Tuesday, October 06, 2009

If You Happen to Still Be Out There

Still alive, still doing stand-up. If you're in the Midwest, there's a fairly decent chance that I'll be performing in your state soon. "Friend" me here on Facebook to get more information.

Saturday, November 08, 2008

Tuesday, September 23, 2008


My gym sells various things such as "power" drinks, t-shirts, earphones, and feather boas.

Yes, feather boas.

I though this was strange and asked the counter clerk what the feather boas were for. It turns out that my gym offers a "cardio strip" class and the boas are used for props. This class reportedly offers a fun way for women to sweat off the pounds. Of course, the women in the class were either north of their 50's or pushing two bills. So the class is full of aged, portly women pretending to be in a burlesque show.

Having seen a bit of this class, words cannot express the disappointment suffered by the men in these women's lives if they apply those moves at home.

Clearly, no one who participates in or runs this class knows anything about strip clubs, at least not those that have been in existence since prohibition was repealed. I've been to my fair share of Gentleman's Clubs, purely for sociological purposes of course, and while I've seen many things in these clubs, feather boas are not one of them.

Whatever you want to call them, these clubs emphasize the "strip" and minimize the "tease." You generally won't see feather boas, peacock fans, or any type of choreographed routine.

The women in the class must think that the stripper experience is exotic. It isn't. They probably think that dancers are beautiful or in good shape. Not always. In fact, the only thing that makes a woman qualified to be a stripper is the willingness to take off her clothes in public.

These are the things that you are far more likely to see on a stripper than a feather boa:
  1. Caesarian scars.
  2. Razor bumps.
  3. Six inch stiletto heels.
  4. Exit wounds.
  5. 7 to 12 tattoos.
My college roommate eventually became a police officer. As an undocumented perk, he could get in clubs for free because, while police couldn't moonlight as security, the owners encouraged the presence of off-duty cops. So when we hung out, it was either there or the donut shop. Basically, we went so often that I think I'm only I about four credits short of getting my M.D. in Gynecology

It eventually got old. But I had my "scared straight" moment about seven years ago. I was in Brownsville, TX for work and across the highway was the best gentleman's establishment that I'd ever been to. Beautiful women, not too smoky, nicely decorated, no cover, and inexpensive lap dances.

Everything was going well until one dancer approached for a dance. I agreed. She started the dance and top off her top revealing one breast. I don't mean that she only showed one breast, I mean she only had one breast. On the other side was something that resembled a deployed airbag with scar tissue.

Needless to say, I wasn't expecting this. Her top must have been padded. But what was I to do? I didn't want to offend her, but it was freaking me out. Every time, she leaned in, I flinched. I couldn't look at her. I just wanted the song to be over before I started crying. I blame the Americans with Disabilities Act.

Someone should have warned me. She could have least taken "Solo" as her stage name. Or I should have at least got half of my money back.

I don't ask for much but an even number of breasts should be a given.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Heavy Petting And The City

Harper-Collins is planning a line of books, aimed at "young adults", based on the teenage lives of the characters in Sex and the City.

Strangely enough, I've already been working on this idea. To throw my hat in the ring, I offer the following:

Carrie, jotting in her diary: Boy, I wish there was some way that I could type my thoughts in a device that I could use while I'm sitting on my bed in my underwear. I tried this with my Apple II but I almost set my Duran Duran comforter on fire.

Anyway, it's not easy being a teen that wants to have it all. Things with Big are going okay. He's pretty busy with being the president of Student Council and of the Future Tycoons of America Club. But whenever we're together, he totally pushes me to a stage in the relationship that I'm not sure that I'm ready for.

Is it okay for me to mind "it", when "it" is the only thing on his mind?

Fortunately, I have my friends to support me:

Fade to lunchroom:

Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda are having their daily lunch in the gym/cafeteria.

Carrie: Big has been pushing me to do "it."

Miranda: (gasps) Are we talking the big "it"?

Carrie: Not the big "it", it's more like a little "it."

Samantha: Big has a little "it"?

Carrie: No, I mean his "it" is fine. I mean, I don't know if it's little or not, it's not like I've seen a lot of them.

Samantha: Well I have. For example, Mr. Derringer has an absolutely enormous "it."

Miranda: You've seen the guidance counselor's "it?"

Samantha: What? I needed a good letter of recommendation for college. So we did the big "it."

Charlotte: Ewww. I'm never going to do the big "it." Well, at least not after I marry Craig, the team quarterback, and we have a big wedding with announcements in the New York Times, and I have a beautiful wedding dress designed by either Camp Beverly Hills or Izod.

Carrie: No, it's not the big "it," it's the other "it."

Samantha: What other "it" are we talking about? There's like a hundred other "its" Believe me, I 've done them all.

Miranda: She's done a hundred "its." I can't find any time to do any "it" with AP Calculus, Debate Club, the Chess Team, the Pre-Law Society and the Curious About My True Sexual Orientation Club. Oh my God, did I just say that last one out loud?

The girls ignore Miranda.

Carrie: No, he wants me to do the "hand it."

Charlotte: Ewwww! (pause) What is the "hand it"?

Carrie: He wants me to touch his (pause) "it" and rub it.

Samantha: Oh, so he wants Handus Strokus?

Miranda: I've never heard of Handus Strokus.

Charlotte: Ewwww!

Carrie: Why does he want me to do that? What if I do it wrong? Will he still respect me if I do it? What if he tells all his friends? I don't want people to go around thinking I'm the type of girl who does Handus Strokus. Uh...no offense, Samantha.

Samantha: None taken. Listen Honey, guys are going to ask for a lot of things. And on the scale of "its," Handus Strokus is like a three out of ten.

Carrie: How do I know if I'm doing it right?

Samantha: Well, if you're doing it right, you'll know. Just bring a lot of Kleenex.

Carrie: For what?

Samantha: You'll see.

Charlotte: Ewwww!

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

The Persistence of Mammaries

Why are guys so fascinated by breasts? I'm perplexed by the awesome power that a plunging neckline can have. I'm not even a "breast" guy. I can name several other female body parts that are more worthy of my attention. Even under the ideal situation, breasts are like Scooby-Doo cartoons, they only provide about seven or so minutes of entertainment before it's time to move on to other things.

Nonetheless I, like roughly 90% of my male brethen, have been held in sway by lovely lady lumps.

Case in point. Every year our fantasy football league holds its draft party in a nearby bar or restaurant. Last year, we took over the loft area of a piano bar (that was its "sports bar" section, so shut up).

Our waitress, to put it delicately, had an enormous rack.

She wore a scoop necked blouse. And there we were, about fifteen or so grown-ass men, with wives, girlfriends, inflatable love objects, etc., utterly beguiled by our server and her breasty ways, reduced to the level of twelve year olds who had just stumbled across their first Playboy.

At first, we exchanged elbow digs and knowing glances. I may have ordered dinner in a soft voice just so she'd lean in. One guy, who's probably still over the legal blood alcohol limit a year later, voiced some comments about her endowment.

At first I was mortified for her. Then I thought, "she knew what she looked like when she left the house. She didn't grow those things overnight." I'm all for being respectful, but come on now. It's not like she didn't know what she was packing. She works for tips. Her breasts were like my laptop - a tool of the trade.

That's another thing that I don't get, when are we supposed to notice breasts and when aren't we? I think there may be an acceptable level of glancing or gazing, maybe for a second or two, but after that it just gets creepy.

Women, I know that your "eyes are up here," but sometimes the harder I try not to notice, the harder it is not to look.

Here's what happens:

I'm minding my own business, thinking about work, the meaning of life, or Spider-Man, when I come across a comely young woman wearing one of those Victoria Secret's "push'em up if you've got 'em" bras and a low neckline.

I'm saying to myself, "Don't look down. Don't look down."

Meanwhile, I'm trying hard to listen to the conversation, which sometimes ends up being a story about something cute her dog did or how annoying her boyfriend is, when I hear another voice.

"Psst. D, down here. Check us out."

"I can't do that, that would be rude."

"Come on, don't be a wuss. Look how perky we are."

"I'm not listening to you. I'm listening to her talk about what she saw on the Food Channel last night."

"Seriously, you could bounce a quarter off of us."

"I'm ...trying... to look her...in the...eyes."

"Oh my, looks like it's a little chilly in here, doesn't it?

Before I get taken to task for objectifying women, I want to tell you who the real victims were that evening - the men.

You see, when we have the draft parties, we run a tab for food and alcohol and split it equally once the night is over. Some people abuse this and order things that they wouldn't if they were directly footing the bill, like desserts and drinks that are neither clear nor brown. This is the reason why socialism doesn't work.

Anyway, at the end of the evening, our team commissioner gave Dolly a tip as generous as her bust line. In his inebriated state, however, he failed to notice that because of the size of the group, the establishment had already included a 20% gratuity in our bill. She was more than double tipped (kinda poetic), she was tipped on her original tip. He passed on the lack of savings to the rest of the group.

I won the league last year and came away with less money than she did that evening.

So tell me, who was exploited that night?

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

I'm Still Back

I intended to post again earlier, but the J-O-B prohibited it.

Anyway, I'm trying to regain all of your confidences in me, so I'm going to make the effort to get back to a regular posting schedule. For some reason, the firm keeps asking me to go to recruiting conferences and job fairs to trick eager young law students into the rewarding and soul-fulfilling life of law firm practice.

The firm even assigned me a mentee this summer, despite the fact that I'm not good at giving the rah-rah company line speech.

This is an actual quote from a conversation between me and a friend of mine who had just started at the firm, to give you a flavor for my "advice:"

Her: D, you have a lot of involvement in the community, you write freelance, and you practice law. How do you find the time?

Me: The secret is to do everything poorly.

I also told the summer clerks this year the following: "Law school has nothing to do with the practice of law. Look at law school exams. No client is going to call you with a question and expect you to give him or her an answer in three hours, without doing research, without talking to anyone else, and while sober."

Despite my habit of giving abysmal advice and my own career-limiting actions (e.g., writing a blog that obsesses about Jessica Alba's ass), I drove to Chicago last week to interview law students.

The cool thing about the trip was that I got to try out my GPS on my Blackberry. I finally caved in and got one of these horrible torture devices, so now I can't even go to the bathroom in peace without being e-mailed. One big problem is that you can't talk on the phone and hear directions at the same time. So I'm on the phone and I miss a turn and exit the highway, figuring that the GPS would recalculate the route to get me back on track.

Well the GPS ended up sending me through some rather interesting parts of Gary, Indiana. The first place that I see is a "Gentleman's Club," but trying to make good time on my trip and not having enough singles on me, I keep going. Not too far from there I see an adult bookstore, with a huge obnoxious banner that says "Toys. DVDs. Lubes."

Excuse me, lubes? That's not something that you usually see so boldly advertised. But apparently, it's a big impulse buy, so this business highlighted its wares.

Speaking of lube advertisements, have you noticed that companies are starting to advertise "personal lubricants" openly on television and in the newspapers? I'm not a prude by any stretch, but on Sunday mornings, when I'm reading the paper while enjoying my French toast, a full size circular advertising K-Y can be a little jarring. They had a campaign that actually said "Try K-Y and see what happens." Let me tell you from personal experience, that trick only works once.

Anyway, I'm still following the GPS instructions, when I notice a woman standing on the side of the road wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. I think "that's odd" and move on. The next block is another women, dressed provactively, holding up a streetlight and surveying the traffic.

It finally dawns on me. I'm driving down the Gary "ho stroll." Thanks GPS!

I keep driving when I hear instructions that alarm me. Instead of the usual cold, robotic directions my phone says:

"Lock doors in ...fifty feet."

Sure enough, I drive through the Beirut section of Gary. I grew up in the Detroit area, so I'm used to seeing urban desolation, but this was like a Stephen King novel. I saw whole blocks of empty buildings, with no people whatsoever. The GPS chimed in.

"Keep your head ...on a swivel. Crack house in ... point two miles... on the left."

Next weekend, I'm in beautiful downtown Cleveland to do some more interviewing. This time I'll be flying and you know how my luck goes with flying.