So I've been living in the East Bay area of California for a while now, about closing in on two months at the time of this tale of blunder's commencing. Alameda is a nice quiet island nestled up between Oakland and San Francisco, an old naval station safe haven where the speed limit never reaches higher than 25 miles per hour. Fact. Much time is spent traversing the great Bay Bridge by my hombres and I. And to do this we rely nigh solely on public transportation, specifically the AC Transit system. I could write volumes of essays on the sociological strata encompassing riding this bus everyday. But I haven't always been a hotshot at navigating these semi-reliable systems of public service, in fact, get a ready for a shocker here, I used to actually fuck it up all the time.
But this one time, this one night trying to catch the All-Nighter home through Oakland for my very first time unaided by helpful companions or local guides.
It took the whole fucking cake.
It started with a night out on the town, somewhere on Polk St, with my newly-of-age best friend and roommate Jamman. We had been treated to some new establishments by our friends and now it was time to embark on the great journey seeking a suitable place to pass the hell out. Jamman made plans to crash at one of the friends, while I corresponded with Conman, who was subletting in the city, to hook me up with some personal face time with his hardwood floor, as soft as downy clouds.
He texted me the proper methods of entry into the building, for he was also crashing, mentioning blankets on the floor.
The only problem here is I had only ever been let into this building. I could get past the large gate, but the door on the inside seemed to require a key, and this stumped me. The current state of my blood alcohol content also allowed much more misdirection. I tried calling Conman. No response. Called Jamman. Also dead to me. I hate being 'that guy' sometimes but I definitely called them both at least four times each. Sorry, guys, I was desperate.
How desperate? Starting my second day of my new job in the city desperate. Need to sleep at least six to seven hours just to make sure I don't sleep through my alarm desperate. Desperate desperate. So desperate.
Desperate enough to try and hobo it up under an awning on some nice red carpet, insulated by three layers of newspapers just so I could definitely make it to work on time desperate? You betch'ya.
The lapse into homelessnessy-ness only lasted approximately twenty minutes. I think. I was pretty drunk and considering chugging the last three bottles in my backpack just for inner warmth alone. Survival of the Drunkest, here. But I became distraught and had a pretty classic "Look at Yourself!?!" moment and got myself out of that situation.
I had to make the All-Nighter home, if it was the last thing I did. Fuck work the next day, I just needed bed. Jamman, Conman and T-Company had briefed me on the details on catching the 800 to Oakland only on the 11th minute of every hour so the 851 from Broadway to Alameda is waiting for me upon arrival... But that sounded too simple. Right?
The 800 is always a rough scene of folks up way too late, probably just as fucked up if not more than anyone else, sleeping the cruise into Oakland. Angry ghetto-blasters, annoying homosexual goths, hippies, hobos, ancient Asian women, security guards done with their shift, and of course, the raving lunatic crying-laughing at his hands shaking against the window. It hits me I don't know what stop in Oakland to transfer to the 851. I'm freaking out and don't want to talk to a single soul in this 80 mile per hour roller derby tin can. It's 3:30 am or something, nobody's answering their phones. Except...
My brother. Asleep with his girlfriend. Last ditch effort met by only her voicemail. Until he called me back, clearly tired and confused, but still there. Still caring. I love my brother.
He told me which stop, and even stayed on the line as I got off the bus and hit the dark, wind-torn streets of Oakland. I couldn't find it at first, but eventually saw the 851, ran across the street and boarded it. Graciously thanking my saving grace of fraternal love, I rested happy as a clam on the bus, ready for the tunnel to Alameda.
I'm still drunk, and awfully tired, and I guess it just didn't click with me for like half an hour that we should have been in Alameda. But outside the plexiglass, all I could see was trees, strip malls and ... road signs? With names. Names I did not know. I was riding the 851 in the other direction. The wrong direction.
Before I could react properly, or even panic properly, the bus hissed and cooled to halt.
"Last stop!" the driver shrieked.
The only other man on the bus was a sleepy drunk old black man, and he argued profusely against her exclamation. Declaring she was false in stating this and must drive further. She naturally trusted her route and schedule and the situation started escalating so I got off the bus quickly. Two minutes later it pulled away as the old man stumbled off probably nowhere in particular. I was in a large open space of road, near tall buildings and at a distance from a shorter one. The shorter one's sign read "BERKELEY AUTO-REPAIRS," upon reading I instantly texted at least five people who this could affect and three others it probably didn't:
"I think I'm in Berkeley."
But it was past four in the morning at this point so it was entirely unnecessary. I redialed my brother's girlfriend, due to his not owning a cellphone, a point of personal pride for him and endless irritation for everybody else. Thank Creation he answered. He'd never been to Berkeley. His only advice was find a bus, and talk to the driver. The driver would help. I didn't want to believe it, but this was the only person I could trust at the moment. Then he went to bed. So now I had to trust a stranger in the night.
The bus I eventually did spot and run down was driven by a short Korean fellow, but his English was superb but tired, and he could help me. I think it was the 800 I caught but that didn't make sense. I was delirious perhaps. But this guy brought me back to Oakland, to the large open intersection on Broadway where all kinds of buses waited for each other. In a way, this wasn't helping me at all. Oakland isn't a scary place during the day, just mildly unnerving. But between the hours of 2:00 am and 5:00 am, you try and invent great reasons to not be awake on the street in Oakland.
The wind was ghoulish and lashed at me. It was chillier than the Ninth Circle of Hell. Instead of seeing Satan buried up to his three heads in the ice of Lake Cocytus, I watched an overweight haggard bag lady pushing a shopping cart of junk towards me. Bunched up in her too-large ragged down jacket, she gazed at me and in her most sultry voice inquired "You gotta transfer, baby?" Further down the street, Crips all reppin' blue hoodies and rags rolled six-seven-ten deep going nowhere near me. I made it to the shelter of the bus stop, checking the signs carefully. It appeared I had to catch the 51 into Alameda, the first bus of the day.
Waiting impatiently next to an unconcious black teenager, I was joined by a couple, I think Hispanic but I was focusing with a lot of effort to not pay attention to anyone more than they needed. Then a fat white guy cruised up on his bicycle and got off.
He instantly began talking to the couple. All I could think was, Oh fuck, looks like we got ourselves a talker. Some Chatty Cathy who likes to meet strangers for uncomfortable small talk on inescapable bus rides. He was trying to make jokes about how cold it was and in my stupor I was so pissed he thought the goddamn temperature was fucking funny. Pissed.
Finally the 51 rolls up, and this is when shit gets weird. I get on first and sit close to the driver, dead set on not missing Alameda this time. There are a few other folks on the bus. When Powder Puff gets on, he has this final little laugh to himself and no one else "Nowhere as cold as main." I think he said.
But I double-take. What. Maine? Did he say Maine like the State?
"Did you just say Maine?" I ask in a hoarse unused rasp.
"Yeah, Maine. I'm from Portland, Maine."
"Shut the fuck up."
Not the most appropriate response, but it was like 5:30 and I was in no mood for games.
"What?"
"I'M from Portland fucking Maine."
We talk a bit more and I stop cussing, realizing he thought I was very upset at him for this common ground between us. Turns out he went to University of Southern Maine, where I just graduated from, and then to University of Maine Orono, and then on to Maine Maritime Academy, and there's only three places to go from there... back to the trailer park community, the Coast Guard, or where this chipper bastard ended up, the Navy. And Alameda Point was one of the most important naval bases in California, and the Pacific Theater. Okay, I don't really know that, I just wanted to use Pacific Theater in a sentence. Why the hell did they call areas theaters during wars? Nevermind.
The oddest coincidence ever. Had I not attempted sleeping outdoors for that amount of time, or caught the right bus the wrong way all the way to the last damn stop in Berkeley, then I would never have talked to this weirdo Navy geek from Portland, Maine who graduated from my college.
And that's why I call it the Crazy Bus.
But I need to think of something more clever..
Showing posts with label portland pie company. Show all posts
Showing posts with label portland pie company. Show all posts
12.01.2008
1.16.2008
The Men's Room
My very good friend, hereby referred to as the Reverend, or Rev for short, due to his ability to spout profound truths and actual status as a minister in the Universal Life Church, recommended a business to me a while back.
It’s called The Men’s Room. It’s down in the Old Port at the bottom of Free St. and advertises itself as a Men’s Lounge. But it is not just a lounge.
It is a salon/stylist/hair taking care of place, that also happens to be a classy lounge for gentlemen. All of their services total to $40 dollars, which don’t get me wrong here, is waaayyy too much for a haircut. But you do not receive just a haircut. Rev talked this place up so much I just had to try it, and on Tuesdays, if you go with a friend, it’s half price. Solid.
The first day of the 2008 semester. Classes. I’ll tell you about my winter break later. I have to catch the 7:15 bus into Gorham, sit through my Oral Interpretation, Drama Literature and Theatre History, and Scenic Design courses, all of which consist of receiving the syllabus, talking about it and then peacing straight out of there. It was haircut time. Actually that’s wrong. It was soup time. We ducked into the Portland Public Market House for some quick eats and I got this delish french onion soup with honey whole wheat bread. Fantastic.
Immediately upon entering the front door of the Men’s Room you find yourself in an antechamber for stomping your feet, where you read a large chalkboard sign, the kind normally seen out on the sidewalk in front of a business. The only thing it says is: “We Change Men’s Lives.” I did not know whether or not to believe the sign on this claim, but they certainly sounded confident.
Inside was not what I expected. When I heard “lounge” I expected dark lighting, large comfy chairs around tables with pianos on top of them, with a seductive lady singing into a microphone lying on top of the piano in a deep green dress that whispered out to you in a breathy voice class. Not here though. A glass table with high chairs, window out to the street, the counter and beyond, a row of barbershop chairs in front of mirrors. Between the counter and the chairs sat a large deep red pool table with low lamp over it. On the opposite side a large soft leather couch and recliners faced one of those plasma super widescreen high definition television sets I hear the kids yappin’ on about these days. Football was on. Rev and I took off our winter gear and approached the counter. Rev, being the card holding member of the Men’s Room and the one who set the appointment, spoke first to the pretty lady. Said his name, she asked if I was Travis, which I affirmed.
She asked if this was my first time, so I stifled a smirk and replied yes softly. This chick was a straight up fox. Unbelievable hot. Magazine hot. Chick’s this well put together don’t talk to me. They tend have this special sonar for spotting hopeless young men lower on the socioeconomic scale than them, calculate their Creep factor, and then decisively have nothing to do with them.
But nay, she made direct eye contact with me. Eyes that held you rapt. She batted her eyelashes. I might have gasped, I’m not sure, but I definitely had to concentrate on not just feinting and doing a faceplant onto a faceplant onto the hard fabric mat for wiping your feet off on. That would not have been okay. This is the Men’s Room. I had to be Men-ly. Not Little Girly Man-ly. I stood with a straight back and open chest and spoke with my voice’s lower register. We both had button up collared shirts on. It was time to be respectable.
She took my hand like teaching a little puppy to shake and introduced herself as Lins and informed me she’d be cutting my hair today. Then without a pause asked Rev and I if we’d like something to drink. She listed off the options: water, coffee, beer, wine, tea? Rev politely asked for some wine and I mimicked him. No identification was asked for or questioned. The glass of wine didn’t show up on the bill. The Men’s Room makes you comfortable. Their whole upper class pampering shtick with the services and pool and wine and pretty ladies pretending to be interested in you and doing a damn fine job of it, was really winning me over and melting my cold skeptic heart.*
Rev read the newspaper while I tasted my soup. The soup was too hot so I just polished off the glass of wine, not wanting to make Lins wait long. So I wandered down the length of the room towards her idly, sipping, watching TV, looking over the posh environment provided for me. Lins asked if I was ready from a distance which startled me a bit, so I knocked back the rest of the glass and took a seat. There I came face to face with myself in this large mirror with a border like a church window from either a Tudor or Gothic era. There I witnessed the shame, embodied by the unkempt waves of my hair running down the back of my neck and over the side of my forehead, masking part of my face. I had never seen it this bad. Ever.
“When’s the last time you had a haircut?” she asked.
“I...I honestly don’t remember.” I admitted to myself.
I instructed her to take it short. Real short, up along the back. A fade up the back (possibly the only hair term I know). And on top, longer than the rest, but still pretty short. Short, but not too short, y’know? She said she knew. I thought she knew. But she didn’t just start clipping away, no. First. A shoulder and scalp massage. She told me to close my eyes and gently caressed her hands on my back, shoulder blades, up my neck and around my head. This. Was. Awesome. I would not ever think the ear was even a nominee for Most Erogenous Zone award, but this lady did things to my ears that made my knees shake.
Then we went to the shampoo area, where she had me lean back and rest. I sampled three different scented oils for the hot washcloth face treatment deal...which was also so frickin’ cool. Why haven’t I been draping a hot moist rag that smells of oranges over my face every goddamned day of my life? Why haven’t we as a culture adopted this as a mandatory practice, perhaps in our wake up or going to bed routines? Ludicrous. I didn’t want it to stop. Lins washed my hair twice and took the heaven off my face.
This entire time she kept up the penchant mild chitchat of a barber to the barb-ee, except it was no longer a grumpy old lady feigning interest in my academic life, but this vixen asking me what I’d like to do with my degree and what useful things I’ve learned as a theatre major. She asked if the Rev and I were brothers which we both chuckled about, once again being reminded.
“I was thinking about this short,” Lins said, holding up a strand of hair from the top of my head.
I just came clean and dispensed with the pretending I actually cared about my image and even devoted time of my day to structuring it and preparing myself for the public’s eye. That was a falsehood.
“Cut it however you feel would look good on me, like, whatever you think looks good, and I will definitely agree with you and like it.” I stammered.
Lins smiled a bit at this but didn’t say anything. The realization that my statement was actually an unspoken assumption made between any stylist and their clientele dawned me two seconds after saying it. Lins was going to do that anyway, I didn’t have to tell her. Things started looking a bit overcast not long after. She was cutting my hair short. Very short. Too short. But I could not stop her hand and tell this beautiful young woman she had done wrong. I surrendered my trust to her and her personal opinion of how to make me a dashing handsome man. She broke out this straight razor and went to work, “texturing” my hair. A new problem slowly appeared and built with exponential pressure...I had gas.
After she had finished up my hair, it was time for the neck shave. We moved over to the shaving chair, she put a warm ointment on the back of my neck while I watched a commercial for some show about this Steve Irwin replacement fellow just messing with hippopotami and man, those things get fierce. Lins brushed this shaving cream onto my neck and straight razored all loose-goosie neck hair strands out of my life. Then told me in between haircuts I could come in for a free neck shave at any time. Righteous. Rev finished before me and shot some pool idly.
After that, she rinses my hair out, blow dried it, then applied this clay product to shape it and make it look like I’m one of those pretty boy dudes with the gelled hair all spiky and messed up on purpose. This look did not take to me well but she liked it so I rocked with it until I got outside and Rev lent me a hat to flatten down the Dude-Poof.
We paid the pretty ladies our reduced price deal and exeunted, checking out our new doo’s. We headed down to Portland Pie Company for a couple of beers.
And I’ve got to say, the Men’s Room does it’s job right. A fine metro haircut, with luxury and loungery with plenty of ego-stroking. I still feel like a new man. It’s the kind of pampering you should treat yourself too. A little pat on your own back. See, you tell yourself, I’m not some scuffed grungy hippie. I can make this legit. I am Legitimate. Solidarity.
*my heart is neither cold nor skeptic, my brain is skeptic, my heart is gentle and strong and full of love and small individually wrapped candies. Like a piňata.
It’s called The Men’s Room. It’s down in the Old Port at the bottom of Free St. and advertises itself as a Men’s Lounge. But it is not just a lounge.
It is a salon/stylist/hair taking care of place, that also happens to be a classy lounge for gentlemen. All of their services total to $40 dollars, which don’t get me wrong here, is waaayyy too much for a haircut. But you do not receive just a haircut. Rev talked this place up so much I just had to try it, and on Tuesdays, if you go with a friend, it’s half price. Solid.
The first day of the 2008 semester. Classes. I’ll tell you about my winter break later. I have to catch the 7:15 bus into Gorham, sit through my Oral Interpretation, Drama Literature and Theatre History, and Scenic Design courses, all of which consist of receiving the syllabus, talking about it and then peacing straight out of there. It was haircut time. Actually that’s wrong. It was soup time. We ducked into the Portland Public Market House for some quick eats and I got this delish french onion soup with honey whole wheat bread. Fantastic.
Immediately upon entering the front door of the Men’s Room you find yourself in an antechamber for stomping your feet, where you read a large chalkboard sign, the kind normally seen out on the sidewalk in front of a business. The only thing it says is: “We Change Men’s Lives.” I did not know whether or not to believe the sign on this claim, but they certainly sounded confident.
Inside was not what I expected. When I heard “lounge” I expected dark lighting, large comfy chairs around tables with pianos on top of them, with a seductive lady singing into a microphone lying on top of the piano in a deep green dress that whispered out to you in a breathy voice class. Not here though. A glass table with high chairs, window out to the street, the counter and beyond, a row of barbershop chairs in front of mirrors. Between the counter and the chairs sat a large deep red pool table with low lamp over it. On the opposite side a large soft leather couch and recliners faced one of those plasma super widescreen high definition television sets I hear the kids yappin’ on about these days. Football was on. Rev and I took off our winter gear and approached the counter. Rev, being the card holding member of the Men’s Room and the one who set the appointment, spoke first to the pretty lady. Said his name, she asked if I was Travis, which I affirmed.
She asked if this was my first time, so I stifled a smirk and replied yes softly. This chick was a straight up fox. Unbelievable hot. Magazine hot. Chick’s this well put together don’t talk to me. They tend have this special sonar for spotting hopeless young men lower on the socioeconomic scale than them, calculate their Creep factor, and then decisively have nothing to do with them.
But nay, she made direct eye contact with me. Eyes that held you rapt. She batted her eyelashes. I might have gasped, I’m not sure, but I definitely had to concentrate on not just feinting and doing a faceplant onto a faceplant onto the hard fabric mat for wiping your feet off on. That would not have been okay. This is the Men’s Room. I had to be Men-ly. Not Little Girly Man-ly. I stood with a straight back and open chest and spoke with my voice’s lower register. We both had button up collared shirts on. It was time to be respectable.
She took my hand like teaching a little puppy to shake and introduced herself as Lins and informed me she’d be cutting my hair today. Then without a pause asked Rev and I if we’d like something to drink. She listed off the options: water, coffee, beer, wine, tea? Rev politely asked for some wine and I mimicked him. No identification was asked for or questioned. The glass of wine didn’t show up on the bill. The Men’s Room makes you comfortable. Their whole upper class pampering shtick with the services and pool and wine and pretty ladies pretending to be interested in you and doing a damn fine job of it, was really winning me over and melting my cold skeptic heart.*
Rev read the newspaper while I tasted my soup. The soup was too hot so I just polished off the glass of wine, not wanting to make Lins wait long. So I wandered down the length of the room towards her idly, sipping, watching TV, looking over the posh environment provided for me. Lins asked if I was ready from a distance which startled me a bit, so I knocked back the rest of the glass and took a seat. There I came face to face with myself in this large mirror with a border like a church window from either a Tudor or Gothic era. There I witnessed the shame, embodied by the unkempt waves of my hair running down the back of my neck and over the side of my forehead, masking part of my face. I had never seen it this bad. Ever.
“When’s the last time you had a haircut?” she asked.
“I...I honestly don’t remember.” I admitted to myself.
I instructed her to take it short. Real short, up along the back. A fade up the back (possibly the only hair term I know). And on top, longer than the rest, but still pretty short. Short, but not too short, y’know? She said she knew. I thought she knew. But she didn’t just start clipping away, no. First. A shoulder and scalp massage. She told me to close my eyes and gently caressed her hands on my back, shoulder blades, up my neck and around my head. This. Was. Awesome. I would not ever think the ear was even a nominee for Most Erogenous Zone award, but this lady did things to my ears that made my knees shake.
Then we went to the shampoo area, where she had me lean back and rest. I sampled three different scented oils for the hot washcloth face treatment deal...which was also so frickin’ cool. Why haven’t I been draping a hot moist rag that smells of oranges over my face every goddamned day of my life? Why haven’t we as a culture adopted this as a mandatory practice, perhaps in our wake up or going to bed routines? Ludicrous. I didn’t want it to stop. Lins washed my hair twice and took the heaven off my face.
This entire time she kept up the penchant mild chitchat of a barber to the barb-ee, except it was no longer a grumpy old lady feigning interest in my academic life, but this vixen asking me what I’d like to do with my degree and what useful things I’ve learned as a theatre major. She asked if the Rev and I were brothers which we both chuckled about, once again being reminded.
“I was thinking about this short,” Lins said, holding up a strand of hair from the top of my head.
I just came clean and dispensed with the pretending I actually cared about my image and even devoted time of my day to structuring it and preparing myself for the public’s eye. That was a falsehood.
“Cut it however you feel would look good on me, like, whatever you think looks good, and I will definitely agree with you and like it.” I stammered.
Lins smiled a bit at this but didn’t say anything. The realization that my statement was actually an unspoken assumption made between any stylist and their clientele dawned me two seconds after saying it. Lins was going to do that anyway, I didn’t have to tell her. Things started looking a bit overcast not long after. She was cutting my hair short. Very short. Too short. But I could not stop her hand and tell this beautiful young woman she had done wrong. I surrendered my trust to her and her personal opinion of how to make me a dashing handsome man. She broke out this straight razor and went to work, “texturing” my hair. A new problem slowly appeared and built with exponential pressure...I had gas.
I’m lactose intolerant. It’s haunted me all my life. It’s unfortunate, because I love dairy products but my body just can’t handle dairy business. When I ingest any sort of bovine byproduct, it gets stinky. And lately, they’ve been real bad. Evacuate the vicinity bad. So I avoid dairy for the most part, except some exceptions, like cheese. I love cheese. I eat cheese. And you can’t stop me. No one can.Bless my cognitive control over my bodily functions, for I did not fart, and create the most awkward social situation the Men’s Room has ever seen. You’re sitting there trapped in the barber’s chair, and she’s there, doing her job to attend to your needs. She can’t go, you can’t...it would have been a catastrophe. But I dodged that flatulent bullet.
After she had finished up my hair, it was time for the neck shave. We moved over to the shaving chair, she put a warm ointment on the back of my neck while I watched a commercial for some show about this Steve Irwin replacement fellow just messing with hippopotami and man, those things get fierce. Lins brushed this shaving cream onto my neck and straight razored all loose-goosie neck hair strands out of my life. Then told me in between haircuts I could come in for a free neck shave at any time. Righteous. Rev finished before me and shot some pool idly.
After that, she rinses my hair out, blow dried it, then applied this clay product to shape it and make it look like I’m one of those pretty boy dudes with the gelled hair all spiky and messed up on purpose. This look did not take to me well but she liked it so I rocked with it until I got outside and Rev lent me a hat to flatten down the Dude-Poof.
We paid the pretty ladies our reduced price deal and exeunted, checking out our new doo’s. We headed down to Portland Pie Company for a couple of beers.
And I’ve got to say, the Men’s Room does it’s job right. A fine metro haircut, with luxury and loungery with plenty of ego-stroking. I still feel like a new man. It’s the kind of pampering you should treat yourself too. A little pat on your own back. See, you tell yourself, I’m not some scuffed grungy hippie. I can make this legit. I am Legitimate. Solidarity.
*my heart is neither cold nor skeptic, my brain is skeptic, my heart is gentle and strong and full of love and small individually wrapped candies. Like a piňata.
11.12.2007
Midget Strippers, Two Dollar Bills and Topless Donuts.
I will preface this anecdote. I work at a reputable pizza place, called Portland Pie Company, that makes delicious expensive specialty pizza pies and sandwiches. I have never had a sandwich there, but the pizza is exquisite. This is because I put love into the pizza when I make it, and no, that is not a euphemism for my body's products. PPC has several different locations in the Greater Portland Area, but is experiencing some major expansion that is causing some new changes in my workplace. We are moving to a new location on India St. which will seat close to 80, and handle much more deliveries efficiently. In light of this move, they have shut down their South Portland location, but not it's business. The SoPo guys have come to us, the Fore St. location in the Old Port, and we are now taking all South Portland's orders. My job has doubled in difficulty, but don't worry, we're all handling it fine.
This is a Saturday night. This was the busiest night I've ever worked.
The 1st cook in had told me, the night prior, about a happening in town. That the local "Gentleman's Club," Platinum Plus would be hosting a special touring show of... you guessed it (from the title, you cheaters):
Midget Strippers.
No political correction. No "Little People" or "Dwarfism" mentioned at all. Plain and simple. Midget Strippers. Tiny Tina and Little Pixie. I was baffled. And, of course, concocting plans to go. I do not have some sort of tiny fetish, or even a strong desire to see dwarfs naked in the first place. My reasons were the same as the majority of people who went: the novelty. To be able to say "Yes. I saw this. This. Just. Happened." The pure principle of the experience.
This is the same reason I do a whole lot of things.
So I'm all geared up slammed with work, throwing dough, topping pies, cheesing, the entire time blabbering on to any co-worker foolish enough to come near about the midget strippers, trying to recruit an entourage to accompany me. There were few takers, but they all found my enthusiasm amusing. I even went so far as to send a mass text message to every self-respecting eccentric male I knew with a taste for the odder things in life, but alas, only sparked humor and jest. One response was an invitation to a Post-Halloween Costume/Keg Party a street over from mine, with people there I wanted to see. So I threw my outrageous midget stripper expedition to the wind.
At this Costume Keg Dance Beerpong Halloween Soirée, I enjoyed some Premium Australian Lager and sugarcookies of pumpkins and witches. And the large beautiful silver metal container of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I could have gotten on my knees and bowed, face down, in complete piety. And after enough of that I danced and chatted with Whitesnake, B-Bones, NFC, and AA (for "Amelia Airheart"). As I walked AA back to her home, she brought up the midget strippers! She expressed a great interest in seeing them as well, and I mentioned that I perhaps had heard they would be there another night. Plans were made.
The following night AA flew in and picked me up right from work. I had actually gotten off work a bit early so sat down at the counter and chummed with the South Portland guys for a bit and had some tallboys for confidence, for I should add, I have never been to a strip club before. And might I also say, what a strip club it was.
First of all, it was packed. Everyone wanted to come see the midget strippers. There were as many women present as men. The line for entering was long, and the bouncer wore a very nice red suit, and did a little number where without me really trying to walk past him, he put two fingers on my chest and said, "I.D."
He was quite bigger and stronger than me, but I felt like he had to let me know it. I got the picture, so he got my picture. Longhaired unshaven 16-year-old Travis, the living face of awkward. Hello, it said, pleased to meet you, I'm really quite nervous about everything. The polar opposite in the persona spectrum handed me my dignity back. He carded AA too, like a tool doing his macho tool job.
Right through the door we discovered a table covered in beer, with beer on the floor under it, and two ladies in some exotic form of underwear charging a lot of money for it. A clever ploy, strip club, but I'm not so weak. I spotted the bar across the way, giant mirror, hanging glasses, towering spires of liquor bottles with those funny little pourer spout caps. Instinct told me to head there and buy myself and the lady a drink...but...something stopped me, and broke my concentration.
There were naked women dancing onstage.
It was incredible. Just like in a movie but now here, right in front of me. Merely feet away. It was all so new and fascinating. They would climb soooooooo high on the poles, I feared they would hit their heads off the lighting instruments. Then they'd slid slash drop straight down and roll back out over the stage and have their crotch in some dudes face. I was wrong before, they were not completely naked. They had the tiniest little g-string things and the highest of platform heels. Some were hott, some were nott. I was not going to complain. They rotated between the mainstage and two other smaller stages. One entire wall was a mirror, so I thought there were six stages and three sets of twins for a little bit there, and way more people.
We snaked our way through the old men and the floor girls to the bar, and managed to get a spot at it. It took the just-a-bit-less-pretty-than-the-strippers bartenders to not be busy and help me out with a rum and coke and amaretto sour for AA. I did not appreciate the price of these beverages and neither did my debit card, but we came to an agreement that it was validated by the occasion. It was tasty, too. We enjoyed our time there, remarking on class the establishment had practically sticking to the walls. I turned to find one of my best friend's older brothers with a guy he knew that I met once, so I went up to him. He was pleased to see me and pleased to be in a strip club, asked if I had any good smoke on me, accepted my apology and went about his night. I could have had longer conversation with him, but I had to risk the bathroom, but it was not at all harrowing. Everyone in there was drunk and having a wonderful evening. The sanitation surprised me too.
I was frightened for AA outside, so I was hasty, but I think I just worry about stuff like that too much. Near the alcove leading into the bathroom hallway was an excellent view of the stages, standing, looking over the seated masses of mostly couples. Some girlfriends in laps would stand up and shower the strippers with money, gaining special attention and sometimes physical interactions, like being half pulled on stage and basically romped about on. A man standing beside me remarked
This part [of the room] is best 'cause it's free!"
And he had a very good point.
We were near another section of the place that when I inspected was revealed to be the lapdance area. Just long comfortable benches with chicks writhing around on dudes. The strippers were in and out of there a lot with satisfied typically ugly men. One decrepit old fella walked up to me and immediately began talking to me with a throat filled with gravel and rusty nails.
And he let out this cantankerous laugh that sounded honestly painful but he had the happiest goddamn face on. We then turned and watched some women about to get married get sat down onstage. I knew she was getting married because of the little veil thing she was wearing. The MC of sorts, this short stockish blonde guy with a nice suit and large microphone stepped up, chattering away into the mic. The sound system was so awful. Imagine a huge thumping bass all the time, then this jamoke appears and starts introducing the girls and you can't hear a single word he's saying since the treble is so loud and splashy it rattles my fillings. Anyways, the bachelorette got mad humped and grinded upon by a swarm of strippers, more than I knew this place had in employ. Then they were done, all walked down the stairs aimed directly at AA and I and sifted past us. I panicked and did everything I could to not laugh or ogle or do any sort of attention promoting activity.
The appeal of the strip club was fading. It was so bright, new and shiny at first, but now we had been there for an hour and it was losing it's varnish. We needed what we came for. So I turned to my left and found, surprise! a stripper standing there. And she was the real cute kind that makes you want to ask "Oh, darlin'...why? What are you doing here?" but of course it's completely inappropriate to ask that sort of a question. But I did ask when the show would be going on. She had no idea what I was talking about until I was brought to the point of vocalizing the word midgets. Then she went to ask the DJ. She came back very quickly and said ten minutes. Righteous. She even led us up to front row seats on the mainstage.
It started in no time. Two scantily clad women of very short stature got onstage and began prancing about in their high heels. All I heard about them was from a driver at Portland Pie, saying they were really miniature versions of really hot chicks. But that was not the story at all.
It was a blend of incredibility and unsettling. They were not turning me on. The audience loved them and hooted and hollered as they danced about removing clothing. But they were not proportional. I was baffled. I was amazed. I was drunk enough to give them money (and come on, I was front row, you have to tip). Real nervous, I looked to AA for support and validation. She gave me a two-dollar bill and I had a one dollar bill. I stood up next to some other dude with cash.
My only real mistake here was putting the two-dollar bill in my mouth.
Those things are circulated in that place so much. Some probably never leave the building. God knows what has gone down before Thomas Jefferson's eyes, and all over his face.
The one named Little Pixie came over, and shoved the dude standing next to me's face in her breasts, a common technique for removing the money. Then she came up to me. I was grinning like a idiot, but definitely drunk enough to go through with this. She took my hat off my head and rubbed it over her naughty parts. All the while holding eye contact with me. That part sticks with me. Then came the cleavage-cash-retrieval. I do not believe I actually made contact with what my buddies and I later referred to in a recounting of this story as "midgetits" ...
but maybe that's just what I want everyone to believe.
Once they were done, so was everybody else and a grand exodus occurred. We made it back to AA's car, our curiosity satiated. One of the more unique first dates I have ever been on.
One for the grandkids.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Quicksidenote on $2 Dollar Bills.
When my parents still did the weekend child exchange, we would meet for a brief period at the Friendly's across the street from Platinum and get ice cream. My mom, brother and I arrived an hour early on accident once, and since the offramp from 95 is right freakin' there, we watched my father in his Lincoln Mark VIII which my mother sarcastically referred to as the "pimp-mobile" leave the tollbooth, drive directly past Friendly's and park at Platinum Plus. My brother and I were old enough to be ecstatic with this, but my mother showed only bitterness as my father got out of his car and waltzed under the awning labelled "Topless Donut Bar."
He re-emerged twenty minutes later, got back in his car, and drove across the street.
"How're the donuts?!"
My mother spat like a throwing a dagger. He kind of chuckled it off and we were too amused by the situation for either of them to actually argue about it. When the choice words were chosen and said, we said goodbye to Mom and left, New Hampshire bound. Dad gave us each a $2 Dollar Bill which I kept in my wallet for quite some time after. He told us the donuts were delicious.
We did not meet at Friendly's ever again.
This is a Saturday night. This was the busiest night I've ever worked.
The 1st cook in had told me, the night prior, about a happening in town. That the local "Gentleman's Club," Platinum Plus would be hosting a special touring show of... you guessed it (from the title, you cheaters):
Midget Strippers.
No political correction. No "Little People" or "Dwarfism" mentioned at all. Plain and simple. Midget Strippers. Tiny Tina and Little Pixie. I was baffled. And, of course, concocting plans to go. I do not have some sort of tiny fetish, or even a strong desire to see dwarfs naked in the first place. My reasons were the same as the majority of people who went: the novelty. To be able to say "Yes. I saw this. This. Just. Happened." The pure principle of the experience.
This is the same reason I do a whole lot of things.
So I'm all geared up slammed with work, throwing dough, topping pies, cheesing, the entire time blabbering on to any co-worker foolish enough to come near about the midget strippers, trying to recruit an entourage to accompany me. There were few takers, but they all found my enthusiasm amusing. I even went so far as to send a mass text message to every self-respecting eccentric male I knew with a taste for the odder things in life, but alas, only sparked humor and jest. One response was an invitation to a Post-Halloween Costume/Keg Party a street over from mine, with people there I wanted to see. So I threw my outrageous midget stripper expedition to the wind.
At this Costume Keg Dance Beerpong Halloween Soirée, I enjoyed some Premium Australian Lager and sugarcookies of pumpkins and witches. And the large beautiful silver metal container of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I could have gotten on my knees and bowed, face down, in complete piety. And after enough of that I danced and chatted with Whitesnake, B-Bones, NFC, and AA (for "Amelia Airheart"). As I walked AA back to her home, she brought up the midget strippers! She expressed a great interest in seeing them as well, and I mentioned that I perhaps had heard they would be there another night. Plans were made.
The following night AA flew in and picked me up right from work. I had actually gotten off work a bit early so sat down at the counter and chummed with the South Portland guys for a bit and had some tallboys for confidence, for I should add, I have never been to a strip club before. And might I also say, what a strip club it was.
First of all, it was packed. Everyone wanted to come see the midget strippers. There were as many women present as men. The line for entering was long, and the bouncer wore a very nice red suit, and did a little number where without me really trying to walk past him, he put two fingers on my chest and said, "I.D."
He was quite bigger and stronger than me, but I felt like he had to let me know it. I got the picture, so he got my picture. Longhaired unshaven 16-year-old Travis, the living face of awkward. Hello, it said, pleased to meet you, I'm really quite nervous about everything. The polar opposite in the persona spectrum handed me my dignity back. He carded AA too, like a tool doing his macho tool job.
Right through the door we discovered a table covered in beer, with beer on the floor under it, and two ladies in some exotic form of underwear charging a lot of money for it. A clever ploy, strip club, but I'm not so weak. I spotted the bar across the way, giant mirror, hanging glasses, towering spires of liquor bottles with those funny little pourer spout caps. Instinct told me to head there and buy myself and the lady a drink...but...something stopped me, and broke my concentration.
There were naked women dancing onstage.
It was incredible. Just like in a movie but now here, right in front of me. Merely feet away. It was all so new and fascinating. They would climb soooooooo high on the poles, I feared they would hit their heads off the lighting instruments. Then they'd slid slash drop straight down and roll back out over the stage and have their crotch in some dudes face. I was wrong before, they were not completely naked. They had the tiniest little g-string things and the highest of platform heels. Some were hott, some were nott. I was not going to complain. They rotated between the mainstage and two other smaller stages. One entire wall was a mirror, so I thought there were six stages and three sets of twins for a little bit there, and way more people.
We snaked our way through the old men and the floor girls to the bar, and managed to get a spot at it. It took the just-a-bit-less-pretty-than-the-strippers bartenders to not be busy and help me out with a rum and coke and amaretto sour for AA. I did not appreciate the price of these beverages and neither did my debit card, but we came to an agreement that it was validated by the occasion. It was tasty, too. We enjoyed our time there, remarking on class the establishment had practically sticking to the walls. I turned to find one of my best friend's older brothers with a guy he knew that I met once, so I went up to him. He was pleased to see me and pleased to be in a strip club, asked if I had any good smoke on me, accepted my apology and went about his night. I could have had longer conversation with him, but I had to risk the bathroom, but it was not at all harrowing. Everyone in there was drunk and having a wonderful evening. The sanitation surprised me too.
I was frightened for AA outside, so I was hasty, but I think I just worry about stuff like that too much. Near the alcove leading into the bathroom hallway was an excellent view of the stages, standing, looking over the seated masses of mostly couples. Some girlfriends in laps would stand up and shower the strippers with money, gaining special attention and sometimes physical interactions, like being half pulled on stage and basically romped about on. A man standing beside me remarked
This part [of the room] is best 'cause it's free!"
And he had a very good point.
We were near another section of the place that when I inspected was revealed to be the lapdance area. Just long comfortable benches with chicks writhing around on dudes. The strippers were in and out of there a lot with satisfied typically ugly men. One decrepit old fella walked up to me and immediately began talking to me with a throat filled with gravel and rusty nails.
WASTED OLD DUDE: There's...There's only four things you need in this world...
(he puts his hand on my shoulder)
TRAVIS: Oh, hey. Um, what's that?
WASTED OLD DUDE: Food, Fuckin', Fire and... Eating cunt.
TRAVIS: Really? Just those four?
WASTED OLD DUDE: Food, cuz you need to fuckin' eat. Fuckin'...cuz thats what we're here for. Fire, so you can keep warm while yer eatin' and fuckin'. And eating cunt... I just said that 'cuz I can't fuck no more.
TRAVIS: Well. That's...great.
And he let out this cantankerous laugh that sounded honestly painful but he had the happiest goddamn face on. We then turned and watched some women about to get married get sat down onstage. I knew she was getting married because of the little veil thing she was wearing. The MC of sorts, this short stockish blonde guy with a nice suit and large microphone stepped up, chattering away into the mic. The sound system was so awful. Imagine a huge thumping bass all the time, then this jamoke appears and starts introducing the girls and you can't hear a single word he's saying since the treble is so loud and splashy it rattles my fillings. Anyways, the bachelorette got mad humped and grinded upon by a swarm of strippers, more than I knew this place had in employ. Then they were done, all walked down the stairs aimed directly at AA and I and sifted past us. I panicked and did everything I could to not laugh or ogle or do any sort of attention promoting activity.
The appeal of the strip club was fading. It was so bright, new and shiny at first, but now we had been there for an hour and it was losing it's varnish. We needed what we came for. So I turned to my left and found, surprise! a stripper standing there. And she was the real cute kind that makes you want to ask "Oh, darlin'...why? What are you doing here?" but of course it's completely inappropriate to ask that sort of a question. But I did ask when the show would be going on. She had no idea what I was talking about until I was brought to the point of vocalizing the word midgets. Then she went to ask the DJ. She came back very quickly and said ten minutes. Righteous. She even led us up to front row seats on the mainstage.
It started in no time. Two scantily clad women of very short stature got onstage and began prancing about in their high heels. All I heard about them was from a driver at Portland Pie, saying they were really miniature versions of really hot chicks. But that was not the story at all.
It was a blend of incredibility and unsettling. They were not turning me on. The audience loved them and hooted and hollered as they danced about removing clothing. But they were not proportional. I was baffled. I was amazed. I was drunk enough to give them money (and come on, I was front row, you have to tip). Real nervous, I looked to AA for support and validation. She gave me a two-dollar bill and I had a one dollar bill. I stood up next to some other dude with cash.
My only real mistake here was putting the two-dollar bill in my mouth.
Those things are circulated in that place so much. Some probably never leave the building. God knows what has gone down before Thomas Jefferson's eyes, and all over his face.
The one named Little Pixie came over, and shoved the dude standing next to me's face in her breasts, a common technique for removing the money. Then she came up to me. I was grinning like a idiot, but definitely drunk enough to go through with this. She took my hat off my head and rubbed it over her naughty parts. All the while holding eye contact with me. That part sticks with me. Then came the cleavage-cash-retrieval. I do not believe I actually made contact with what my buddies and I later referred to in a recounting of this story as "midgetits" ...
but maybe that's just what I want everyone to believe.
Once they were done, so was everybody else and a grand exodus occurred. We made it back to AA's car, our curiosity satiated. One of the more unique first dates I have ever been on.
One for the grandkids.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Quicksidenote on $2 Dollar Bills.
When my parents still did the weekend child exchange, we would meet for a brief period at the Friendly's across the street from Platinum and get ice cream. My mom, brother and I arrived an hour early on accident once, and since the offramp from 95 is right freakin' there, we watched my father in his Lincoln Mark VIII which my mother sarcastically referred to as the "pimp-mobile" leave the tollbooth, drive directly past Friendly's and park at Platinum Plus. My brother and I were old enough to be ecstatic with this, but my mother showed only bitterness as my father got out of his car and waltzed under the awning labelled "Topless Donut Bar."
He re-emerged twenty minutes later, got back in his car, and drove across the street.
"How're the donuts?!"
My mother spat like a throwing a dagger. He kind of chuckled it off and we were too amused by the situation for either of them to actually argue about it. When the choice words were chosen and said, we said goodbye to Mom and left, New Hampshire bound. Dad gave us each a $2 Dollar Bill which I kept in my wallet for quite some time after. He told us the donuts were delicious.
We did not meet at Friendly's ever again.
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