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...