End of an Era

I learned recently that one of my favorite places closed. To us, it was a beautiful gift. To others, a horror show.

We all knew it would never last but enjoyed it while we could. I mean, who could have doubted the challenges keeping a place called Premium Events under wraps. From the first time we heard of it, we knew with each private lap dance on the beds others only whispered of dreamed that it could never last.

Before Hot Lap Dance Clup, was revealed to us, it was impossible to imagine a world without beefy headed bouncers banging on the door of the tiny booth you and a stripper huddled away in for 3 or 4 songs. Totalling in the hundreds of dollars. Madness.

Here, at the loft (as we grew to call it). there was none of this nonsense. Yes, you paid a hefty fee at the front door. $50 dollars for members, $60 at the door your first time or any time you forgot your card thereafter. Luckily, the guy had a pretty good memory and given we were there quite often, and always with a party of six or more, we got treated as a bachelor party and never had to pay full price.

But lord we always would have. It was if magic when you walked in, carrying your own alcohol. Beautiful girls careening all over the place, but never any pressure. I nearly got hand release from a six foot brunette publisher. She had a pretty high-powered job and was truly interested in my writing. I actually ended up spending about $80 just to get her off.

That's right. Eighty dollars. For an unlimited (practically) time frame. Nobody checking in, no inhibitions. But-- A BROTHEL??? Why I would never use such harsh terms. It's not quite as black and white as that, and I don't appreciate the implications.

You didn't walk into the loft and meet up with crusty old Darlene, answering the door through a glass cage and taking $300 on the way in. The lining up the bunny's, disgusting and foreign, in hopes that a man or two will sign on for an extra long "party."

No, these girls were just beautiful strippers, and as my friend Ryan liked to attest -- American. There is something different about not having a Russian, Serb or Pacific Islander approach you. As if you are somehow part of an international stripper cartel, bringing poverty to the nation-state left behind.

When the girl went to Spence, you don't have any of that guilt. Some of these girls were porn stars, others were just smoking hot, and treated you with respect, despite the fact that it was undeniable that you were a lowlife.


Italian buffet, crazy amount of couches both in the private area and outside. No poles like you're used to. This place, as I noted, was different, special. Symbian shows and lesbian shows were done about two or three times each night, but the focus was always on camraderie, a little baited time alone before heading back for what must be the greatest private room experience I've ever had, and likely among the best availabe, if not in the entire United States, surely the East Coast and at least New York.

It will be missed, no matter what the cops say

Slipping a Mickey

My little girl is obsessed.

I can't blame her, it's practically in the water, so what do I do? Exploit it!

Need to get work done? -- slip her a Mickey

Need to shower? -- slip her a Mickey

Hung over? -- slip her a Mickey

Call it lazy parenting, turn me in, I don't care. That half-hour is pure bliss for her. She's got every line memorized, can do a great Donald Duck voice, and, when I do sit down with her, we both have a nice time together.

Can Mickey really be all that bad? If anything, he's introducing They Might be Giants into her life, which can never be a bad thing.

Try it. Tell me you don't love it.

UPDATE: This playlist sucks so bad, because of all the :30 spots, for those who do read all the way to the bottom... the ultimate treat.

Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Theme - They Might Be Giants

iMeem, therefore I am

More exciting than Twitter, because it's got shit I actually enjoy on there from other people, not just their idiotic 140 character musings. iMeem has real potential, I think.

We'll see.

Or, for now, we'll listen.

US Open Widget -- love it

Prequels

Sitting through this season of "Lost" I'm reminded of my distaste for prequels, which originated during the debut of the "Star Wars" Episodes 1-3, and I'm not just talking about Jar Jar Binks. I'm referring to the complete absence of suspense that arises from near-death experiences befalling characters you know survive.

It's similar to the feeling you get when you see Jack suffer terribly after his impromptu appendectomy, knowing he's one of the Oceanic Six.





What might be worse is how it's almost a foregone conclusion that the characters who did not make it into the sequels invariably will die. Making it that much more difficult to invest in that character.


Natalie Portman, we hardly knew ye.

Bilbo Baggins may be able to break this trend, for me personally. The legacy of work, the fact that most know "The Hobbit" well before they've ever feasted their Eye on Sauron.

Nevertheless, original work may still win out. The brilliance of movies like Step Brother and Wanted ensure that the pap smear of work that calls itself Hollywood will continue in perpetuity. Long after Funny or Die has unfunnily died.

Los Lakers or "Don't airline pilots know we have TiVo?"

I'll admit it, I'm swept up in Lakers fever. It's happened to me before. 2001, before the flood of annoying habits, sniping and egos. This young team is likable, and as a married father of one, I find myself more time at home in front of the game in years past, when I might have been more likely to watch it at a bar. I've also got my beautiful 50-inch DLP Samsung HDTV, thank you Jose!

And thank you Sasha Vujacic, beautiful shot. I'm less than enthused about the game tonight, as I watch the second half on TiVo after spending the day up with YouTube in San Bruno and catching the first half at SFO.

Over the course I've my career I've often found myself traveling during major sporting events. A Super Bowl in the late nineties, the one Tampa Bay won I think, returning from a conference in Florida. Listening through fleeting radio reception as the Yankees squander a series lead and the goodwill of a bruised nation losing to Randy Johnson and the Arizona Diamondbacks in 2001. Mariano Rivera giving up a bloop single (I later found out) to Luis Gonzalez, Schilling pitching a gem, Johnson getting the win in relief.

I relive these moments now through jaded eyes. Were I to find out over the P.A. that the Lakers won the NBA Finals I'd be pissed, as the captain should know I would have TiVo'd that, or more accurately DirecTV DVR'd it. Granted, this was only game three, Los Lakers down 2-0, but when he came on and said smugly, "for all you Lakers fans good news, they're up by seven," I couldn't help but be annoyed. He didn't say whether they won or not, but it was late enough that it took some suspense out of the game.

I find myself equally annoyed by prequels... I'll expand on that next post.

Big Brown

Is it me or has advertising in sports gone to the absurd? Watching Big Brown make his way around the Belmont track, walked along by a "fat guy in a little coat" emblazoned with UPS, I nearly threw up. You just had to laugh, though, when Big Brown came in tenth, just in front of Pony Express.

How do I explain to my 2-year old that ponies aren't always sponsored, and that horse-racing used to be pure. Well, as pure as a sport that is based on beautiful animals racing around a track for their master humans' (and my) entertainment and (not this time) financial gain.

Don't you think all the hype around the triple crown may have had something to do with the amount of dollars being funneled to those more knowledgeable bettors whose winners came in?

I do.