Sleaze

Another way one could call this blog is a blog of the middle path.  A LCL (low cash lifestyle) forces one to appreciate, if not enjoy, the lesser things in life.  The value macrobrews, store brand snacks, and bottom shelf liquors fill and educate their palate.  And it is through this appreciation of these lesser things in life that one can truly enjoy the greater things in life. Further, to survive or even thrive in a LCL, you must occasionally splurge on the nicer things! The microbrews, five course meals, and more bottom shelf liquor.  All things are good in moderation.

Now, the idea expansion I am going to present here will be my most likely post to fall on deaf ears.  A little sleaze is good for the soul.

I know what your thinking.  I have jumped the shark.  You have just sighed and began rubbing your eyes in disbelief.  Well, hear me out!

Last night was the annual evening of sleaze I have enjoyed since I turned 21.  It is marked by doing a gauntlet of visiting multiple strip clubs in a single evening with like minded individuals.  And there is something profoundly enjoyable about it.  Part of it is seeing the occasional pretty lady, and part of it is the culture of sleaze that surrounds it: the bad drinks, shadowy figures, and neon lights.

We started out by going to some of the lesser local institutions, and the views were admittedly pretty grim.  This is the kind of place where the garbage truck driver doesn't take off his safety vest, glowing like an alien being under the black-lights, in-case an errant tow-truck finds its way inside.  Not to venture too deep into the inappropriate and blush-making comments, but there is something life-affirming in seeing or being approached by a horrifically unattractive dancer.  I'm talking about your mom's ugly sister with the meth hobby.  I was going to initially describe the emotional response as that endorphin release you have after eating some thai-hot curry, but really, this is more like a running-of-the-bulls endorphin release.  You feel the sweat on your brow and a tightening in your stomach as your reptilian brain decides between fight, flight, and playing dead.  This is followed by the huge sense of relief, and dare I say triumph, of leaving the bar unscathed (with the exception of the mental scaring that may wake you for years to come).

Then you go to the nicer, yet still unclassy, destinations with embarrassing or ironic names like "Bottoms Up" or  "The Classy Lady."  Here the ladies ARE nicer, but the locations are darker and filled with unsavory characters.  Women of all types dance in these places; white women, women of color, mixed girls, skinny, big, everything!  Some of the girls will admittedly set your heart aflutter, while others have you wondering how well triclosan works, and if your detergent has an anti-microbial agent in it.  Here, you will see pole tricks and a certain amount of a special sleaziness.  It is this special sleaziness that I find so enthralling.  Unlike the previously mentioned locations, patrons are not drowning in their beers.  Here, an estranged husband spends his children's inheritance on a girl with track-marks, all while wearing a frown on his face.  I hold dear a memory of a man in a wheelchair racing between an ATM and a private dance booth.  A girl yells from the stage to the bar "Mom!  I'm done."  Or, in another memory, a dancer hollers from the stage to the bar that she is getting tired.  The other dancer/barkeeper replies "wait a minute, I gotta piss!", jumps over the bar, runs to the bathroom, and then jumps onstage.

Now, I do want to emphasize the earlier statement of "all things are good in moderation."  I always feel pretty alive the day after this ritual, but doing this more than annually would quickly wear on my soul.  It is easy to see, just by looking around, the wear and tear these places can have on an individual.

Finally, you go to the nice places.  In the nice places, the girls are pretty, and the facilities are nicer, but it is lacking that certain sleaziness.  All the girls fit the same European mold of fake blonds with athletic builds, with an occasional token Asian.  For lack of a better term, there is no flavor!  As young professionals fill the chairs around you, you realize you'd rather be back in the sleazy places.  You'd rather be in the places without a bathroom attendant, drinking beer out of bottles because you know the taps are foul.

My favorite part of the LCL is having that realization.  Sometimes the best really isn't the best.  The dumps at the beginning and the classy places at the end lead you to that hallowed middle ground.  I found that I'd rather be at the sleazy places.

It is this finding that is so important to the LCL. 

So, I am saying to you faint of heart, pick up some store brand snacks and some crap macrobrews, and start finding your place.  I'll be at the laundry mat.