I was staring at the cap of Pabst Blue Ribbon sitting on the table. It had a "Q" and a heart symbol. So I stared at it and likened it to the little riddles that are on the Lonestar beer bottle caps. After awhile I decided it was "quart." I thought to myself, that is a shitty and unimaginative pictograph (or whatever the hell it is you call them). The next day I was being a bum, laying around watching movies and just milling around the El Cerrito home when I decided to go outside for a bit. I sat on the steps and half buried in the dirt was a Blue Ribbon beer cap, with a "9" and the symbol for clubs. A nine of clubs. It never ceases to amaze me how I seem to manage to make every aspect of my life infinitely more complicated then it has to be.
I've been hanging out with my brother for a stint before I head back to Oklahoma and he heads off to China. It was a much overdue visit and I had a good time.
Well, actually he was working most of the time and I pretty much just followed his roommate around San Francisco and then wondered around Berkeley by myself. I stepped on his roommate's feet often because I was so distracted by the locals, which I'm sure was pretty damn annoying of me.
That has always been my gig though, I excell at being the annoying little sister. And thankfully my brother is a kind, patient man, who hasn't tried to remedy my faults by seeking counsel from Ricki Lake just yet.
Ah, the Dragon's Lair. It is the local strip club in Stillwater, Okla. It is everything one could hope it to be.
It was a good friend of mine's last day in Stillwater and we decided to send her off appreciating where it is she was going.
Our first attempts to get into "the lair", were met by pure sexism.
The owner explained that female patrons need a male escort. We were stunned, we are three division one athletes. Our combined weight is 475 lbs, and I'm almost pretty sure a male escort would do us little benefit. I'm also positive that is an illegal request.
We made a few phone calls and friends were on the way.
However,we got impatient, accosted a terrified looking solo college-aged boy and asked him to pretend like he knew us. Out of fear of getting beat up, he agreed and quickly scurried away from us.
It was all that you could hope for. The best stripper there, Genie, was 6'2 and had a voice that would make James Earl Jones jealous.
The motley crew consisted of four strippers. One was missing a tooth (which she explained she had lost during a cat fight with one of her co-workers), had breasts sagging to her knees and sometime in the night the soft excess that was her ass ate what little clothes she had once had on.
The other stripper had no boobs, being humble breasted myself, laughed with glee as she rubbed her sternum on the patrons faces for their spare change.
The final dancer could actually pass for something that would evoke arousal, except for the knee brace she wore for her routine. There is just something unsexy about a woman in nothing but a knee brace and a g-string.
I was sincerely hoping these ladies at least got paid minimum wage, but alas, their only wage was the occasional dollar whipped out for from sweaty old man's wallet.
Our real escorts arrived, a good time was had by all, and I went home with the peace of mind knowing that Genie and her crew could at least eat at Applebee's on the tips we provided that night.
I have a date tomorrow. Which means I'm juggling boys in a half-assed sort of way.
This one is a journalist who supports his career choice by bartending. I,of course, think this is fabulous. If you can't be a gold digging whore, why not be an free alcohol consuming shitbag.
I sincerely promise I find him intriguing.
I'm almost positive that sounds completely half-hearted and fabricated on paper, but I can sleep at night and hopefully you don't think less of me. And please don't start sending me bottles of liquor, really, it doesn't work that way.