Still Sad and Maybe Sadder

I must be insane, the definition of which is doing the same thing again and again and expecting something different. But a man can hope, can’t he?

First, some details: Free parking in a big gravel lot, no cover, no ID check, masks not required, sign-in sheet for scribbled names. Bottled water is $2.00, and a shot and a beer that I bought for one of the dancers was $6.00. There are no waitresses, just bar service. Music comes out of a juke box. There is a pool table or two, and no stage, so the only singles you’ll need is for the juke box. The men’s room got a major upgrade by the inclusion of soap in the soap dispenser. I guess there’s a first time for everything. What’s next, hot water? As I said, a man can hope.

This place is the farthest thing from a “gentlemen’s club” you could ever imagine. Dancers only work during the day, under the auspices of Misty, who has run daytime dances at a series of different bars in town. At night it’s a regular redneck dive bar, with a Confederate flag hanging on the back wall that looks like it’s been there for 50 years. Maybe more. Maybe since the War Against Northern Aggression, which is what they still call it in North Carolina.