this place should be renamed 'Tats-A-Plenty.'...

this place should be renamed 'Tats-A-Plenty.' or 'Suicide Girls Gone Wild.' there was so much ink on these broads it was hard to decipher the skin under it. they were dripping in it, saturated. the single, milky, unmarked lovely in the rotation was a freak by comparison. some nice edgy peepers, hairstyles and attitudes too. so it's a lively mix, fueled by a head pounding 'music' mixer who's obviously got stock in excedrin-four out of five of the 'tunes' spun were designed to drive any reasonable person out the door, and the fifth was a cover of sade's 'no ordinary love' intoned by a transvestite. all the young turks sit stageside and dutifully march behind their wooden soldiers into the LD room. all the old farts camp at the more remote bar and meekly follow their limp rods into the dinky boys' room. you will be left alone here, which can be a good thing. the servers are young, brash and completely wrapped up in themselves and the dancers have a sixth sense for their vulnerable marks. what little service is rendered will be perfunctory. there were exactly two people at the bar but the abandoned two dollar tip next to me languished there for a full forty five minutes 'til the self-consumed hostess scooped it up. i always feel like leaving five minutes after i get here then stay an hour and a half. i think that's called the self-loathing and inertia strip club addiction syndrome, filed under SLISCAS in wikipedia.