schweblog

The title says it all. But first, an introduction to the cast of characters to get us started:

Jen: My roommate, friend, confidant, and fellow lover of literary theory. We’re equally loud, silly, and crazy. The perfect roommate for a bachelor.
Brad: The quintessential computer programmer with a metric fuckton of crazy experiences under his belt. The one guy I know I can count on to bail me out of jail, help me move, and remind me to be a crazy bastard when I try to act older than I actually am.
Donna: The ex-stripper that took a liking to me during my early single days. She has since moved on, but we still float around in the same general social circle.
Me: Well…you know.

Anyway, onto the story. It is Sunday night and I’m reminding myself of what I should be doing: namely, prepare for the Russian history midterm for the following day. It is 6:00 PM, though, and we all decide to head out to a local pub to have some drinks and food for Donna’s birthday. We eat. We drink. It’s pretty merry.

Upon receiving the bill, talk begins of what the next item on the agenda is. The Russian history midterm nags at me momentarily until the decision is made to make our way to the newly-opened strip club in town named–get this–the Spearmint Rhino. How can you listen to your academic conscience when you have the opportunity to go see bare-breasted women at a place called the Spearmint Rhino ? The choice was clear.

Donna used to be a stripper around Albuquerque and had worked at several clubs across town. As a result, she knows people in the industry and provides poignant criticism of several acts. Jen was along for the ride, clearly having a good time. I’m quietly contemplating the surreal lighting, the poor song selection, and the mostly humorous shenanigans on the stage. And Brad decides to grab a large wad of dough from his bank account.

After sitting there for just a moment, Brad leans over and explains the situation to me as such: “In strip clubs, money is the language. Keep in mind that I lived with six strippers at one time and was engaged to one, so I know what I’m talking about. Strippers have incredibly low self-confidence. For me, this is an entirely asexual experience, but I appreciate the effort and time that goes into a profession like this. I want them to feel good about themselves Thus, I tip good.”

This conversation is almost immediately followed by Brad buying me a dance from a white-bikini clad young woman who looks incredibly young. Equally incredible was how perfectly fake–and symmetrical–her breasts were. After being brushed several times with nipples erect enough to take an eye out, the dance was over. Brad, being the generous guy that he is, buys Jen a dance, too. Simultaneously, Donna is interjecting with critiques, based upon her very qualified opinion of the entire situation. This is good: three parts naked women, one part artistic criticism, and ten parts cheesy music.

The following experiences can be described in a single word: surreal. People that know Donna come sit down in our small, quaint, mafia-esque booth. I am talking shop with strippers. They share their experiences. I buy the nice black one with an ass that belonged in a 50 Cent video a drink while she tells me about her son and how he, too, likes BET. I am enjoying myself.

Then I meet her. An enigma? A real person? Someone who is really good at reading people? I don’t know. She’s a member of SCA. She plays Magic: The Gathering and Warhammer. She would play World of Warcraft if her computer could run it. She also just finished a really amazing act on stage involving little more than a black dress and a pole and was now sitting down next to me, telling me about her nerdiness.

She lights up a cigarette and describes the time she spent 6 hours providing relationship advice to Eric Clapton and his college-age girlfriend in a VIP room. She tells me about and shows me her tattoos: the one on her ankle for her deceased little brother, the one right above her pubic bone signifying her astrological sign, the one on her shoulder with five stars, each of them representing one of her kids. She buys a drink. She dances some more. Somewhere during all of this, she gives me the local SCA chapter’s web address and, even though she wasn’t “technically allowed to do this at work,” her phone number.

Brad buys another dance for me, this time from her. I worry about how much money he is spending at first, but I’m suddenly made aware of a leg over here and another one right over there and…she’s nervous and ends up kneeing me in the side of the head. I laugh. She tickles me. Then she shows me how she can lick the back of her knee while she’s standing up. I’m impressed. The song is over, though. She shows me her stomach and explains to me how there are some things you can’t get rid of after you’ve had five kids. She shows me her pierced nipples up close and the dainty little rings she has attached to them.

Then it’s time to go. I politely shake her hand and she leans over next to me, “You know, I don’t know if I’ll be able to check my messages on my phone any time soon…”

Her voice trails off–I wink and smile knowingly, “Don’t worry, I understand. I get it.”

I am not surprised or disappointed like I thought I might be. Oh no…this is hilarious. I walk out into the cold night air and breathe in deeply, happy to no longer be stifled by the smell of fruity sweat and cigarettes. One word for the night: absurd. Fucking absurd. This was absurd. We all pile in the car and get ready to head back.

“So Jesse, what did you think?” Brad asks me while I drive.

“You know, man. It was all absurd. Everything. Just fucking hilarious.”

“You know you had a really serious look on your face during some of the closer moments.”

“Did I really? It’s not surprising. There was no sexual connotation to any of this. You know what I was thinking for just about the entire time?”

“What?”

“This needs to be written about. How the fuck am I going to blog this?”

——–

Will I call Crystal/Eleanor/Merelyn? Who knows? Maybe. Right now, though, I’m adding that notch to my belt and reminding myself that no matter how surreal all of it was, there is comedy everywhere.

The following night, I go out for pizza with a couple of other friends. When asked what one of my faults were, Michelle responds, “You’re just so damn realistic all the time, Jesse. Sometimes I want to be pie-in-the-sky, but you always ground me.”

“Do you know why, Michelle? Because if you approach life from a certain angle and get good at it, real life can be more surreal, entertaining, and ridiculous as anything you can possibly imagine.”