Rafter Humping

NOTE: I don’t want everybody to think I’m some kind of perv who loves strip clubs. I only go about once or twice a year and I can honestly say it’s mostly for blog research than enjoyment. I said mostly. And I feel like I’m doing some sort of odd civic duty by supporting these girls. It’s not their fault life took a bad turn.

We had already determined that an hour drive to Knoxville was way too long to drive to go line dancing, (this useful information came to us from the friendly lady at the square dance) we decided we wanted to go to a strip club. And, go figure, it was in Knoxville. So we quickly reconsidered that hour drive, and came to a new conclusion. Pack up the cooler kids, we’re going to a BYOB strip club!

The Mouse’s Ear is quite an establishment. It took us a good ten minutes to find a table…not because it was that busy, but because when we walked in there were about twenty five girls dancing naked together on stage. They were rubbing up and down all over each other. And there was another ten girls wandering around the club giving table dances. I’m sure we were quite a sight, standing there with our mouths wide open and our arms full of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. This does not go on in Jersey.

Of course the girls all give us the eye at first, and finally one comes over. X doesn’t hesitate to get a dance from her. Not on top of the table, just a $10 one, in front of the table. And she proceeds to shake her ass. Right in my face. She wasn’t very cute. Whatever, perhaps I just didn’t drink enough PBR’s. X then tipped her a little extra and word spread fast because these girls were on us like white on rice. Apparently I scared the first girl off though, because when I went to get change at the juice bar she asked me if she could sit with us. What? Sit? I’m a moron when it comes to talking to girls. I can’t stress this enough. And if you don’t believe me you can ask any of the girls I’ve dated. I thought she was a dancer…what does she need to sit for. So I finally say, “I guess so.” Yup, didn’t see her again for the rest of the night. But that’s ok…because Amethyst came over.

Amethyst (sure that’s her real name) is quite a girl. About 5’2, maybe a hundred pounds. She’s a smidge on the sassy side. My kinda girl. After chatting us up for thirty seconds, she hustled us into buying a table dance. Up she hops onto our table, which is a bit wobbly, so she instructs us where to place our feet on the legs of it so she doesn’t fall. At which point I told her if she did, she could fall right on me. I’m all class sometimes, but thankfully she was amused by my charm. Who isn’t really!? Anyway, she starts dancing and informs us that for a table dance, she stays up for two songs, not just one. What a bargain. She’s actually a pretty good dancer and she’s WAY into it, taking off her clothes (by clothes I mean thong and bikini top). All five of us were pretty mesmerized. But then…it gets better…

Right in the middle of her dance, she reaches up and grabs the rafter above her head. She had been rubbing her hands along it occasionally so I didn’t think anything of it. But now, she stops and grabs onto it and pulls herself up. And proceeds to swing herself around. And then she pulls herself all the way and squeezes her legs into the rafter. And humps the shit out of it. All the while she’s upside down and she flings her head back and stared at us very seductively. It’s been two weeks and my neck still hurts from all the twisting and maneuvering I was doing to view the show at the best angle.

I’m patriotic, go USA...win gold medals. But fuck Michael Phelps and Shawn Johnson. I have never seen athleticism like this before.

And if all of this wasn’t enough, Amethyst was kind enough to have her SUPER HOT bisexual friend come and sit with us two. Who had a Zelda tattoo and X fell in love with her. And Zelda girl (too many PBR’s at this point, I can’t remember her “name”) also gave us a table dance. But she was new, so Amethyst had to coach her through it. I have to tell you…watching somebody learn how to give a table dance is rather entertaining. And Zelda girl was asking me about lesbians from Jersey, because the ones in Tennessee didn’t like her (I told you Tennessee is fucked up) so she started dating a guy.

It was a bizarre evening to say the very least. And they were discussing their plans for after work partying. Amethyst kept hinting that they were going to a friend’s house down the street. I’m pretty sure that if we pursued it we could have been at that after party. But, did I really want to be the girl who goes to the stripper’s house? Nah. Maybe. What the fuck is wrong with us?

Dear Oldies 101.1

Despite my recent spat of non-aggressive driving (well, it’s probably mildly aggressive) driving, I felt compelled to share my thoughts about the oldies radio station. Madonna is not old. She’s still stealing 30-something baseball players away from their wives.

Dear Oldies 101.1 in New York,

I’ve recently noticed a problem with some of your programming. For a station that goes after a relatively older audience and claims to be playing the greatest oldies, I have a problem with you including pop hits from the 80’s in your lineup.

Granted I’m only 29 and not that close to the average age of your regular listeners, but, I do tune in fairly regularly. I enjoy the oldies…and I think sometimes that kind of music helps my road rage. The first concert I ever went to was Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. I shit you not.

This works out great until I’m driving up the parkway, jamming out to some Diana Ross or Beach Boys…and the next song that gets cued up is Cyndi Lauper. I’m sorry, but “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” is not right for your station. Also, Madonna…”Get into the Groove”…not so right for your station.

I know it’s been 20 or so years since these songs came out…but I’m having a real hard time thinking that the pop stars of my generation are now fit for the oldies station. You’ve got some nerve playing “Like a Virgin” right after “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

You’re starting to make me feel old. I loved those songs when I was a kid and I refuse to swallow the fact that they’re old…or worse yet, that I might be. I don’t care that Madonna turned 50 this summer. She’ll always be the teenager afraid to tell her Dad she’s pregnant to me.

You need to do something about this before I boycott you. And that could be hazardous to drivers all over New Jersey and New York. Do it for them. And don’t make me keep listening to country music.

Sincerely,

B (I still get carded for cigarettes sometimes)

What Has Happened to Me?

I've been really busy with this convention bullshit, but I promise there are more good Tennessee stories coming. I'm probably going to finish one tonight.

But, I'm confused. I've been different since I've come home. My driving has been very passive and I keep switching to the country radio stations. Somebody better send out a search party for the old B. This is completely out of character for me.

I haven't cursed out any other drivers and I think Brad Paisley is great. I even have a favorite country song.

What the F?

Parking Lot Square Dance

It’s really true when I say that everyone in Tennessee is oddly nice. They are NOTHING like New Jerseyians (I might be making this word up), or worse yet, New Yorkers. I only came across two people down there who had a problem with us, well, besides the cops. One was a local red neck who had a bit too much too drink, and thought about beating X into a bloody pulp on our last night there. But, that’s a story for a whole ‘nother blog. The disgruntled guy this story is about is the old school truck driver from Pigeon Forge…that we met at the parking lot square dance. Yes, I said parking lot square dance, you heard correctly.

We weren’t trying to go to a square dance, we just wound up there because X wanted to see if any of the gift shops there had black cowboy hats. And, surprisingly enough, neither the Jesus store or their neighbor, the confederate rebel store, had one. The name of the shopping center was Settlers Village, so I suppose a rebel store, a blue grass bland and a square dance is what we should have expected.

After not finding the hat anywhere we headed over by the square dancers and ask one of the spectators where there was a good bar we could go line dancing at…when in Rome. Anyway, the woman tells us about a place on the outskirts of Knoxville, which is about an hour away from us. But then she eyes all of us up, mainly me, and tells us we better get some red neck clothes before we go. That was a bit unnerving, but I assured her I had a cowboy hat back at our cabin, which was true.

As we were about to head back to the car, I notice the old truck driver guy looking at me and whispering and pointing in my direction. He apparently noticed my “New Jersey: Only the Strong Survive” T-shirt. He seems me eyeballing him back and he laughs at me and says, in a L-O-N-G drawn out southern drawl,

HBTD: Is New Jersey even part of the United States? (He’s laughing still, but at me, not with me.)

B: Last time I checked it was.

HBTD: (Still laughing) Well, welcome to America.

Now I’m pissed. Mr. two packs a day of Camel unfiltereds is going to fuck with me…oh no.

B: (smugly) Welcome to 2008.

Now he seems just as pissed as me and starts rattling off some story about driving trucks and how he wound up in “one of those Brunswick’s,” and how he couldn’t care to ever go back. So I told him we were completely ok with that. Well, that went over like a lead balloon, but thankfully, he seems to be out of clever things to say to me so he just stood there staring me down, looking all pissed off.

We were attempting to leave again when he stops us and asks us who is paired up with who. There was one married couple and then that left me, K and X…and he seemed to think one of us was the odd man out. There was no way this discussion was going to go well. And I wasn’t, by any means, going to explain to him that two of us were lesbians. Not where we were. X announced he was single and waved his hand at K and me. Thanks. I just told him we were all single and started walking away. Then X said,

X: I gave you the opening to tell him you were dating K.

B: Whatever…I’m not telling any of these old school red necks I’m gay. Not f*cking happening. He already doesn’t like me because I’m from Jersey. God knows what he would have done if he knew I was a lesbo.

Everybody laughs. But then they all made fun of me on the way home, how they were going to capture me and make me the new attraction in Pigeon Forge, “The Lesbian with a Smart Mouth.” And that if they really wanted to make me an attraction they would probably just lynch me.

Thanks guys!

Internet Thang

Well, I’m back from Tennessee and boy do I have some stories for you. Everything about the south is fascinating, from the people to the cuisine to the endless amount of Jesus loving stores there are. Truly amazing. My first story takes place at the Elvis Museum.

My buddy X is a huge Elvis fan, so the second we decided to go to Tennessee he started about Graceland and going to Memphis. Well, I told him that after driving ten hours to get to the Knoxville area, I sure as shit wasn’t going to drive another seven hours across the state to see some of the gaudiest decorating from the 70’s…and then drive another seven back. Needless to say he got over going to Memphis after about ten minutes in the car on the endless ride down there. But, one day we were driving through the lovely little town of Pigeon Forge, and low and behold, X spots an Elvis museum. And reminded us that it was there every five minutes or so until we stopped.


The place looked about as cheesy as you can get and some of the locals sitting outside of it only added to the cheese. X confirmed my suspicions when he exited the walk through, telling us that he has more Elvis memorabilia in his living room than this place had. Go figure. But, he did want to get a TCB (Taking Care of Business (I like Elvis, but by no means am I a historian, so X tells me this was one of his catchphrases)) ring. So we peruse the gift shop and, to no avail, can not find a TCB ring.

As our group gathers under the museum sign, debating about what fast food restaurant we’d like to get indigestion from that evening, the locals that were sitting at the front door are heading out. It was a hillbilly husband (It is no exaggeration when I say he only had six teeth in his mouth) and wife and another couple they were friends with. Hillbilly wife hears X complaining about not getting the ring, and she starts chatting him up (because everybody in the south is freakishly friendly).

HBWife: What you lookin for? (You have to envision the HB parts with the thickest, trashiest southern accent you’ve ever heard)

X: Uh…

HBHusband: Shit, what he tryin to find?

HBW: You say you want a TCB ring?

X: (He’s looking towards the rest of us to get him out of the conversation. I’m not saying a word…none of the locals were very fond of me.) Um, yeah.

HBW: I tell you what, you got that internet thang? You can find anything on there.

X: (Poor guy doesn’t know what to say at this point, I’m just repeating “don’t laugh” over and over again in my head in an attempt to not get beat up and/or shot.) Yeah, I have it…

HBH: You don’t wanna buy that ring around here…

HBW: Yeah, he tried to find a pair of Elvis sunglasses and he bought ‘em for $24.99…next day he found him on that eBay for a dollar (She’s extraordinarily amused by this)

X: (Just smiling) Ok…thanks.

HBW: Ya know what, you like Elvis so much, you really gotta go see Matt Cordell. He’s amazin. He used to play here, but the owner screwed ‘em, was only givin him like ten dollars…but now, he plays down the street at The Smith Theatre. You should check it out…if you stay afterwards, he’ll come out and talk to you for like two hours…’bout anything you want.

X: Wow, two hours. That’s really nice. (I hear a smidge of smartass coming out, but the locals didn’t pick up on it. And everybody else is laughing along together)

HBH: Remember though, he’s a tribute artist, not an impersonator. There’s a difference.

HBW: He’s got a website and everything, look him up when you can. It’s Mattcordell.com

When I can? I don’t even want to tell this broad I can get “that internet thang” on my phone. She’ll probably think I’m an alien. Finally, though, out of the blue, I decide to speak…and it was apparently revolutionary, because everybody just stared at me for a second before they responded…

B: Is Cordell with a C or a K?

Staring…

HBW: Oh, honey, it’s with a C.

B: Thanks.

We said our goodbyes…and that’s when it dawned on me…the locals were so stunned, not by my talking, but probably because they weren't really that sure how to spell their favorite “tribute artist’s” name…and my friends were stunned, because they figured I should have know they didn’t know how to spell. And I was yet again reminded that I shouldn’t talk to the locals.

Here's a picture of our new friends below:

Vacation

If you're wondering why I haven't been posting, it's because I'm on vacation. In Tennessee. The birthplace of Jack Daniels. Needless to say there will hopefully be some good blogs when I come home. Especially one about the bar I was at last night and the sorority that came in. And they were getting drunk. I, unfortunately had a migraine, which meant, I was in no way, shape or form ready to chat up any girls. No matter how southern and naive and drunk they were. FUCK ME.

You mark my words. I will hit on college girls by the end of this week. It's a promise.

Gay Stereotypes

I’ve probably already mentioned that my job is loaded with gay men. They’re all over the place, sashaying and being bitchy. They’re a bit like cockroaches. Haha…settle down boys, I’m only kidding. There are a lot of them though, but I love them all to death.

I was recently reminded of a story involving Joe (one of the fags) and I. It was shortly after I started at this wonderful television network I call home. It was a chilly fall Sunday afternoon. The perfect day for watching football and drinking beers. Unfortunately, I was working, so I had to abstain from the beers.

There’s never a whole lot going on in my office on the weekend, so the only people working were Joe and I. When I got there, we chatted for a bit and then we quickly settled into watching TV. I parked myself at one of the desks facing the door. Joe moved around the corner from me, behind the filing cabinets. I, of course, chose to watch a football game. I can’t remember which one, but I had a bet on it. Joe found The Wizard of Oz on, what I’m assuming, was the Oxygen network or something like that.

Things were all nice and quiet…until Dorothy breaks out into “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” Right as she starts singing, one of the overpaid morons in the football game fumbled, or maybe got intercepted…I don’t even know what it was, but I knew it was going to cost me money. I started pounding on the desk, shouting obscenities just as Joe floats on over doing his best Judy Garland impersonation.

The game settled down and “Judy’s” movie went to a commercial break. And he just stood there with his hand on his hip as we stared each other down, obviously disappointed in the others blatant outburst of masculinity/femininity. And then he says, “Aren’t we the picture of gay stereotypes right now.” Why yes, we were.

TV Flashback

There’s this guy that hangs out at my favorite bar, The Ark, who looks a lot like Tom Selleck. I told him this to his face one night and he was thoroughly amused. I was(drunk of course)calling him the ultimate Halloween costume…all he needs is a Tigers hat and a Hawaiian shirt and he’s Magnum PI.

Well, Magnum (I actually can’t remember his real name) had taken a liking to one of my friends, C. C thought he was nice and they hit it off one night, and when he asked for her number she gave it to him. And then she never heard from him. She didn’t really care and one night, about a month ago, we were at The Ark and Magnum walked in. He was drunk, and possibly feeling guilty about not calling her, so he sat down with us.

After about twenty minutes or so of his babbling, C had had enough. She excused herself and the two of us went to smoke a cigarette. After we go back in and sit down, Magnum proceeds to keep asking C if she hates him. She just laughed and told him no.

Well, Magnum never called C and she couldn’t be happier about it. And about a week after the “Do you hate me” night, I went to The Ark, without C, and there’s Magnum, looking drunkenly intimate with another woman. Hey…who am I to judge…good for him.

For some reason though, Magnum seemed nervous by me being there. Why? I don’t know. It’s not like I was going to cockblock him. C thinks he’s a drunken moron. So after a couple of hours of avoidance(on his part)and a couple of hours of me drinking Jack and Diets, we all wind up outside the back door for a cigarette break.

The cigarette break is going well, except for the fact that it was raining and we were all huddled under the overhang outside the door. And there are two bikes parked there making space limited. And I wind up standing right on top of Magnum’s girl, giving me my first real chance to get a look at her. She seems quiet, but it was hard to tell. She has an empty look on her face, which after chatting, I concluded she’s not too bright. And after more careful inspection, I find that she has a good body, but she is WAY over tanned. The one thing that was really driving me nuts was her hair. It’s bleach blonde and spiky. Ridiculous.

Magnum decides that things are Kosher and he goes back inside. Leaving her outside with my friends and I. This was my cue. I looked at her and said, “You know, you look like Brigitte Nielsen.” She didn’t seem to know what to say and paused for a moment, before replying, “I guess that’s a compliment?”

I assured her that it was. “Oh yeah, not like cracked out Brigitte Nielsen that was fucking Flavor Flav. More like the ‘80’s Brigitte Nielsen that was fucking Sylvester Stallone.” My friend X adamantly agreed, yet she still didn’t seem pleased with my comparison. At this point I stumbled a little and took a step back, right into one of the bikes that was parked there. I laughed and announced that I had a handlebar up my ass. “Brigitte” just shook her head at me and went back inside.

All of my smoking buddies agreed with me on the resemblance and that it was definitely a compliment. Apparently she hasn’t gotten over it yet…I haven’t seen her in there since then.

Oh well. I suppose when you look like an 80’s icon, you should date other people that look like 80’s icons.

Unholy Encounter

On Saturday my mother made me go to Costco with her. I fucking hate Costco, especially on a weekend. I was forced into this because she needed help stocking up on crap for the week long festivities known as Crazy Nanny’s 80th birthday extravaganza.

So I’m strolling through the store, dodging peoples misbehaved children, throwing cheese, water, fruit, veggies, chips…all the usual crap…in the cart. I’m pausing for a minute, checking out a tequila lime marinated turkey breast, when I look up and see what’s coming down the aisle towards me. A nun. I’m afraid of nuns.

Here she comes, dressed to the nines in holy wear. And it wasn’t the usual black and white attire; it was that Mother Theresa looking outfit…the white clothes with the blue trim. With a 4-inch metal cross on her lapel. (Does she think there’s a fucking vampire infestation in Jersey?) Now I’m nervous. I always get nervous around people of the cloth. I just assume they’re going to see right through me and be able to tell I’m gay (as if the long shorts, ringer t-shirt and hat didn’t give it away), or worse yet, that I think the church is full of shit.

I do some internal debating, like, should I turn back to my turkey breast and ignore her, do I say hi, do I stare her down, throw the turkey at her (just kidding)…I choose the mature adult option and smile nicely at her and give her my “I don’t know what to say, so I’ll nod” head nod. Well…apparently mature was not the way to go. She shot me the dirtiest look and turned her head away from me. What the fuck? I thought the church was supposed to teach kindness and understanding and most importantly, acceptance. (Although they still won’t really accept gay people…unless they are a priest and well, you know…)

Apparently she could tell I’m not catholic and that I believe in god mostly out of a fear of being wrong and destined for an eternity in hell(given my current place of employment I’ve been wondering how bad it could be, if it’s really that different at all?). I’ve been a worried mess since Saturday though. Why didn’t she like me? Am I going to hell? I'm usually a good person...what the fuck?

I think I might start going to church. I might as well, I've apparently already developed that Catholic guilt problem.