12-2 Saturdays, I’m on a radio show. Listeners cover a broad demographic. They don’t include my co-host’s mother or children, but at least some (not a majority) of my imaginary friends tune in.
We feature New Zealand musicians, the vast majority of whom have released albums. Last Thursday, I was asked by the show’s host to attend one of those release events.
It was at a strip club.
Due to start at 8, I turned up at 7.40. The guy at the door let me in because it’s free entry before 10, as long as I drank. I went straight to the bar.
I requested a handle of beer, and the woman brought out a jug, asking “would you like this, or a large?” I went for the regular.
The music was pumping loudly as I sat at the end of what I suppose is called a girating-table. Luckily, sport was playing on a TV nearby.
There were two naked girls on the stage, pole-dancing. One was actually pole-dancing, the other one just held on and stroked herself. I noted throughout the night that many had lots of tattoos. I don’t know whether they were to cover wounds. One girl had an interesting round bruise on her bottom.
A friend of mine txted and suggested I buy tip-money, otherwise I’d just look like a weirdo hanging out and drinking. I figured I’d appear that way anyhow, but I got $20 worth. She also advised I put the notes in my mouth and wait for girls to take them out with their breasts, but I decided against that.
I asked a couple of guys in front if they were there for the album launch, and one replied no, he was just there for the tits. Fair enough.
A squat, bald man asked me if I had a ticket for the launch. No, I didn’t. I txted the radio host and asked him. He told me the artist had mine. That didn’t make a lot of sense, but Baldie believed me.
The host also asked if I’d take photos. Baldie didn’t like that. He put his hand on my shoulder & said what sounded like “let’s mate”, but was probably “Nah, mate”.
The hours ticked by, the beer decreased and the naked girls danced. The musician turned up, hugged people, and drank. The invitation said live music, but that didn’t happen. Instead, sounds from Bon Jovi through to Marilyn Manson blared. Except for the volume, that wasn’t too bad.
My last bus home left at 11.20, and so, when a hot stripper said hi, I engaged in shouted conversation while I put all my notes into her garter. She hugged me goodbye, and out I walked.
I’d entered the place as a guy going to an album launch, and left as a guy who’d just spent a night alone in a strip club.
The actual release party started around midnight. The next day at work, I was wasted. At least my hearing had recovered.
I’ll decline next time.
Your Common Sense Apple A Week 