Tour of Homos: Alan Gold's or Hey, Mr. DJ!

Ever hang out at the bar in the Days Inn in downtown Chattanooga? You haven't? Oh. Yeah, well neither have Edith and I. But if we had then I would know that it was a high class establihment that offered all the trimmings. Cigarette burn holes in the plastic table cloth? They've got multiple... at every table! Stripper pole? It's on the raised stage! They thought of everything except customer service. I wondered why it was taking 30 minutes for our waitress just to take our order. Then I realized it was because we were literally the only occupied table in the place, so clearly she was swamped.

Ever hang out at night under an overpass in an unmarked, windowless van with the door open almost as though you are waiting for something, say, a victim? You have? Then that must have been you Edith and I saw in Chattanooga. I hope I'm not embarrassing you when I say that your aura of Holy-Shit-I'm-Going-To-Die is unparalleled. Because, holy shit, I thought I was going to die on our walk from the hotel to Chattanooga's gay bar, Alan Gold's. Little did I know that the danger lied not with the rapist troll under the bridge but inside Alan Gold's. That's where I died. On the inside. From prolonged exposure to obnoxiousness.

It's rare, but occasionally Edith and I will come down with boogie fever. When that happens the only prescription is salt. ... and her friend, Pepa. As any good American citizen - nay, any good citizen of the world does, we like to push it. Push it good. Push it real good, in fact. Unfortunately, the DJ did not realize how afflicted we were so we traversed the empty dance floor and explained our predicament. "So you see, Mr. DJ, it's a medical emergency." And that's when we were told that he doesn't take requests unless you tip him. Excuse me?! I suddenly understand why Wild Cherry was so hostile towards the white boy when he didn't play that funky music. This request surcharge seemed outrageous to us considering we had the answer to his Empty Dance Floor Blues, but we were tourists and therefore suckers so we dropped some dollar bills into the jar and waited for our song.

And waited. And waited. And waited some more. But we never heard it. All we heard was the same unch-unch-unch beat with lyrics behind it - some recognizable, others unknown. Of the songs we knew, there were a few good ones but all of them were butchered by the thumping club beat. I don't understand the need for the techofication of perfectly good, already danceable songs. Britney Spears' songs, for instance, are genetically engineered to be played at dance clubs. Adding the standard dance beat to Toxic is like taking a seedless orange and removing the seeds. Layering one track over your entire MP3 collection does not a DJ make. All it makes is a tool abusing Garage Band. Good DJs dissect, remix, mash up, and pair songs all in the name of enhancing the music and dance experience. Shitty DJs make all the songs sound the same so as not to confuse and scare the coke-addled brains of the queens that wear Gucci because it's what fancy people wear, not because they understand fashion, quality, or style. One of those queens happened to be on the dance floor that night. And it's quite probable that he got his dance instruction from his As Seen on TV VHS, Darrin's Dance Groves 2: Jazzercise Boogaloo.

The clubs that hire these shitty DJs also tend to be the clubs that line every single wall with speakers and turn up the volume to ear bleeding decibles. It's like they're trying to accomplish going plaid. Keep the music on the dance floor, kids. Maybe this makes me an old fuddy-duddy, but screaming like Al Pacino just to be heard and straining so hard to hear Edith that I poop myself a little everytime she speaks is not enjoyable. Certain areas of the bar need to turn it down to a low airplane engine roar, right? Am I crazy to want to talk to the people I go out with or start conversations with people I may meet? Is this why shallow Abercrombie twinks only seem to go to clubs in homogenous groups? Because the conversation would have been so vapidly boring that not having it because the music is too loud is a better alternative? There is so much I don't understand about club culture. I should look into a continuing education course; something like Technofication 101. But not in Chattanooga. All I wanted to do there was stumble back to the Days Inn then drive the hell home.

Ever hang out at the bar in the Days Inn in downtown Chattanooga? You haven't? Oh. Yeah, well neither have Edith and I. But if we had then I would know that it was a high class establihment that offered all the trimmings. Cigarette burn holes in the plastic table cloth? They've got multiple... at every table! Stripper pole? It's on the raised stage! They thought of everything except customer service. I wondered why it was taking 30 minutes for our waitress just to take our order. Then I realized it was because we were literally the only occupied table in the place, so clearly she was swamped.<br /><br />Ever hang out at night under an overpass in an unmarked, windowless van with the door open almost as though you are waiting for something, say, a victim? You have? Then that must have been you Edith and I saw in Chattanooga. I hope I'm not embarrassing you when I say that your aura of Holy-Shit-I'm-Going-To-Die is unparalleled. Because, holy shit, I thought I was going to die on our walk from the hotel to Chattanooga's gay bar, Alan Gold's. Little did I know that the danger lied not with the rapist troll under the bridge but inside Alan Gold's. That's where I died. On the inside. From prolonged exposure to obnoxiousness.<span class="fullpost"><br /><br />It's rare, but occasionally Edith and I will come down with boogie fever. When that happens the only prescription is salt. ... and her friend, Pepa. As any good American citizen - nay, any good citizen of the world does, we like to push it. Push it good. Push it real good, in fact. Unfortunately, the DJ did not realize how afflicted we were so we traversed the empty dance floor and explained our predicament. "So you see, Mr. DJ, it's a medical emergency." And that's when we were told that he doesn't take requests unless you tip him. Excuse me?! I suddenly understand why Wild Cherry was so hostile towards the white boy when he didn't play that funky music. This request surcharge seemed outrageous to us considering we had the answer to his Empty Dance Floor Blues, but we were tourists and therefore suckers so we dropped some dollar bills into the jar and waited for our song.<br /><br />And waited. And waited. And waited some more. But we never heard it. All we heard was the same <em>unch-unch-unch</em> beat with lyrics behind it - some recognizable, others unknown. Of the songs we knew, there were a few good ones but all of them were butchered by the thumping club beat. I don't understand the need for the techofication of perfectly good, already danceable songs. Britney Spears' songs, for instance, are genetically engineered to be played at dance clubs. Adding the standard dance beat to Toxic is like taking a seedless orange and removing the seeds. Layering one track over your entire MP3 collection does not a DJ make. All it makes is a tool abusing Garage Band. Good DJs dissect, remix, mash up, and pair songs all in the name of enhancing the music and dance experience. Shitty DJs make all the songs sound the same so as not to confuse and scare the coke-addled brains of the queens that wear Gucci because it's what fancy people wear, not because they understand fashion, quality, or style. One of those queens happened to be on the dance floor that night. And it's quite probable that he got his dance instruction from his As Seen on TV VHS, <em>Darrin's Dance Groves 2: Jazzercise Boogaloo</em>.<br /><br />The clubs that hire these shitty DJs also tend to be the clubs that line every single wall with speakers and turn up the volume to ear bleeding decibles. It's like they're trying to accomplish <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mk7VWcuVOf0">going plaid</a>. Keep the music on the dance floor, kids. Maybe this makes me an old fuddy-duddy, but screaming like Al Pacino just to be heard and straining so hard to hear Edith that I poop myself a little everytime she speaks is not enjoyable. Certain areas of the bar need to turn it down to a low airplane engine roar, right? Am I crazy to want to talk to the people I go out with or start conversations with people I may meet? Is this why shallow Abercrombie twinks only seem to go to clubs in homogenous groups? Because the conversation would have been so vapidly boring that not having it because the music is too loud is a better alternative? There is so much I don't understand about club culture. I should look into a continuing education course; something like Technofication 101. But not in Chattanooga. All I wanted to do there was stumble back to the Days Inn then drive the hell home.<br /></span><p></p>

Tour of Homos: BJ Roosters

Ah, BJ Roosters. Where dirty strippers sway on a dirty bar and use their dirty sneakers to step over your dirty martini. Only, they're not strippers because the strippers in Atlanta work at Swinging Richards. These are the rejects from that crack den relegated to a career of keeping their underwear on and dancing on a bar so tall in a room so small that any one interested in their antics has to pull a neck muscle just to catch a glimpse of the razor burn on their taint. The lucky ones get purchased for a private in these kennel-looking cages. Because nothing telegraphs having your life together like selling or purchasing a blow job in a dog pen. BJ Roosters: the ashtray of gay bars. Smoky, grimy, and full of discarded butts. Don't let the upbeat thump-thump of house music fool you -- the nursing home your grandmother is waiting to die in is less depressing.

Ah, BJ Roosters. Where dirty strippers sway on a dirty bar and use their dirty sneakers to step over your dirty martini. Only, they're not strippers because the strippers in Atlanta work at Swinging Richards. These are the rejects from that crack den relegated to a career of keeping their underwear on and dancing on a bar so tall in a room so small that any one interested in their antics has to pull a neck muscle just to catch a glimpse of the razor burn on their taint. The lucky ones get purchased for a private in these kennel-looking cages. Because nothing telegraphs having your life together like selling or purchasing a blow job in a dog pen. BJ Roosters: the ashtray of gay bars. Smoky, grimy, and full of discarded butts. Don't let the upbeat thump-thump of house music fool you -- the nursing home your grandmother is waiting to die in is less depressing.<br /><p>

Boldly Going Where Many Trannies Have Gone Before

A few years ago, Jonathan Joseph and his partner, Foxy Brown, snuck me into Dragon*Con. I had to wear someone else's badge and find an inattentive security guard. The secret is to walk a few paces behind someone with an amazingly intricate costume... or a slut in an amazingly revealing costume. It's easy to do as both are ubiquitous at the world's largest sci-fi/fantasy convention. After my display of crazy mad Mission: Impossible skillz, I met up with some of Jonathan Joseph's friends only to discover that one was wearing the exact same outfit as me. Not really what either of us were expecting since only 5 people on the planet own a shirt like ours. It was from one of Jonathan Joseph's failed experiments, running a tee shirt company. As embarrassing as our faux pas was for me, it seemed it was more so for him when he lamented that I looked better in the shirt than he did. Oh, the days of being the skinny one. Gone but not forgotten.

Our reason for getting me into The Con that night was to attend an OutWorlders party. The OutWorlders are all the gay nerds who are nerdy and gay enough to throw a gay nerd party. Those uninitiated with the world of the geek probably don't have too much of an idea of what I was walking into. You might think that it would be a bunch of pasty invertebrates who live in basements with 8 computer screens and the DVD box sets of all three Battlestar Galactica series having spirited debates about whether Luke or Han is a better lover. Well, first of all, that's not fair. Geeks come in all shades, not just pasty. You'd think in a post-Obama America we'd be past that. And second of all, no. You'd be wrong. The man checking ID's at the door of the hotel room hosting the party was wearing a Utilikilt. Common enough around Dragon*Con. But this Utilikilted individual was also performing "Kilt Checks" on all the other kilt wearers. A "Kilt Check" is similar to that testicle check thing doctors do. Only Utilikilt had no medical training and instead of turning your head and coughing, he'd ask his patients to spread their cheeks and loosen.

Inside the hotel room was a mélange of horny bears, thumping disco, awkward come-ons, and hunch punch. Among the attendees were a number of older men and the younger boys they kept on payroll. One such couple was grinding... I mean, dancing in the middle of the room dick-to-ass style. Both with ragingly obvious erections because that's how you do when you roll with the OutWorlders. Another of the kept boys ended up knowing an old boyfriend of mine so I chatted with him for a while until it became blatant that his sugar daddy was trying to sell his boy's ass. Sugar Pop wasn't doing a very good job of it, I must say. He needed to display the wares more -- like the Dancing Hard-On Twins a few feet away. I would have liked to have seen a bit more showmanship. "Hot slut here! Get yer hot slut! We've got great deals on preowned mangina. Fully inspected and certified so you can trust that it is disease-free and retightened to be like new!" Of course, I would have liked to see a more attractive product as well, so I guess I was disappointed all around.

A friend of Jonathan Joseph, Sebastian, tried to cheer me up by placing his hand on my crotch completely unsolicited and without preamble. Unfortunately, Sebastian is was would happen if an uncoordinated, all-limbs Great Dane fucked a twitchy little Yorkie and their child got into mommy's medicine cabinet. I removed his paw and sent him on his way. He was last seen making out with someone behind a curtain. Possibly Frank Morgan.

Having had enough of the OutWorlder's Orgy, Jonathan Joseph, Foxy Brown, and I stepped into the hallway to sit down and talk without the fear of semen flying at us. While out there, I caught the eye of a handsome, sturdy gentleman strolling by. He stopped to talk and I learned that he was from Alabama, comes to Dragon*Con every year, and had just purchased the leather armor he was wearing as a shirt that same day. The way Jonathan Joseph tells this next part of the story makes it sound like I'm some sort of drunken slut. Nothing could be further from the truth! All that happened was Jonathan Joseph and Foxy Brown stepped away briefly to check on Sebastian (who was still asking the Wizard for a rim job) so I took my window of opportunity to run off with Leathabama unannounced because I wanted to have sex with him as I'd been drinking. I don't see how that makes me a floozy lush. Clearly, Jonathan Joseph is just projecting his own issues onto me.

There was, however, one obstacle in bedding Leathabama: this dweeby, dumbass poodle that had met my new man earlier and clearly had similar intentions as I. He followed us all around The Con, barking and running into walls. Leathabama, being more polite than I, needed to find his friends and let them know where he was going so they didn't worry when he never returned to their hotel room. Finding them was like questing for the Holy Grail with this poodle annoying us every step of the way like the Nazi's pestered Indiana. Trailing Leathabama all over the fucking hotel got a bit ridiculous. To the point where the poodle stopped and asked me, "What are we doing here?" To which I turned to look him square in the eyes and responded, "I don't know what you're doing here but I'm having sex with him tonight." And have sex with him I did! The poodle scampered off into the night after that and I got to check "help a lover out of a medieval leather tunic" off my bucket list. Tranny Dog scores again!

A few years ago, Jonathan Joseph and his partner, Foxy Brown, snuck me into <a href="http://dragoncon.org/">Dragon*Con</a>. I had to wear someone else's badge and find an inattentive security guard. The secret is to walk a few paces behind someone with an amazingly intricate costume... or a slut in an amazingly revealing costume. It's easy to do as both are ubiquitous at the world's largest sci-fi/fantasy convention. After my display of crazy mad Mission: Impossible skillz, I met up with some of Jonathan Joseph's friends only to discover that one was wearing the exact same outfit as me. Not really what either of us were expecting since only 5 people on the planet own a shirt like ours. It was from one of Jonathan Joseph's failed experiments, running a tee shirt company. As embarrassing as our faux pas was for me, it seemed it was more so for him when he lamented that I looked better in the shirt than he did. Oh, the days of being the skinny one. Gone but not forgotten.<br /><br />Our reason for getting me into The Con that night was to attend an OutWorlders party. The OutWorlders are all the gay nerds who are nerdy and gay enough to throw a gay nerd party. Those uninitiated with the world of the geek probably don't have too much of an idea of what I was walking into. You might think that it would be a bunch of pasty invertebrates who live in basements with 8 computer screens and the DVD box sets of all three Battlestar Galactica series having spirited debates about whether Luke or Han is a better lover. Well, first of all, that's not fair. Geeks come in all shades, not just pasty. You'd think in a post-Obama America we'd be past that. And second of all, no. You'd be wrong. The man checking ID's at the door of the hotel room hosting the party was wearing a <a href="http://www.utilikilts.com/">Utilikilt</a>. Common enough around Dragon*Con. But this Utilikilted individual was also performing "Kilt Checks" on all the other kilt wearers. A "Kilt Check" is similar to that testicle check thing doctors do. Only Utilikilt had no medical training and instead of turning your head and coughing, he'd ask his patients to spread their cheeks and loosen.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br />Inside the hotel room was a mélange of horny bears, thumping disco, awkward come-ons, and hunch punch. Among the attendees were a number of older men and the younger boys they kept on payroll. One such couple was grinding... I mean, dancing in the middle of the room dick-to-ass style. Both with ragingly obvious erections because that's how you do when you roll with the OutWorlders. Another of the kept boys ended up knowing an old boyfriend of mine so I chatted with him for a while until it became blatant that his sugar daddy was trying to sell his boy's ass. Sugar Pop wasn't doing a very good job of it, I must say. He needed to display the wares more -- like the Dancing Hard-On Twins a few feet away. I would have liked to have seen a bit more showmanship. "Hot slut here! Get yer hot slut! We've got great deals on preowned mangina. Fully inspected and certified so you can trust that it is disease-free and retightened to be like new!" Of course, I would have liked to see a more attractive product as well, so I guess I was disappointed all around.<br /><br />A friend of Jonathan Joseph, Sebastian, tried to cheer me up by placing his hand on my crotch completely unsolicited and without preamble. Unfortunately, Sebastian is was would happen if an uncoordinated, all-limbs Great Dane fucked a twitchy little Yorkie and their child got into mommy's medicine cabinet. I removed his paw and sent him on his way. He was last seen making out with someone behind a curtain. Possibly <a href="http://www.gonemovies.com/WWW/MyWebFilms/Drama/WizardBallon.asp">Frank Morgan</a>.<br /><br />Having had enough of the OutWorlder's Orgy, Jonathan Joseph, Foxy Brown, and I stepped into the hallway to sit down and talk without the fear of semen flying at us. While out there, I caught the eye of a handsome, sturdy gentleman strolling by. He stopped to talk and I learned that he was from Alabama, comes to Dragon*Con every year, and had just purchased the leather armor he was wearing as a shirt that same day. The way Jonathan Joseph tells this next part of the story makes it sound like I'm some sort of drunken slut. Nothing could be further from the truth! All that happened was Jonathan Joseph and Foxy Brown stepped away briefly to check on Sebastian (who was still asking the Wizard for a rim job) so I took my window of opportunity to run off with Leathabama unannounced because I wanted to have sex with him as I'd been drinking. I don't see how that makes me a floozy lush. Clearly, Jonathan Joseph is just projecting his own issues onto me.<br /><br />There was, however, one obstacle in bedding Leathabama: this dweeby, dumbass poodle that had met my new man earlier and clearly had similar intentions as I. He followed us all around The Con, barking and running into walls. Leathabama, being more polite than I, needed to find his friends and let them know where he was going so they didn't worry when he never returned to their hotel room. Finding them was like questing for the Holy Grail with this poodle annoying us every step of the way like the Nazi's pestered Indiana. Trailing Leathabama all over the fucking hotel got a bit ridiculous. To the point where the poodle stopped and asked me, "What are we doing here?" To which I turned to look him square in the eyes and responded, "I don't know what you're doing here but I'm having sex with him tonight." And have sex with him I did! The poodle scampered off into the night after that and I got to check "help a lover out of a medieval leather tunic" off my bucket list. Tranny Dog scores again!</span><br /><p></p>

Tour of Homos: Tripp's

Jonathan Joseph is almost always the Barney Stinson to my Ted Mosby, but his understudy if for any reason the reigning wingdog is unable to perform his duties is my dear friend, Homeless Dirty Bastard. HDB is Edith's boyfriend (the one who must have spit on Madame Z's mother in a past life) and is one of those "straight not narrow" kids that are populating the US these days. I attribute that to HDB's libido. In a pinch, he'll take what's available. Being a homeless beggar, he knows he can't also be a chooser (take note, Portlanders). HDB is actually one of the most patient and tolerant people I know. Which is one of the reasons our trip to Tripp's (hmm, that was unintentional but possibly unavoidable) did not end in bloodshed and black eyes.

Tripp's is located in an old house on Piedmont Circle that is practically Buddhist with all its incarnations. First life as a house then as a doctor's office then as a Martian space craft then as a bar. I may not be accurately reporting the order of that, but that is the fault of the bartender who relayed the history. Not because he was in any way dismissive or a terrible conversationalist, mind you. In fact, the opposite is true. I found him to be quite friendly and engaging. He even gave us a free shot for being first time customers. Granted, it was Cactus Juice, to which I learned the answer is no. The reason I don't quite remember what he said about the house was because he knew how to pour drinks at a gay bar. My gin and tonics (I had 4? 5? 62?) were served in tall regular drinking glasses and what I like to call GIIIIIN and tonics. Delicious. And cheap! And deadly. How I like it.

These beverages natrually necessitated a trip to the bathroom. If you'll allow me a moment of crassness, restrooms in places like this can be a crap shoot. At Tripp's there are two and both are clean and well lit. But only one had a real door. Riddle me this, blogosphere: Who came up with the concept of saloon door as bathroom door? And was there no one in the entire chain from design firm to manufacturer to installer that found this as unacceptable as I do? Is it to discourage the coked up fairies from doing blow off the toilet? Because that does not appear to work. And let me tell you, there is nothing worse than being on the verge of pissing all over your fur only to find a gaggle of chihuahuas in skinny jeans and open shirts having their own party in the bathroom. There's no door, jackasses, we all see you doing it anyway so get the hell out of my way!

Luckily, I did not come across this problem at Tripp's. Of the very small number of people there, most were fine and inoffensive. Two huddled around a bar top touchscreen game in the corner and didn't move till past closing. Another was a regular dog who worked and lived within walking distance. He was good natured, so we sniffed each other's butts and hung out a little. HDB, meanwhile, was lured in by the bright lights and loud noises from the mini-arcade room. One of the great things about Tripp's is its old Ms. Pac-Man cabinet and two pinball machines. According to Homeless Dirty Bastard, he played a lot of Ms. Pac-Man in his youth. It makes sense, look at that gussied up little harlot! Little known fact, those aren't the ghosts chasing Ms. Pac-Man in the artwork. It's a pubescent HDB's raging hormones. Those suckers are demented.

Anyway, I left HDB to fiddle with his joystick and sat with my new friend at the bar. We were having a nice conversation when I got a text message. Since it was near 2 a.m., I had a sneaking suspision who it was, but didn't know why HDB would text me from across the room. Then it became clear when I saw the message was just four simple letter, "help." I turned around and saw a pinball playing HDB literally cornered by two newcomers. Politely excusing myself, I made my way over and was able to assess the situation with ease. My poor hetero friend was being circled by the worst breed of faggot there is: trashy assholes who turn to meth to escape the pain of being so goddamn ugly. They were trying to get HDB to go home with them so I thought a little territory marking was in order. I put my arm around him and when asked how long we've been together we executed the "no, it was January because remember..." couple banter perfectly. This all backfired, however, when they then tried to get both of us to go home with them. I could tell these two were going to be formidable opponents.

I sent HDB to safety with a "go get me another drink" ruse and tried a We're-not-into-that manuever. It was quickly countered with a lap dance. These fuckers were fighting dirty. And I say that because they probably hadn't showered that day. The one on my lap was named Eddie, I remember because he wore a collar proclaiming that and the image of his writhing, scraggy form is scarred into my memory. I shifted to a dismissive tactic and blew the guys off to head back to the bar. HDB had actually gotten me another GIIIIIN and tonic despite the obvious near full one that was awaiting my return. This is when I started to suspect something might be wrong with my friend. But there was no time to dwell on that because the enemy had regrouped and was swooping down in a divide and conquer formation. Eddie grabbed hold of me and Eddie's white trash boyfriend got HDB. Their plan? Nibble on our ears. Things could have gotten ugly at that point but thankfully back-up arrived. Our kind bartender declared closing time and all but booted the methies out. After locking the door behind them, he turned to the rest of us and said, "Y'all can take your time."

With our foes vanquished, I could turn my attention on HDB. He was staring down at the bar in a manner that concerned me. "Maybe these gay pours are starting to get the best of him," I thought to myself when he went off to the bathroom and didn't return for some time. Going to inspect, I was relieved to see that at least he had the good sense to avoid the saloon doors and was in the real bathroom. Our increasingly more awesome bartender let him hang out in there for a while as I fed him some water. Turns out, though, Homeless Dirty Bastard didn't need the toilet until later. Tripp's had closed but we were still in the parking lot because HDB's state + motion + my truck did not equal anything I wanted to deal with. Finally, it all came up as he was leaning against the fence. By my estimation, his dinner consisted of French Onion soup with a giant bowl of Feta cheese.

I actually need to go back there. I had a good time at Tripp's.

Jonathan Joseph is almost always the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkYcaVel5bo&feature=related">Barney Stinson to my Ted Mosby</a>, but his understudy if for any reason the reigning wingdog is unable to perform his duties is my dear friend, Homeless Dirty Bastard. HDB is Edith's boyfriend (the one who must have spit on <a href="http://trannydog.blogspot.com/2009/07/psychic-touchs-phenomenons-sic.html">Madame Z</a>'s mother in a past life) and is one of those "straight not narrow" kids that are populating the US these days. I attribute that to HDB's libido. In a pinch, he'll take what's available. Being a homeless beggar, he knows he can't also be a chooser (take note, <a href="http://trannydog.blogspot.com/2009/07/open-letter-to-homeless-of-portland.html">Portlanders</a>). HDB is actually one of the most patient and tolerant people I know. Which is one of the reasons our trip to Tripp's (hmm, that was unintentional but possibly unavoidable) did not end in bloodshed and black eyes.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br />Tripp's is located in an old house on Piedmont Circle that is practically Buddhist with all its incarnations. First life as a house then as a doctor's office then as a Martian space craft then as a bar. I may not be accurately reporting the order of that, but that is the fault of the bartender who relayed the history. Not because he was in any way dismissive or a terrible conversationalist, mind you. In fact, the opposite is true. I found him to be quite friendly and engaging. He even gave us a free shot for being first time customers. Granted, it was Cactus Juice, to which I learned the answer is no. The reason I don't quite remember what he said about the house was because he knew how to pour drinks at a gay bar. My gin and tonics (I had 4? 5? 62?) were served in tall regular drinking glasses and what I like to call GIIIIIN <span style="font-size:78%;">and tonics</span>. Delicious. And cheap! And deadly. How I like it.<br /><br />These beverages natrually necessitated a trip to the bathroom. If you'll allow me a moment of crassness, restrooms in places like this can be a crap shoot. At Tripp's there are two and both are clean and well lit. But only one had a real door. Riddle me this, blogosphere: Who came up with the concept of saloon door as bathroom door? And was there no one in the entire chain from design firm to manufacturer to installer that found this as unacceptable as I do? Is it to discourage the coked up fairies from doing blow off the toilet? Because that does not appear to work. And let me tell you, there is nothing worse than being on the verge of pissing all over your fur only to find a gaggle of chihuahuas in skinny jeans and open shirts having their own party in the bathroom. There's no door, jackasses, we all see you doing it anyway so get the hell out of my way!<br /><br />Luckily, I did not come across this problem at Tripp's. Of the very small number of people there, most were fine and inoffensive. Two huddled around a bar top touchscreen game in the corner and didn't move till past closing. Another was a regular dog who worked and lived within walking distance. He was good natured, so we sniffed each other's butts and hung out a little. HDB, meanwhile, was lured in by the bright lights and loud noises from the mini-arcade room. One of the great things about Tripp's is its old Ms. Pac-Man cabinet and two pinball machines. According to Homeless Dirty Bastard, he played a lot of Ms. Pac-Man in his youth. It makes sense, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Mspacmancabinet.png">look at </a>that gussied up little harlot! Little known fact, those aren't the ghosts chasing Ms. Pac-Man in the artwork. It's a pubescent HDB's raging hormones. Those suckers are demented.<br /><br />Anyway, I left HDB to fiddle with his joystick and sat with my new friend at the bar. We were having a nice conversation when I got a text message. Since it was near 2 a.m., I had a sneaking suspision who it was, but didn't know why HDB would text me from across the room. Then it became clear when I saw the message was just four simple letter, "help." I turned around and saw a pinball playing HDB literally cornered by two newcomers. Politely excusing myself, I made my way over and was able to assess the situation with ease. My poor hetero friend was being circled by the worst breed of faggot there is: trashy assholes who turn to meth to escape the pain of being so goddamn ugly. They were trying to get HDB to go home with them so I thought a little territory marking was in order. I put my arm around him and when asked how long we've been together we executed the "no, it was January because remember..." couple banter perfectly. This all backfired, however, when they then tried to get both of us to go home with them. I could tell these two were going to be formidable opponents.<br /><br />I sent HDB to safety with a "go get me another drink" ruse and tried a We're-not-into-that manuever. It was quickly countered with a lap dance. These fuckers were fighting dirty. And I say that because they probably hadn't showered that day. The one on my lap was named Eddie, I remember because he wore a collar proclaiming that and the image of his writhing, scraggy form is scarred into my memory. I shifted to a dismissive tactic and blew the guys off to head back to the bar. HDB had actually gotten me another GIIIIIN <span style="font-size:78%;">and tonic</span> despite the obvious near full one that was awaiting my return. This is when I started to suspect something might be wrong with my friend. But there was no time to dwell on that because the enemy had regrouped and was swooping down in a divide and conquer formation. Eddie grabbed hold of me and Eddie's white trash boyfriend got HDB. Their plan? Nibble on our ears. Things could have gotten ugly at that point but thankfully back-up arrived. Our kind bartender declared closing time and all but booted the methies out. After locking the door behind them, he turned to the rest of us and said, "Y'all can take your time."<br /><br />With our foes vanquished, I could turn my attention on HDB. He was staring down at the bar in a manner that concerned me. "Maybe these gay pours are starting to get the best of him," I thought to myself when he went off to the bathroom and didn't return for some time. Going to inspect, I was relieved to see that at least he had the good sense to avoid the saloon doors and was in the real bathroom. Our increasingly more awesome bartender let him hang out in there for a while as I fed him some water. Turns out, though, Homeless Dirty Bastard didn't need the toilet until later. Tripp's had closed but we were still in the parking lot because HDB's state + motion + my truck did not equal anything I wanted to deal with. Finally, it all came up as he was leaning against the fence. By my estimation, his dinner consisted of French Onion soup with a giant bowl of Feta cheese.<br /><br />I actually need to go back there. I had a good time at Tripp's.<br /></span><p></p>

Tour of Homos: Krave OR How I Became Mortally Offended

I rarely go places that charge a cover. There is no room on this planet worth an entrance fee. After all, what's the main feature at a club? The dance floor. What is a dance floor? A big, empty space. Why should I pay good money for an empty space? This same logic was applied later in the trip when Edith and I forewent the Grand Canyon. But I found myself paying the $10 it cost to enter Krave with a k just off the Las Vegas Strip.


Earlier, Edith and I were trying to find the so-called Fruit Loop, a group of gay bars all near each other. I'd sort of heard of it from my previous trip four years ago and knew it's general location but not the specific bars. It had been recommended by the front desk girl at our hotel. Perhaps I should have been skeptical. I mean, the hotel only cost $9. How much could the advice possibly be worth? We asked our concierge for directions to the delightfully named Ramrod but she managed to talk us into trying the Fruit Loop. Armed with the vicinity as well as a few bar names, we boarded the bus. It was a surprisingly long trip made worse by the bus driver abusing the PA system and trying out his misogynistic comedy routine on his captive audience. He made such humorous observations as "women can't drive" and "you better get some food at 7Eleven because your wife won't have dinner ready for you." He was clearly a Second City alum.

Getting off -- the bus needing a two drink minimum more than ever -- we set out for the fruits. Upon discovering both Hamburger Mary's and Rainbow Bar and Grill to be shut down, we scoured for one of the others. And thus began the ill-advised trudge towards the Strip. Which only got better... oh, I'm sorry, I meant wetter when the rain began. Edith and her hooker heels made me promise to stop in the first place with alcohol. By happenstance, that place was a gay club... with a $10 cover: Krave with a k.

After we paid to enter, I was determined to get $10 worth of fun. The male go-go dancer was going to provide it about as much as his hair dye provided the illusion of him being blonde. The female go-go dancer, though oddly out of place, was a smidge better but still not worth $10. The other patrons weren't going to provide it either. The drunk girl trying to get everyone to dance was just annoying. The 4'10" lesbian and her Jew-haired friend stepped off the dance floor way too early and really only gave about $4 worth of entertainment. The old man recovering from knee surgery slowly sliding towards the obviously underage little bottom boy was just sad. And the crazy looking German girl cost me another $10 (Lesson: Never bet against Edith if she declares someone to be German). Our DJ for the evening must have gotten suckered in by a special TV offer and paid $9.99 plus S&H for the DVD instructional video "How to be a Gay DJ Stereotype." Was nobody going to give me a return on my investment?

And then on top of it all, Krave with a k offended my delicate sensibilities. Walking up to the shirtless bartender, I ordered gin on the rocks and requested the cheapest they had when asked (since I was essentially mugged at the entrance). He returned holding two bottles, his pecks flexing as he held out a plastic bottle of generic gin that not even I'd heard of and said, "8 dollars." Then some triceps did a little spasm as he held out a bottle of Tanqueray and said, "9 dollars."

"Excuse me?! Are you saying the difference between your well drinks and Tanqueray is one dollar?"

He was.

"Do you have any drink specials?"

He didn't.

"Well then I guess I'll get the Tanqueray." I was miffed but $9 for a drink in a place like this in a city like Vegas was alright, I supposed. And then... oh, this is the worst... and then! He pulled out a jigger and poured precisely one shot of gin and unceremoniously dumped it over a pile of ice cubes.

Really, Krave with a k? Really?! You're measuring your rocks drinks? Wow. What the fuck kind of gay bar is this? Are you expecting us to have sex with each other sober? My god, shirtless man, think of Old Man Gimp back there. Will his underage boy pussy really give it up because of how accurately you pour your overpriced liquor? If you are going to jigger it out then you charge no more than $4 for gin that comes in a plastic bottle. It's like you read the gay bar commandments, scoffed, and smashed the tablets with your Gucci sponsored muscles. You may as well have climbed over the bar and used the jigger to scoop my heart out and charge me $9 for the experience. I hate you, Krave with a k and I want my $10 back.

I rarely go places that charge a cover. There is no room on this planet worth an entrance fee. After all, what's the main feature at a club? The dance floor. What is a dance floor? A big, empty space. Why should I pay good money for an empty space? This same logic was applied later in the trip when Edith and I forewent the Grand Canyon. But I found myself paying the $10 it cost to enter Krave with a k just off the Las Vegas Strip.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br /><br />Earlier, Edith and I were trying to find the so-called Fruit Loop, a group of gay bars all near each other. I'd sort of heard of it from my previous trip four years ago and knew it's general location but not the specific bars. It had been recommended by the front desk girl at our hotel. Perhaps I should have been skeptical. I mean, the hotel only cost $9. How much could the advice possibly be worth? We asked our concierge for directions to the delightfully named Ramrod but she managed to talk us into trying the Fruit Loop. Armed with the vicinity as well as a few bar names, we boarded the bus. It was a surprisingly long trip made worse by the bus driver abusing the PA system and trying out his misogynistic comedy routine on his captive audience. He made such humorous observations as "women can't drive" and "you better get some food at 7Eleven because your wife won't have dinner ready for you." He was clearly a Second City alum.<br /><br />Getting off -- the bus needing a two drink minimum more than ever -- we set out for the fruits. Upon discovering both Hamburger Mary's and Rainbow Bar and Grill to be shut down, we scoured for one of the others. And thus began the ill-advised trudge towards the Strip. Which only got better... oh, I'm sorry, I meant wetter when the rain began. Edith and her hooker heels made me promise to stop in the first place with alcohol. By happenstance, that place was a gay club... with a $10 cover: Krave with a k.<br /><br />After we paid to enter, I was determined to get $10 worth of fun. The male go-go dancer was going to provide it about as much as his hair dye provided the illusion of him being blonde. The female go-go dancer, though oddly out of place, was a smidge better but still not worth $10. The other patrons weren't going to provide it either. The drunk girl trying to get everyone to dance was just annoying. The 4'10" lesbian and her Jew-haired friend stepped off the dance floor way too early and really only gave about $4 worth of entertainment. The old man recovering from knee surgery slowly sliding towards the obviously underage little bottom boy was just sad. And the crazy looking German girl cost me another $10 (Lesson: Never bet against Edith if she declares someone to be German). Our DJ for the evening must have gotten suckered in by a special TV offer and paid $9.99 plus S&H for the DVD instructional video "How to be a Gay DJ Stereotype." Was nobody going to give me a return on my investment?<br /><br />And then on top of it all, Krave with a k offended my delicate sensibilities. Walking up to the shirtless bartender, I ordered gin on the rocks and requested the cheapest they had when asked (since I was essentially mugged at the entrance). He returned holding two bottles, his pecks flexing as he held out a plastic bottle of generic gin that not even I'd heard of and said, "8 dollars." Then some triceps did a little spasm as he held out a bottle of Tanqueray and said, "9 dollars."<br /><br />"Excuse me?! Are you saying the difference between your well drinks and Tanqueray is <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">one</span> dollar?"<br /><br />He was.<br /><br />"Do you have any drink specials?"<br /><br />He didn't.<br /><br />"Well then I guess I'll get the Tanqueray." I was miffed but $9 for a drink in a place like this in a city like Vegas was alright, I supposed. And then... oh, this is the worst... and then! He pulled out a jigger and poured <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">precisely</span> one shot of gin and unceremoniously dumped it over a pile of ice cubes.<br /><br />Really, Krave with a k? Really?! You're measuring your rocks drinks? Wow. What the fuck kind of gay bar is this? Are you expecting us to have sex with each other sober? My god, shirtless man, think of Old Man Gimp back there. Will his underage boy pussy really give it up because of how accurately you pour your overpriced liquor? If you are going to jigger it out then you charge no more than $4 for gin that comes in a plastic bottle. It's like you read the gay bar commandments, scoffed, and smashed the tablets with your Gucci sponsored muscles. You may as well have climbed over the bar and used the jigger to scoop my heart out and charge me $9 for the experience. I hate you, Krave with a k and I want my $10 back.<br /></span>

The Saga of Sassy and Sour: A Foray into Portland's Nude Women

"Can I get a vodka with lemon juice?"
"We don't have lemon juice."
"Oh. Do you have lemons?"
"No. We've got limes." They also had strippers. And a great jukebox. Unfortunately, as Edith would say about vodka and lime juice, those two were a strange combination.

"While you're in Portland, we need to take you to a strip club," Harley insisted. Harley is a childhood friend of Edith's and, along with her boyfriend, our extremely gracious host in the City of Roses. She explained that strip clubs were as numerous there as churches in the south. My cursory glance proved her correct. The great thing about Portland strip clubs, however, is that they are completely lacking in cover charges. This coupled with the cheap drink prices make them an appealing option for a night on the town.

"I'd like to go, I've never been to a strip club that had women dancing," Edith said. And added her disclaimer, "As long as I don't have to get a lap dance."

"She didn't have the best experience at the male strip club," I offered as an explanation to Harley. It was true. Months ago, Jonathan Joseph and I took Edith, her boyfriend, and the transtacular Kimberly to Swinging Richards. It wasn't the first time Edith had been to Atlanta's cleverly named gay strip club but it was to become her last. On previous visits, she picked up on the not-so-subtle anti-biological woman vibe. On this visit, she experienced a scarring event that I inadvertently set into motion.

The dancers at Swinging Richards are a relatively diverse set -- relative for a bunch of waxed, toned strippers, anyway. But one thing they have in common is abhorrent dancing skills. Some don't even try, they just sway back and forth and make Male Stripper Face. This is a face made by all men who take off their clothes for money. I can't tell if it's a biological instinct or a stated part of the job description, but it's all pursed lips and vacant eyes. The pretense of fantasy. Every now and then at Richards, you'll come across a dancer who truly enjoys his job or, at least, likes to show off his moves. That night we saw one of these elusive orchids. He was on stage acting like Dr. Moreau's hybrid of Nadia Comaneci and Napoleon Dynamite. It was intriguing.

Edith wanted to tip Nadia Dynamite a few dollars for his troubles but was far too shy to be face-to-face with a stripper herself. I agreed to do it if she gave me the money. So up I went and as I slipped the dollar bills into his arm band I asked Nads for a small favor. "You see that girl at my table? Can you please look directly at her and wink? Thanks." There would be little else as cheesy and awkward as a wink, I thought. But alas, my inspired plan was not to come to fruition. He finished dancing and left the stage without so much as a blink. "Meh," I thought as the conversation moved on to other spectacles.

When suddenly! and without warning! Edith's chair went spinning around. But before I could call the Ghost Hunters, I saw Nads mount Edith and begin grinding. Apparently, "please wink at her" translates to "please flap your penis in her face" in Stripperese. And flap he did! And gyrate, and bend, and twist, and shout, and hang upside down from the ceiling. Halfway through this feat of athleticism, I realized this would cost money... that I didn't have. Luckily, between the non-mushroom bruised people at the table, we were able to afford this gymnastic sadist's fee.

Edith shuddered as we relayed all this to the highly amused Harley. After we assured her that a lap dance would not happen, we found ourselves on the way to what Harley warned us was a strange and wonderful place, aptly named Magic Gardens.

"No. We've got limes," Patty offered.
"Just get me a vodka cranberry," Edith asked, defeated. This was the third bar in Portland that night not to have lemon juice but the first not to even have lemons. It seemed the city had traded citrus for strippers.

Patty shrugged and began mixing. I would have loved to sit Patty down and hear all the stories she had to tell. There she was at least 70 years old, wonderfully disinterested in you, pouring your drink while ladies took off their clothes around her. I also took note of how she made these drinks as I'd never seen a soda gun used for liquor before. I'm not even sure how that works. Are there regular bottles attached? That seems like a bitch to change out every 5 minutes. Are there special bags of liquor concentrate you can buy like the soda syrups? I had to know!

But, sadly, I couldn't marvel at Patty for very long. Mostly because she clearly wanted nothing to do with us, so we moved on to a table. In addition to Patty, and the large Samoan bouncer whose picture is in the dictionary next to "man who can clearly bounce your ass off pavement," Harley had mentioned the music as part of the strange wonderfulness of Magic Gardens. It was all eminating for a jukebox with a great selection of songs. Well, great selection in my opinion. But despite you and I's varied musical taste, I think we can both agree that it's odd to watch strippers dance to the following numbers:
The Cure - Close to Me
Feist - 1,2,3,4
Lesley Gore - You Don't Own Me (I will admit to the appropriateness of this one.)
Some mid-tempo Top 40 hit from The Fray or their ilk whining about feelings
(and my personal favorite) Billy Joel - Uptown Girl

To give these ladies their props, they handled the music very well. Even when they were Windexing down the stage from the previous dancer, it was like they were fulfilling some deep seeded Cinderella fantasy. Edith was amazed at how much better women are at stripping than men. Harley's boyfriend attributes it, in part, to women's ability to remove their clothing without the Male Stripper Face affliction. I try not to look at female strippers' faces because I feel bad when they make eye contact and I continue to not tip. Everytime I'm at a straight strip bar I feel like I need to wear a tiara emblazoned with the words "I Orgasm For Dick" just to make the message clear. Not that they care. A non-tipping asshole is a non-tipping asshole.

So having seen Grammy nominated 1,2,3,4 used as an alluring prelude to the actual tippers night o' masturbation, Harley then dazzled us with talk of the best strip club in town. And off we went to Sassy. Yes, that's right: Sassy. Though perhaps Post Apocolyptic Dystopian Future would be a more accurate name. Guarding the gate into Mad Max's Inferno is a less gay, more angry Wez from The Road Warrior. When Wez questioned my Georgia ID, I simply stood by patiently and occupied my eyes with his skull tattoos so as to avoid staring at the largest of several knives hanging from his belt.

As Magic Gardens' niche was tainting my childhood memories of Billy Joel with taint, Sassy's was punk rock angry-hot chicks. The guys that do make it past Wez and his Kevlar vest are clearly looking for a woman that considers slapping you to be foreplay. But shhh... don't tell their sorority girlfriends that's what they are into. It was packed with frat boys in polo shirts (and one in a Hawaiian shirt) with some seriously repressed kinkiness. One of the popular ladies didn't even dance. She just worked out on stage. Ever see a naked woman hang upside down from a vertical pole by just her legs and proceed to do sit ups? I have. And I've seen Sigma Phi Epsilons love it. The SigEps were even throwing one of their ambassadors a bachelor party the night we went.

Poor Jorge. Or poor George -- he was referred to as both so I couldn't tell. But whatever his name was, I'm sure he's legally changed it by now out of sheer embarrasement. When the DJ announced Jorge was getting married, his friends erupted in hoots and hollers while he sank so low in his chair that I was afraid he'd hit an iceberg. After an absurd amount of cajoling (during which Harley's boyfriend brilliantly yelled out, "She'll never forgive you!") the DJ was forced to remind him over the microphone that his friends are not getting their money back no matter what so Jorge was finally led up to the stage. Apparently, the Bachelor Light Special at Sassy involves seating the betrothed in the center of the stage while dancers descend onto him in a frenzy not unlike feral cats in heat. Jorge was sitting on his hands not moving a muscle. The terror in his eyes was mounting with each passing note of Billy Idol's White Wedding. When the girls busted out the dildo and fucked his belly button, I swear Jorge was going to cry. His wildest fantasies were being fulfilled... nightmarishly in public.

The girl who produced the dildo was Malice. In addition to having one of the greatest stage names, she was Harley's favorite stripper and the reason we came. It was pretty clear why. Like Nads Dynamite, Malice enjoyed what she did. Unlike Nads Dynamite, Malice was good at what she did. Her moves weren't cheesy and ridiculous, they were sexy. She was a striking, thin woman that when including her bleach blonde fluffy mohawk was about 7'8". Bitch had stage presence. Harley forced Edith to go up to the stage and tip. Edith's brave little step was rewarded with a face full of mohawk, Malice's signature move, it seemed. According to my sources, the mohawk smells lovely and floral. Which I must say is polite if you insist on rubbing people's faces with it via back bends.

Not polite, however, is the asshole who designed the men's rooms. For comparison, I take you once again to Swinging Richards. Walk into that men's room and you'll notice one thing first: the mirrors. All along the walls surrounding the urinals are mirrors. So at any angle at any point in the oddly shaped restroom you are able to see everyone else taking a leak. I think it's designed to foster a sense of community. For a more private bathroom experience, they offer stalls. As a sidenote, if you are ever in there then I recommend using the slightly hidden sink as the big one is often manned by one of those godforsaken washroom attendants. "Oh my! Is that how the faucet works? Thank you, my savior! Here, please take my money for doing an overly simple task I was going to do myself before you heroically swept in uninvited and did it for me." Though as a sidenote to the sidenote, a friend of mine was once one of those dreaded people at Richards and apparently there is good money in it.

In keeping with the post apocolyptic vibe, Sassy does not offer anything as upscale as washroom attendants. They don't even offer as much privacy as the mirrored place where horny gay men go to unzip their pants and hold their dicks in their hands. The men at Sassy, who are there for the naked ladies, walk into an open room whose ambience suggests that of a crack den and stand all in a row urinating into a trough. The last time I peed into a trough? Excellent question. If, however, your bathroom itinerary contains more than simple lizard draining then allow me to direct you to the single toilet. You'll find it in the stall, but don't worry because it's not that hard to spot... since the stall, like the bathroom, has no door on it.

All of this was going to require liquor.
"Do you guys have lemon juice?" Edith inquired.
"Sorry, no," the bartender replied. "I've got sour mix."
"Fine."
And so Edith drank her vodka sour. Garnished with a lemon wedge.
"Can I get a vodka with lemon juice?"<br />"We don't have lemon juice."<br />"Oh. Do you have lemons?"<br />"No. We've got limes." They also had strippers. And a great jukebox. Unfortunately, as Edith would say about vodka and lime juice, those two were a strange combination.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br />"While you're in Portland, we need to take you to a strip club," Harley insisted. Harley is a childhood friend of Edith's and, along with her boyfriend, our extremely gracious host in the City of Roses. She explained that strip clubs were as numerous there as churches in the south. My cursory glance proved her correct. The great thing about Portland strip clubs, however, is that they are completely lacking in cover charges. This coupled with the cheap drink prices make them an appealing option for a night on the town.<br /><br />"I'd like to go, I've never been to a strip club that had women dancing," Edith said. And added her disclaimer, "As long as I don't have to get a lap dance."<br /><br />"She didn't have the best experience at the male strip club," I offered as an explanation to Harley. It was true. Months ago, Jonathan Joseph and I took Edith, her boyfriend, and the transtacular Kimberly to Swinging Richards. It wasn't the first time Edith had been to Atlanta's cleverly named gay strip club but it was to become her last. On previous visits, she picked up on the not-so-subtle anti-biological woman vibe. On this visit, she experienced a scarring event that I inadvertently set into motion.<br /><br />The dancers at Swinging Richards are a relatively diverse set -- relative for a bunch of waxed, toned strippers, anyway. But one thing they have in common is abhorrent dancing skills. Some don't even try, they just sway back and forth and make Male Stripper Face. This is a face made by all men who take off their clothes for money. I can't tell if it's a biological instinct or a stated part of the job description, but it's all pursed lips and vacant eyes. The pretense of fantasy. Every now and then at Richards, you'll come across a dancer who truly enjoys his job or, at least, likes to show off his moves. That night we saw one of these elusive orchids. He was on stage acting like Dr. Moreau's hybrid of Nadia Comaneci and Napoleon Dynamite. It was intriguing.<br /><br />Edith wanted to tip Nadia Dynamite a few dollars for his troubles but was far too shy to be face-to-face with a stripper herself. I agreed to do it if she gave me the money. So up I went and as I slipped the dollar bills into his arm band I asked Nads for a small favor. "You see that girl at my table? Can you please look directly at her and wink? Thanks." There would be little else as cheesy and awkward as a wink, I thought. But alas, my inspired plan was not to come to fruition. He finished dancing and left the stage without so much as a blink. "Meh," I thought as the conversation moved on to other spectacles.<br /><br />When suddenly! and without warning! Edith's chair went spinning around. But before I could call the Ghost Hunters, I saw Nads mount Edith and begin grinding. Apparently, "please wink at her" translates to "please flap your penis in her face" in Stripperese. And flap he did! And gyrate, and bend, and twist, and shout, and hang upside down from the ceiling. Halfway through this feat of athleticism, I realized this would cost money... that I didn't have. Luckily, between the non-mushroom bruised people at the table, we were able to afford this gymnastic sadist's fee.<br /><br />Edith shuddered as we relayed all this to the highly amused Harley. After we assured her that a lap dance would not happen, we found ourselves on the way to what Harley warned us was a strange and wonderful place, aptly named Magic Gardens.<br /><br />"No. We've got limes," Patty offered.<br />"Just get me a vodka cranberry," Edith asked, defeated. This was the third bar in Portland that night not to have lemon juice but the first not to even have lemons. It seemed the city had traded citrus for strippers.<br /><br />Patty shrugged and began mixing. I would have loved to sit Patty down and hear all the stories she had to tell. There she was at least 70 years old, wonderfully disinterested in you, pouring your drink while ladies took off their clothes around her. I also took note of how she made these drinks as I'd never seen a soda gun used for liquor before. I'm not even sure how that works. Are there regular bottles attached? That seems like a bitch to change out every 5 minutes. Are there special bags of liquor concentrate you can buy like the soda syrups? I had to know!<br /><br />But, sadly, I couldn't marvel at Patty for very long. Mostly because she clearly wanted nothing to do with us, so we moved on to a table. In addition to Patty, and the large Samoan bouncer whose picture is in the dictionary next to "man who can clearly bounce your ass off pavement," Harley had mentioned the music as part of the strange wonderfulness of Magic Gardens. It was all eminating for a jukebox with a great selection of songs. Well, great selection in my opinion. But despite you and I's varied musical taste, I think we can both agree that it's odd to watch strippers dance to the following numbers:<br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIDeUssDFE0">The Cure - Close to Me</a><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3vIv1EwO5A&feature=fvst">Feist - 1,2,3,4</a><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmOrWG2FTbg">Lesley Gore - You Don't Own Me</a> (I will admit to the appropriateness of this one.)<br />Some mid-tempo Top 40 hit from The Fray or their ilk whining about feelings<br />(and my personal favorite) <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2F-nt7aC_JQ">Billy Joel - Uptown Girl</a><br /><br />To give these ladies their props, they handled the music very well. Even when they were Windexing down the stage from the previous dancer, it was like they were fulfilling some deep seeded Cinderella fantasy. Edith was amazed at how much better women are at stripping than men. Harley's boyfriend attributes it, in part, to women's ability to remove their clothing without the Male Stripper Face affliction. I try not to look at female strippers' faces because I feel bad when they make eye contact and I continue to not tip. Everytime I'm at a straight strip bar I feel like I need to wear a tiara emblazoned with the words "I Orgasm For Dick" just to make the message clear. Not that they care. A non-tipping asshole is a non-tipping asshole.<br /><br />So having seen Grammy nominated <span style="font-style: italic;">1,2,3,4</span> used as an alluring prelude to the actual tippers night o' masturbation, Harley then dazzled us with talk of the best strip club in town. And off we went to Sassy. Yes, that's right: <span style="font-style: italic;">Sassy</span>. Though perhaps Post Apocolyptic Dystopian Future would be a more accurate name. Guarding the gate into Mad Max's Inferno is a less gay, more angry <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jq7x8hkWDEQ">Wez</a> from The Road Warrior. When Wez questioned my Georgia ID, I simply stood by patiently and occupied my eyes with his skull tattoos so as to avoid staring at the largest of several knives hanging from his belt.<br /><br />As Magic Gardens' niche was tainting my childhood memories of Billy Joel with taint, Sassy's was punk rock angry-hot chicks. The guys that do make it past Wez and his Kevlar vest are clearly looking for a woman that considers slapping you to be foreplay. But shhh... don't tell their sorority girlfriends that's what they are into. It was packed with frat boys in polo shirts (and one in a Hawaiian shirt) with some seriously repressed kinkiness. One of the popular ladies didn't even dance. She just worked out on stage. Ever see a naked woman hang upside down from a vertical pole by just her legs and proceed to do sit ups? I have. And I've seen Sigma Phi Epsilons love it. The SigEps were even throwing one of their ambassadors a bachelor party the night we went.<br /><br />Poor Jorge. Or poor George -- he was referred to as both so I couldn't tell. But whatever his name was, I'm sure he's legally changed it by now out of sheer embarrasement. When the DJ announced Jorge was getting married, his friends erupted in hoots and hollers while he sank so low in his chair that I was afraid he'd hit an iceberg. After an absurd amount of cajoling (during which Harley's boyfriend brilliantly yelled out, "She'll never forgive you!") the DJ was forced to remind him over the microphone that his friends are not getting their money back no matter what so Jorge was finally led up to the stage. Apparently, the Bachelor Light Special at Sassy involves seating the betrothed in the center of the stage while dancers descend onto him in a frenzy not unlike feral cats in heat. Jorge was sitting on his hands not moving a muscle. The terror in his eyes was mounting with each passing note of Billy Idol's <span style="font-style: italic;">White Wedding</span>. When the girls busted out the dildo and fucked his belly button, I swear Jorge was going to cry. His wildest fantasies were being fulfilled... nightmarishly in public.<br /><br />The girl who produced the dildo was Malice. In addition to having one of the greatest stage names, she was Harley's favorite stripper and the reason we came. It was pretty clear why. Like Nads Dynamite, Malice enjoyed what she did. Unlike Nads Dynamite, Malice was good at what she did. Her moves weren't cheesy and ridiculous, they were sexy. She was a striking, thin woman that when including her bleach blonde fluffy mohawk was about 7'8". Bitch had stage presence. Harley forced Edith to go up to the stage and tip. Edith's brave little step was rewarded with a face full of mohawk, Malice's signature move, it seemed. According to my sources, the mohawk smells lovely and floral. Which I must say is polite if you insist on rubbing people's faces with it via back bends.<br /><br />Not polite, however, is the asshole who designed the men's rooms. For comparison, I take you once again to Swinging Richards. Walk into that men's room and you'll notice one thing first: the mirrors. All along the walls surrounding the urinals are mirrors. So at any angle at any point in the oddly shaped restroom you are able to see everyone else taking a leak. I think it's designed to foster a sense of community. For a more private bathroom experience, they offer stalls. As a sidenote, if you are ever in there then I recommend using the slightly hidden sink as the big one is often manned by one of those godforsaken washroom attendants. "Oh my! Is that how the faucet works? Thank you, my savior! Here, please take my money for doing an overly simple task I was going to do myself before you heroically swept in uninvited and did it for me." Though as a sidenote to the sidenote, a friend of mine was once one of those dreaded people at Richards and apparently there is good money in it.<br /><br />In keeping with the post apocolyptic vibe, Sassy does not offer anything as upscale as washroom attendants. They don't even offer as much privacy as the mirrored place where horny gay men go to unzip their pants and hold their dicks in their hands. The men at Sassy, who are there for the naked ladies, walk into an open room whose ambience suggests that of a crack den and stand all in a row urinating into a trough. The last time I peed into a trough? Excellent question. If, however, your bathroom itinerary contains more than simple lizard draining then allow me to direct you to the single toilet. You'll find it in the stall, but don't worry because it's not that hard to spot... since the stall, like the bathroom, has no door on it.<br /><br />All of this was going to require liquor.<br />"Do you guys have lemon juice?" Edith inquired.<br />"Sorry, no," the bartender replied. "I've got sour mix."<br />"Fine."<br />And so Edith drank her vodka sour. Garnished with a lemon wedge.</span>

Tour of Homos: Omaha Mining Company

The Omaha Mining Company has simultaneously the most crass and amazing name for a gay bar in the history of faggotry. The expected classiness was immediately apparent when I had to tear my eyes away from the porn that played on about four televisions all over the room just to order my drink. The bartender was wearing a shirt that asked me to "Say Hello to [his] not so little friend" with an arrow pointing to what I can only imagine was the rug burn on his knees. My vodka tonic came in a mason jar with a neon green straw. About 12 hours later I realized that they were probably going for some old-timey miner theme by having those. ... or maybe I'm over thinking the 200 for $15 purchase.

My friend asked why my vodka tonic looked blue -- a valid question. Turns out it was because the Omaha Mining Company has black lights for their overhead lights. At first, that may seem like it would up the skank factor but really, I found it to make quite a brazen "No Monkey-Punky" statement. I feel I must mention that the black light did not reveal anything that would concern ABC News. Which is probably because the only thing those four guys on the television were doing was innocently showering together.

What did up the skank factor was Mr. Cool who strolled into the bar at 12:15am wearing shades. Perhaps if this were one of Omaha's six months of perpetual light then sunglasses at night would be logical. Yet even then it would not be acceptable to continue wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar (remember, no overhead lights) as Mr. Cool did. After getting his drink, he proceeded onto the painfully empty dance floor, blatantly disregarded the sign declaring there was no drinking in that part of the bar. He then shimmy-rigged with the only man who was anywhere close to his level of coolness: his reflection in the mirrored walls.

And oh, the music he boogied to! Never before had I seen such a disconnect between the music and a bar's patronage. To every single song the exact same techno beat was layered on top. How do I know it was the exact same beat? Because no matter what was playing -- be it Hooked on a Feeling, Let's Dance, or the Pussycat Dolls (yes, that was honestly the playlist) -- the rainbow string decoration on the ceiling fan, or fan flair, was swinging in time so perfectly I feel as though it was taunting Mr. Cool. So who does the Omaha Mining Company think enjoys this constant barrage of a single beat? Various men all over the age of 40, several of them drinking alone. Save the two out of place preppies in maybe their late-20's, the average age was 52. Maybe that's why the dance floor was so empty. Or why on a Friday night there were only 19 people there, including me and my friends. Or why the decorations included giant Zima ads, an oversized stuffed Tweety Bird, and a big ol' Winnie the Pooh. Wait, no, I'm sorry. That last one is just because it's a terrible bar.



[Incidentally, Nebraska has an earlier last call than Georgia. 1am versus 2am. I, honestly, did not think I would come across a place with tighter drinking laws than Georgia.]
The Omaha Mining Company has simultaneously the most crass and amazing name for a gay bar in the history of faggotry. The expected classiness was immediately apparent when I had to tear my eyes away from the porn that played on about four televisions all over the room just to order my drink. The bartender was wearing a shirt that asked me to "Say Hello to [his] not so little friend" with an arrow pointing to what I can only imagine was the rug burn on his knees. My vodka tonic came in a mason jar with a neon green straw. About 12 hours later I realized that they were probably going for some old-timey miner theme by having those. ... or maybe I'm over thinking the 200 for $15 purchase.<br /><br />My friend asked why my vodka tonic looked blue -- a valid question. Turns out it was because the Omaha Mining Company has black lights for their overhead lights. At first, that may seem like it would up the skank factor but really, I found it to make quite a brazen "No Monkey-Punky" statement. I feel I must mention that the black light did not reveal anything that would concern <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Health/story?id=1507794">ABC News</a>. Which is probably because the only thing those four guys on the television were doing was innocently showering together.<br /><br />What did up the skank factor was Mr. Cool who strolled into the bar at 12:15am wearing shades. Perhaps if this were one of Omaha's six months of perpetual light then sunglasses at night would be logical. Yet even then it would not be acceptable to continue wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar (remember, no overhead lights) as Mr. Cool did. After getting his drink, he proceeded onto the painfully empty dance floor, blatantly disregarded the sign declaring there was no drinking in that part of the bar. He then shimmy-rigged with the only man who was anywhere close to his level of coolness: his reflection in the mirrored walls.<br /><br />And oh, the music he boogied to! Never before had I seen such a disconnect between the music and a bar's patronage. To every single song the exact same techno beat was layered on top. How do I know it was the exact same beat? Because no matter what was playing -- be it <span style="font-style: italic;">Hooked on a Feeling</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Let's Dance</span>, or the Pussycat Dolls (yes, that was honestly the playlist) -- the rainbow string decoration on the ceiling fan, or fan flair, was swinging in time so perfectly I feel as though it was taunting Mr. Cool. So who does the Omaha Mining Company think enjoys this constant barrage of a single beat? Various men all over the age of 40, several of them drinking alone. Save the two out of place preppies in maybe their late-20's, the average age was 52. Maybe that's why the dance floor was so empty. Or why on a Friday night there were only 19 people there, including me and my friends. Or why the decorations included giant Zima ads, an oversized stuffed Tweety Bird, and a big ol' Winnie the Pooh. Wait, no, I'm sorry. That last one is just because it's a terrible bar.<br /><br /><br /><br />[Incidentally, Nebraska has an earlier last call than Georgia. 1am versus 2am. I, honestly, did not think I would come across a place with tighter drinking laws than Georgia.]

Tour of Homos: New Order

New Order is an old throwback.

And by that, I mean New Order is full of old people in danger of throwing their backs out. Jonathan Joseph and I were warned about that before we went so there was no a shock. And if you set your expectations appropriately (average age being "sock hop attendees") then you'll have a pretty good time. Jonathan Joseph and I spoke with one older gentleman that regaled us with tales of yore. Apparently, the bar was once much bigger and hosted the likes of now-fading legend Diamond Lil. It was a little sad to hear because looking around the small bar hidden in the back of this strip mall there were maybe six people there. It was Jonathan Joseph, myself, our new friend, another guy his age (who seemed ... sick, to say it politely), and two skeezy looking guys in their 40's. It appears as though it's those comparatively younger guys who are the slimeballs you need to look out for.

So that was my impression of the place when I went into the loo and saw a flyer for "Open Mike Night." At first, I thought an open Mike sounds delicious. I hadn't had a fresh, bloody meal in weeks. But it turns out they meant "Open Mic Night." A few inquiries with the bartender and we discover you can get up to the microphone and do anything you want. My sights are, naturally, set on angsty poetry.

Okay, you guys? Open Mike Night at New Order? Best kept secret the septuagenarians are keeping! When you ask your pop-pop how he's doing and he starts complaining about his dotageitis flaring up, you can be assured that what he's not telling you about is the round of applause he got for his rendition of My Funny Valentine accompanied on the keyboard by the fabulous June. You see, Open Mike Night at New Order is so much more than a microphone and 3 awkward people. There's quite the crowd gathered to see June on the keyboard, a drummer, and a gal on sax as well. These geezers get up there and croon jazz standards - or occasionally an oldie - like you fuckin' paid for it! ... well, compared to the standard karaoker anyway. But the whole vibe is very 50's cool. It's quite possible there's nothing else in the city like it. And I bet June has some stories to tell!

It's true what they say, we really can learn a lot from our elders. Like how to live life in style.
New Order is an old throwback.<br /><br />And by that, I mean New Order is full of old people in danger of throwing their backs out. Jonathan Joseph and I were warned about that before we went so there was no a shock. And if you set your expectations appropriately (average age being "sock hop attendees") then you'll have a pretty good time. Jonathan Joseph and I spoke with one older gentleman that regaled us with tales of yore. Apparently, the bar was once much bigger and hosted the likes of now-fading legend Diamond Lil. It was a little sad to hear because looking around the small bar hidden in the back of this strip mall there were maybe six people there. It was Jonathan Joseph, myself, our new friend, another guy his age (who seemed ... sick, to say it politely), and two skeezy looking guys in their 40's. It appears as though it's those comparatively younger guys who are the slimeballs you need to look out for.<br /><br />So that was my impression of the place when I went into the loo and saw a flyer for "Open Mike Night." At first, I thought an open Mike sounds delicious. I hadn't had a fresh, bloody meal in weeks. But it turns out they meant "Open Mic Night." A few inquiries with the bartender and we discover you can get up to the microphone and do anything you want. My sights are, naturally, set on angsty poetry.<br /><br />Okay, you guys? Open Mike Night at New Order? Best kept secret the septuagenarians are keeping! When you ask your pop-pop how he's doing and he starts complaining about his dotageitis flaring up, you can be assured that what he's not telling you about is the round of applause he got for his rendition of My Funny Valentine accompanied on the keyboard by the fabulous June. You see, Open Mike Night at New Order is so much more than a microphone and 3 awkward people. There's quite the crowd gathered to see June on the keyboard, a drummer, and a gal on sax as well. These geezers get up there and croon jazz standards - or occasionally an oldie - like you fuckin' paid for it! ... well, compared to the standard karaoker anyway. But the whole vibe is very 50's cool. It's quite possible there's nothing else in the city like it. And I bet June has some stories to tell!<br /><br />It's true what they say, we really can learn a lot from our elders. Like how to live life in style.

Tour of Homos: Opus 1

"Opus 1 on Wednesday" -- A Haiku

Small room. Awkward vibe.
Meatball Lean Pockets offered.
Shit costs three.fifty!

<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"</span>Opus 1<span style="font-style: italic;"> on Wednesday" -- A Haiku</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Small room. Awkward vibe.</span><br />Meatball Lean Pockets<span style="font-style: italic;"> offered.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Shit costs three.fifty!</span><br /><br /></div>

Tour of Homos: Felix's on the Square

Ending up at Felix's was a complete accident. After discovering that it's oddly unrelated neighbor, Oscar's, was closed for whatever reason, the other half of my own platonic odd couple, Jonathan Joseph, and I got in the car. Pulling out of our parking space, though, I stuck my head out of the window and caught a familiar whiff... like a ninja too desperate to stay in the shadows, my nose and I screamed, "Karaoke!"

You see, Jonathan Joseph loves to howl the self-fancied crooner's standard, Sweet Caroline. You may bare your teeth at the cliché but once those first two "Pluck. Pluck!"s hit, your ears perk up. Soon enough, you'll be howling in unison with the rest of the bar, "Ba! Ba! Baaaa!" like sheep. And Jonathan Joseph knows it. He loves being the one that people sing along with. The fun one who gets everybody all riled up. And you'll fall for it, because that's part of his charm.

So, not eight parking spots later, we abruptly pull over and hop out. After all, there was barely anyone in there. No long line of drunks in front of you waiting to butcher their own favorite pop songs! (Unlike another karaoke experience that I'm sure I'll get to in a later Tour of Homos.) Having saddled up to the bar, karaoke request slip in hand, I started to look around.

I like the smaller, less populated bars. You tend to find the seedier crowds and friendlier bartenders there. Felix's was alright. The bartender was indeed very friendly to me. Though, in fairness, he was actual friends with the adorable puppy I was chatting up. That puppy was probably the most surreal part of Felix's. His name was Dakota; his breed was unique but beautiful; his coat and teeth were shiny and clean; and, to my utter shock, he was smart, funny, and cool. In fact, most people there seemed surprisingly not frightening. Besides Dakota, I even gave my number to another male. He was a yappy but handsome breed.

But what made Felix's a good time, in addition to this slut with a heart of gold's ego boost when two males were sniffing my butt simultaneously, was the mix of surprisingly cool and expectably off the wall. I don't go on the Tour of Homos to meet nice, normal people. I go to watch the spectacle like that at the end of the bar. I'd say the highlight was when the twinky male escort (not a slam, but in fact his occupation) stripped down to his bright red jock strap and his needlessly shirtless friend sang Evanescence. To Felix's credit, singing Evanescence in public isn't a punishable offense. ... yet. And the wayward circus kids were asked to re-robe. Though probably not before the escort scored a few more clients.
Ending up at Felix's was a complete accident. After discovering that it's oddly unrelated neighbor, Oscar's, was closed for whatever reason, the other half of my own platonic odd couple, Jonathan Joseph, and I got in the car. Pulling out of our parking space, though, I stuck my head out of the window and caught a familiar whiff... like a ninja too desperate to stay in the shadows, my nose and I screamed, "Karaoke!"<br /><br />You see, Jonathan Joseph loves to howl the self-fancied crooner's standard, Sweet Caroline. You may bare your teeth at the cliché but once those first two "Pluck. Pluck!"s hit, your ears perk up. Soon enough, you'll be howling in unison with the rest of the bar, "Ba! Ba! Baaaa!" like sheep. And Jonathan Joseph knows it. He loves being the one that people sing along with. The fun one who gets everybody all riled up. And you'll fall for it, because that's part of his charm.<br /><br />So, not eight parking spots later, we abruptly pull over and hop out. After all, there was barely anyone in there. No long line of drunks in front of you waiting to butcher their own favorite pop songs! (Unlike <a href="http://marysatlanta.com/maryoke/">another karaoke experience</a> that I'm sure I'll get to in a later Tour of Homos.) Having saddled up to the bar, karaoke request slip in hand, I started to look around.<br /><br />I like the smaller, less populated bars. You tend to find the seedier crowds and friendlier bartenders there. Felix's was alright. The bartender was indeed very friendly to me. Though, in fairness, he was actual friends with the adorable puppy I was chatting up. That puppy was probably the most surreal part of Felix's. His name was Dakota; his breed was unique but beautiful; his coat and teeth were shiny and clean; and, to my utter shock, he was smart, funny, and cool. In fact, most people there seemed surprisingly not frightening. Besides Dakota, I even gave my number to another male. He was a yappy but handsome breed.<br /><br />But what made Felix's a good time, in addition to this slut with a heart of gold's ego boost when two males were sniffing my butt simultaneously, was the mix of surprisingly cool and expectably off the wall. I don't go on the Tour of Homos to meet nice, normal people. I go to watch the spectacle like that at the end of the bar. I'd say the highlight was when the twinky male escort (not a slam, but in fact his occupation) stripped down to his <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">bright red jock strap</span> and his needlessly shirtless friend sang Evanescence. To Felix's credit, singing Evanescence in public isn't a punishable offense. ... yet. And the wayward circus kids were asked to re-robe. Though probably not before the escort scored a few more clients.

Please Follow the Docent with the Rainbow Flag

I don't really like going out. I've got a bar, a TiVo, soft furniture, and a food bowl so I don't always see the need to leave my home and be around... people. But every now and then my dear friend, Jonathan Joseph, and I do like to grab our leashes go out for an adventure in homo skeeze. By which, I don't mean that we go out and find places to have slimy sex with each other but simply that we go to places that we don't expect upstanding citizens to be frequenting. The gay dive bars, the bear dens, the Adopt-a-Twink shelters, the nursing homes with liquor licenses. Those sorts of places. Sometimes we're pleasantly surprised and sometimes we're pleasantly uncomfortable.

So in addition to whatever other ramblings I transcribe here, I plan to post reviews/anecdotes/warnings/etc. from what I have dubbed (in a blatantly unclever pun) the Tour of Homos. Individual names will be changed to protect the innocent*, but I feel it is unnecessary to hide the fact that I live in Atlanta and as such will tell you exactly what place I am talking about. My hope is that these stories will be at least as amusing to read as they were to experience. Guess we'll find out...


*The innocent refers to me. The internet is a surprisingly public forum, and I feel no need to get whacked on the snout because of something I write here.
I don't really like going out. I've got a bar, a TiVo, soft furniture, and a food bowl so I don't always see the need to leave my home and be around... people. But every now and then my dear friend, Jonathan Joseph, and I do like to grab our leashes go out for an adventure in homo skeeze. By which, I don't mean that we go out and find places to have slimy sex with each other but simply that we go to places that we don't expect upstanding citizens to be frequenting. The gay dive bars, the bear dens, the Adopt-a-Twink shelters, the nursing homes with liquor licenses. Those sorts of places. Sometimes we're pleasantly surprised and sometimes we're pleasantly uncomfortable.<br /><br />So in addition to whatever other ramblings I transcribe here, I plan to post reviews/anecdotes/warnings/etc. from what I have dubbed (in a blatantly unclever pun) the Tour of Homos. Individual names will be changed to protect the innocent*, but I feel it is unnecessary to hide the fact that I live in Atlanta and as such will tell you exactly what place I am talking about. My hope is that these stories will be at least as amusing to read as they were to experience. Guess we'll find out...<br /><br /><br />*The innocent refers to me. The internet is a surprisingly public forum, and I feel no need to get whacked on the snout because of something I write here.