Stupid, Stupid, Stupid
In the wee hours of the morning, somewhere on my 600-mile drive from Indianapolis to Minneapolis, some stupid, stupid part of my brain urged me to check out as many clubs along the way as possible. Forget sleep -- just go gawk at naked women. Yeah.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
So I Googled strip clubs in the area (yeah, like that's ever up to date), hit "directions," heard a "zzzzz" -- woke up the GPS, hit "directions," and eventually, somewhere off the beaten path -- way, way off the beaten path -- I found the Blu Astor. The building was well lit from outside, as was the parking lot. Don't remember any signage per se, just a lot of blue and green and, I think, purple, like a kid had thrown up a lot of neon-bright pastel-colored cotton candy. I could count the number of cars in the lot on one hand and still have enough left over to flip off people in a variety of languages. It was a sign that I really should've passed on the place and kept on driving, but no...
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Stepped in and the doorman, busy on his cell for who knows what reason, hurriedly met me, collected my ten-dollar cover, checked my ID, then let me in. Right across from the entry was the bar, and behind it was the doorman, still on his phone and not really paying attention to much of anything else, and two younger people who looked like they could've been brother and sister. It looked like he was coaching her along, so guessing she was brand new behind the bar. My Coke cost five bucks, including tip.
I turned to the right, saw the club proper, and that's when my monger senses finally woke up: The place might've been nice and clean, but it was empty, except for a half dozen men and women parked around one table (yeah, safe to say dancers were just hanging out with their buddies). And not only was it empty, no music was playing, no dancers were dancing, and the only entertainment was "Modern Family" playing on the big screen over the stage. So I parked myself, nursed my Coke, and watched "Modern Family" for the next 20, 30 minutes. Mind you, I hate "Modern Family."
At the end of my Coke (probably about ten minutes into the next episode of "Modern Family"), a young woman of African descent, tall, slender, cute, finally approached me. She asked if I wanted a dance and listed off the prices -- $150 for 15 minutes, $300 for 30, and $600 for an hour. I think that's what they were; I really wasn't paying a whole lot of attention. She said she'd give me a minute to think about it, then wandered off. My mind was already set on that answer: No. What I was thinking about was telling just what I thought of this joke of a club, in absolutely no uncertain terms. No, instead I just got up and left.
Out in the car, I figured I'd try to salvage something of this misadventure and Googled for another nearby club: Diamond Jim's. I woke up the GPS, hit "directions," and drove on. And drove. And drove. About fifteen minutes later, I found myself back at the Blu Astor. I checked the addresses of the two clubs: one and the same. Google might've had the giggles pulling that fast one on me, but you'd think the GPS might have some "HEY, DIPSHIT!" feature to flag such things.
Yeah.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Oh well. I didn't need that hour of sleep anyway.
