked. But the manager is elusive. When I finally track him down at the poker table, he's sympathetic, but the Bard is gone, of course.
I'm pissed, at least as much at myself as anything. I could have done so many things. I should have taken his credit card from the waitress and held it ransom. I should have taken his wallet and rifled through it. I should have SHAKEN THAT ASSHOLE DOWN. I got rolled, and I am ashamed. I'm never really prepared for people to be that shitty, you know?
I almost called it a day after that, but I stuck it out to til closing, and I'm glad I did. In the end, I made pretty decent money. A large chunk of it from some high-rolling white guy who was there to see another girl, but tipped me multiple bennies "just for looking good." Another large chunk from the Gambler, a tiny man with a fierce mustache who, if he were one foot shorter, I would pick up and toss in the air. The rest here and there -- diesel mechanics, insurance salesmen, dudes in Hawaiian shirts. You know, the usual.
Monday, June 05, 2006
wasted
Taking a break from the festivities last night, I wander into the mostly quiet VIP and get a glass of water from Rocky, the back bartender. I am tucked into the far corner of a plushy couch when a patron spies me from the bar and hulloos over. "What are you doing over there in the dark?" sez he.
"Hiding," sez me.
He thinks this is pretty cute, and ambles over to bother me. Within minutes we are up in Ultra VIP settling into a cozy lapdance preamble, and the DJ calls me for stage. I tell whatsisname I'll be back in a few, and he sez OK, but warns me he's been sowing $5 tips all over the place and may be up to his neck in beaver when I get back. I tell him this is an acceptable risk.
I am on the second stage of my rotation when he wanders by, his bevy of eager lovelies not having thus far materialized. (It was a slow night, and there had been a steady attrition of angry strippers with wheely suitcases headed out the door with his tips more than likely tucked in their socks.) He divides the next several songs between tipping me and tipping the girl in rotation after me, a lovely and very young brunette with a beautiful horse's mouth and big, dazed eyes. When this girl comes to take over my stage from me, her face is weirdly rigid and she doesn't take my hand when I reach down to help her on stage. I wonder if she's really angry at something then realize hellno, she's drunk off her fucking ass. Customer-dude comes to collect me as I'm getting off stage, and we tip Miss Thing a coupla bucks and ask her to join us in the Champagne Room.
He and I hightail it back there and commence the dance-dance. He's the type who can't shut up during dances, like he feels some obligation to keep up his end of a theoretical conversation, but whatever. A slight edge of meanness to him, not unlike my boyfriend's boss, the cunt-hating gay pornograher, but I've met worse. A few songs more and the drunk girl arrives, wailing that she's been looking for us all over and where the hell were we? Customer explains that we're in CR, like we said. Girl looks confused. Girl demands a drink. Customer assures her the waitress will be right over. Girl sits down and lolls back on the couch like a beached fish while custy tells her how adorable she is. She asks for a drink again, now getting agitated. Customer leaves to fetch the waitress, demonstrating yet again that amazing power of brattiness.
"Hey, let's do like this," sez Drunk Girl, and launches herself at me. I scissor my legs obligingly with hers and pet her soft hair. She really is cuter than a speckled pup under a red wagon. Custy returns and shoos us apart to get back in the action. Waitress arrives with shot, and Drunk Girl shoots. Her eyes immediately roll back in her head and she slumps back onto my shoulder. Custy politely asks me to leave them alone.
Hell. I can't very well refuse to go, and both the girl and the custy will think my motives are avaricious if I do. On the other hand, the protective instincts honed during years of co-ed kegger parties are telling me that you don't leave a passed-out girl alone with a strange dude. On the other other hand, I could be making money somewhere else. I compromise by hunting down a waitress and telling her that Princess Sparklepony over there could use an eye on her. Waitress gives me a blank look like what the hell business is it of mine, and I feel, not for the first time, like a schoolmar'm at an orgy. Fine. I return to an earlier customer and ring up another several dances. Every time I lean over his chair, though, I can see back into the Champagne Room where Drunk Girl's legs are sticking out from behind a potted palm, strangely still.
It's only a few songs that I notice Customer Guy is back on the floor, cruising for fresh meat. Thing are winding down with my buddy right about then, and so I wander over. "How's old whatsername?" sez I.
"We didn't hit it off," he sez. I follow his stare across the room and there's our girl slumped back on a chair with some guy apparently giving her a lapdance that involves a lot of licking. Her eyes are closed, and not in an Oh-I'm-In-Ecstacy way.
"Too bad," sez I, and "Yeah, too bad," sez he, and we part, in search of other victims better suited to our tastes.
"Hiding," sez me.
He thinks this is pretty cute, and ambles over to bother me. Within minutes we are up in Ultra VIP settling into a cozy lapdance preamble, and the DJ calls me for stage. I tell whatsisname I'll be back in a few, and he sez OK, but warns me he's been sowing $5 tips all over the place and may be up to his neck in beaver when I get back. I tell him this is an acceptable risk.
I am on the second stage of my rotation when he wanders by, his bevy of eager lovelies not having thus far materialized. (It was a slow night, and there had been a steady attrition of angry strippers with wheely suitcases headed out the door with his tips more than likely tucked in their socks.) He divides the next several songs between tipping me and tipping the girl in rotation after me, a lovely and very young brunette with a beautiful horse's mouth and big, dazed eyes. When this girl comes to take over my stage from me, her face is weirdly rigid and she doesn't take my hand when I reach down to help her on stage. I wonder if she's really angry at something then realize hellno, she's drunk off her fucking ass. Customer-dude comes to collect me as I'm getting off stage, and we tip Miss Thing a coupla bucks and ask her to join us in the Champagne Room.
He and I hightail it back there and commence the dance-dance. He's the type who can't shut up during dances, like he feels some obligation to keep up his end of a theoretical conversation, but whatever. A slight edge of meanness to him, not unlike my boyfriend's boss, the cunt-hating gay pornograher, but I've met worse. A few songs more and the drunk girl arrives, wailing that she's been looking for us all over and where the hell were we? Customer explains that we're in CR, like we said. Girl looks confused. Girl demands a drink. Customer assures her the waitress will be right over. Girl sits down and lolls back on the couch like a beached fish while custy tells her how adorable she is. She asks for a drink again, now getting agitated. Customer leaves to fetch the waitress, demonstrating yet again that amazing power of brattiness.
"Hey, let's do like this," sez Drunk Girl, and launches herself at me. I scissor my legs obligingly with hers and pet her soft hair. She really is cuter than a speckled pup under a red wagon. Custy returns and shoos us apart to get back in the action. Waitress arrives with shot, and Drunk Girl shoots. Her eyes immediately roll back in her head and she slumps back onto my shoulder. Custy politely asks me to leave them alone.
Hell. I can't very well refuse to go, and both the girl and the custy will think my motives are avaricious if I do. On the other hand, the protective instincts honed during years of co-ed kegger parties are telling me that you don't leave a passed-out girl alone with a strange dude. On the other other hand, I could be making money somewhere else. I compromise by hunting down a waitress and telling her that Princess Sparklepony over there could use an eye on her. Waitress gives me a blank look like what the hell business is it of mine, and I feel, not for the first time, like a schoolmar'm at an orgy. Fine. I return to an earlier customer and ring up another several dances. Every time I lean over his chair, though, I can see back into the Champagne Room where Drunk Girl's legs are sticking out from behind a potted palm, strangely still.
It's only a few songs that I notice Customer Guy is back on the floor, cruising for fresh meat. Thing are winding down with my buddy right about then, and so I wander over. "How's old whatsername?" sez I.
"We didn't hit it off," he sez. I follow his stare across the room and there's our girl slumped back on a chair with some guy apparently giving her a lapdance that involves a lot of licking. Her eyes are closed, and not in an Oh-I'm-In-Ecstacy way.
"Too bad," sez I, and "Yeah, too bad," sez he, and we part, in search of other victims better suited to our tastes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
