Bottom line: I go to strip...

Bottom line: I go to strip clubs to have fun. This club was the opposite of that. Everyone seemed worn down, sad, and wishing they were somewhere else.

You walk in and it looks like a large sports bar with one small rack in the very middle. They are blasting cut-super-short songs from the late 90s--Alice in Chains, a Perfect Circle, etc--and nothing else. You pay your 10 dollar cover, and the bouncer shoves three half-priced dance coupons into your hand. There are groups of patrons at the tables, and no one at the rack. The insert at each table that lists beer prices also lists dance prices: five dances for 50 dollars (which only sounds like a deal until you remember that the songs are cut short at about the 1.5 minute mark). The girls are gorgeous: there is that. Tall, curvaceous beauties who either don't know or don't care how to dance. You certainly couldn't blame them for not caring: no one sits at the rack, No One tips the stage dancers, the girls looked bored, the customers were mostly middle-aged white men who seemed to wish they were somewhere else.

You ask the waitress what they have on draft, and she has no idea what that means: a thing you didn't even realize was possible in the civilized world. After a few minutes of confusion, you just order a bottle of Michelob and your date orders what will eventually be the weakest vodka cranberry she's ever had in her life. As you watch the girl dancing and getting no tips and growing irritated that no one is coming to relieve her of the pointless hip-shaking she's doing, you see sad old men getting led to the VIP room and Champagne room by, again, admittedly gorgeous women. You begin to see how the business model of this place works: it's all about the private dances, so the girls have to go to each table and aggressively sell themselves to the customers. No one looks happy. Surely a private dance should be an exciting thing: the gentlemen partaking in these dances just looked ashamed and sad.