Nightwalker

New Home

2004-07-28T09:49:00.000-05:00

Hello Everyone!

I'm sorry I have been lagging on my posts. I have decided to use WordPress, which means I had to set up my own domain. Please change your bookmarks to...

http://www.niteowl.tv/.

I'm still not all the way done. There's a few things I need to tweak over there. But most everything is functioning right now.

Thanks!
-Johnnie

Long Way to Go

2004-07-25T04:19:00.000-05:00

There has been a lot of post-9/11 animosity towards anyone who even shares the same skin tone as Arabs. Stories of violence and hatred directed at Arab-Americans, or people who have been mistaken for Arabs, are not uncommon these days.

When Cpl. Wassef Ali Hassoun (the U.S. Marine who was reported captured) went missing in Iraq, I wasn't surprised when the authenticity of his capture and subsequent release were being questioned by more than a few bloggers out there. Even before he had a chance to speak, and even before any investigation had begun, there were those out there branding him a traitor.

Tonight, I went to a commissioning ceremony. A friend of mine, Jake, has graduated from college and is now an ensign in the U.S. Navy. I was in a room full of friends and family who came together to congratulate him and see him one last time before he ships out to his first duty station.

Jake's father was also a naval officer, retiring with the rank of captain. Several of his older relatives are World War II veterans. I was honored to be in the company of so many people who answered the call of duty.

What does Jake and his family of American service veterans have to do with post-9/11 anti-Arab sentiment? Jake and is family are Americans of Japanese descent.

His older relatives were forcibly removed from their homes and forced into internment camps during WWII. No trial, no jury, no proof than any of them were disloyal to America. Many of these people were U.S. citizens. All were the victims of wartime hysteria.

Even though they were unjustly imprisoned, Jake's grand uncles and older uncles answered the call of duty when the U.S. Army needed more able-bodied men to fight the war in Europe. Their homes had been taken, their property had been pawned off and they were left with nothing. But they still joined the Army, serving in segregated units. Some of them never came back home.

Anyway, back to Cpl. Hassoun. I'm not saying he is or isn't a traitor. But I will say that I wonder, if he were not of Lebanese descent, would this Marine be looked upon with so much suspicion? Isn't this the same kind of suspicion that put Jake's family into prison camps?

Jake's family lived through plenty of anti-Japanese sentiment. There's no doubt in my mind that Japanese-Americans had it worse back then than Arab-Americans have it today. One could easily argue that we have come a long way since the days of WWII.

But when I read about people getting killed because someone was too ignorant to know the difference between a Sikh and an Arab (and ignorant enough to think that killing random Arabs is somehow vindicated by 9/11), I can't help but to think that we have a long way to go.

Freak-O-Meter

2004-07-24T03:26:00.000-05:00

Speaking of freaks, I decided to see how freaky I am. So I found this site that has a test that shows you where you stand on the freak-o-meter. I took the test, and according to my results, I am 87-percent freak!

I don't think the test measures your sexual freakiness. If that's OK with you, you should go ahead and take the test. The test is rated PG-13 for sure, so the more innocent among you will not cringe when taking it. It might be a fun thing to do while your surfing away on your wi-fi connection.

Don't worry. You'll get your dose of NC-17 posting tomorrow.

Drama Avoided

2004-07-22T23:19:00.000-05:00

About a week after I escaped Paula's psycho love shrine, I was faced with a new temptation: Her "best friend" Marlene. Marlene had a tight little body and a sexy British accent. She moved like a hip-hop hoochie but spoke the King's English.

Marlene stopped by the club one night while I was working. She was drunk before midnight, and asked me if I could give her a ride home after closing time. "You don't have a ride?" I asked.

She shook her head. I agreed to give her a lift.

Around closing time I saw Marlene talking with a club regular, Max. Max would come down to the club about three or four times a week, sporting a mullet and dressing like he just got off the set of "Miami Vice."

Because I was just out of earshot, I didn't know what they were talking about. But whatever Marlene said to him made him visibly angry. Max stormed out of the club. I deduced that she was supposed to leave with him, but wanted to leave with me.

As we left the club, Marlene started talking about her recent breakup: "You know, things just weren't working out with Julian and I. He was a really good person. But in the end, we both had to accept that our relationship wasn't meant to be."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. I didn't know what else to say, so I asked, "Are you feeling OK?"

"I'm feeling fine," she said as she put her arm in mine. "You and Paula are both good people, but your relationship didn't work out. Both of you have to realize that and move on."

To tell you the truth, I did move on. Especially after entering and escaping the psycho love shrine. But as many times as I told Marlene that, she was intent on looping her conversation around the topic of moving on after a breakup. She took her arm away from mine, put it around my waist and stuck her hand into my back pocket.

We got into my car and the conversation continued to loop like a sampled melody. Marlene put her hand on my thigh and slowly started going for the family jewels. I couldn't believe it, and kept thinking: I thought Marlene was Paula's best friend!

When I pulled up to her apartment building, Marlene's mouth was still stuck on, Johnnie, you and Marlene have to move on. I was parked in front of her building for a little while. There was an uncomfortable silence. I didn't know what to say, so I filled the air with meaningless chatter.

I was rock hard, but every time I thought about doing what I wanted to do with Marlene, the thought of Paula coming at me with a battle axe chopped the idea down like George Washington's cherry tree. After she grew tired of listening to me ramble, Marlene moved in to kiss me.

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a vision of boiling rabbits. I leaned into her and gave her a peck on the cheek. "It's getting late," I whispered. "I'd better get going."

Marlene looked like she had taken a blow to her ego. I suppose it's not every day a hot tamale puts itself on a plate in front of a hungry Mexican and doesn't get gobbled up.

She mustered up a smile, kissed me on the cheek and got out of my car. My eyes were glued to her shapely ass until she disappeared into the building. I banged my head on the steering wheel and quietly cursed myself.

As I drove off alone, I knew I did the right thing, but couldn't help thinking that I had just passed up one hell of a freakfest. It was just another case of could have, would have, should have.

I Need a Freak

2004-07-22T00:49:00.000-05:00

Me and the boys had a friendly debate tonight. The topic: Would you rather have sex with a freak-nasty female who is average in the looks department, or with a head-turning bombshell with absolutely zero bedroom skills? A few of the guys opted for the bombshell. The rest of us chose the freak-nasty female.

There are definitely a lot of guys out there who, for whatever reason, need to be the guy with the prettiest girl on the block. Usually it's because the guy is so insecure with himself that he needs to validate his existence by having an arm trophy that all the other guys would like to get their hands on. Or, it could be that the fellow in question is happy with doing it missionary-position style (only) with a chick who lies stiffly on her back and waits patiently for him to finish.

From my experience, most girls who are strictly missionary also insist that all the lights are turned off while sexual activity is in progress. Well, if you can't see who your having sex with, what does it matter if she looks good or not? My buddies who chose the bombshell over the freak could not give me a satisfactory answer.

I had a fairly recent encounter with this girl named Beth. Since Beth is about five years older than me, I figured that she might be able to teach me a few tricks. Unfortunately, this was not the case: Not only did she accidentally bite my tool when giving me head, when I got around to sticking the aforementioned tool into the holiest of holes, I felt like I was fucking an inanimate rag doll. Hell, I would have had more fun cutting a slit in a raw piece of meat and jacking off with it. And if I was really in the mood for something prettier than a top sirloin steak, I'd buy myself a Real Doll.

Those people who know me describe me as an easy-going kind of guy. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, second chances and a chance for redemption. Who knows? There are times when the first sexual encounter with a person can be a little awkward. So with that in mind, I gave Beth a second chance. And you know what? It wasn't any better the second time around.

Needless to say, I never called her again. And I ignored every single phone call, if I had even the slightest suspicion it was her on the other end.

Now, of course, there has to be some balance. If a girl came my way who looked like Jabba the Hutt's younger sister, I'd have to take a pass, even if she was a freak nasty. And if it would take me more than a fifth of Black Label to make a girl look like Catherine Bell, I'd be too drunk to perform sexually, so why even bother?

On the other hand, have you ever seen a good-looking Don Juan kind of guy strutting around with a less-than-average girl? The two might not get along well, and Mr. Juan may be out having sex with other girls who are a lot prettier. But for some reason, he can't let that one girl go.

Do you think the guy is with her for intelligent conversation while sipping on some French wine you can't even pronounce? I hate to break it to you, but nine times out of ten it's because that gal is, as Rick James would say, a Super Freak.

Sanrio Condoms

2004-07-20T23:14:00.000-05:00

Sanrio condoms.

A friend of mine went to Japan on business. He asked me if I wanted anything from the Land of the Rising Sun. I told him I wanted some Hello Kitty condoms. And if they didn't have any Hello Kitty ones, I wanted Bad Batz Maru condoms.

Well, my buddy came back from his trip a few days ago, and he told me he couldn't find any Hello Kitty condoms. Nor could he find any with Bad Batz Maru. But he did find these condoms, which are made by Sanrio. Sanrio is the same company that has brought us Hello Kitty, Bad Batz Maru and all those other cute, adorable characters that little kids all over America have become so hooked on.

I've never seen these particular Sanrio characters. If anyone knows who they are, please leave a comment! Also, if any of you out there can read Japanese, a translation would be much appreciated.

I wonder why Sanrio doesn't market their line of condoms in the United States?

My Life is Explicit

2004-07-20T23:02:00.000-05:00

Did I even have to take this silly test to figure this one out?

My life is rated NC-17.
What is your life rated?

Confiscated Goods

2004-07-20T05:48:00.000-05:00

I was chatting with the coat check girl when one of our nightclub's rent-a-cops presented me with some chick they had searched and cuffed. Evidently, she thought she was slick enough to smuggle in a gram of cocaine. The uniform handed me the goods, and asked me what I wanted to do.

"Take down all the information on her driver's license and let her go," I told the uniform. "And tell her never to come back here again."

Bored and yawning, I made my way outside the front door to see if there was anything exciting happening out there. One of the cops that worked the area pulled up in his patrol car. It was Chuck Denton. He rolled down a window and greeted me.

"Hey Chuck, what's going on?" I asked.

"Nothing much," he replied. "Just happened to see you walk out and decided to shoot the breeze with you for a while."

Remembering that I had a seal of coke in my pocket, I decided to turn it over to Chuck. "Our rent-a-cops are getting ready to let her go," I told him as I handed him the confiscated goods. "Do you want to deal with her?"

"No, I don't want to deal with the paperwork," he told me, putting the goodies into his shirt pocket. "Thanks, Johnnie. I'll catch you later."

I waved as Chuck drove off with the nose candy. And I wondered if what had just happened was standard operating procedure for police officers.

Slapping My Intern's Ass

2004-07-19T03:03:00.000-05:00

I've always made it a point never to fool around with female interns. That is, until Jean came along. Jean wasn't much to look at, but she had the kind of ass that begged to be slapped until it turned cherry red.

After work one day, she wanted to go out for a drink. One drink turned into two. As the night progressed, it became clear to me that I would have to drive her car for her.

On the way to her place, Jean was giggling uncontrollably. She took off her shirt and bra, and threw both items at me before putting her head on my lap. After gently kissing my thigh, she sensed an erection and began fondling my package.

I was losing my ability to concentrate on the road. Luckily, Jean's place was not far from the bar. When we got there, I tucked her bra into my coat pocket and put the shirt back on for her.

It was somewhat of a chore getting Jean into her apartment. She was acting drunker than she really was, hoping that I would carry her. The girl was pretty petite, so I didn't mind too much carrying her from the parking garage, through the lobby, up the elevator and into her apartment. The hard part was fumbling around with her bulky key ring that must have had around 20 keys, a fuzzy Hello Kitty thing and a key ring tag with her name on it.

Once inside the cramped apartment, I placed Jean on her bed, sat down and took a little breather. She pulled off her shirt again, and asked me to help her take off her jeans. As I gently pulled her jeans down over her thighs, she reached down to make sure her panties came off as well.

As I put her jeans on a chair next to her bed, Jean began unbuckling my belt and zipping down my fly. I let my jeans fall to my ankles and kicked them to the side as she gave me head.

After sucking vigorously for a few minutes, she gently guided me to lay down on her bed. She continued to give me head while slowly positioning her crotch over my face. I grabbed her ass and started eating her out. We remained in that position until she climaxed. She rolled to her side, panting, moaning and shaking.

I rolled her onto her stomach, kneeled behind her, put my hands on her waist and lifted her ass towards me so I could do her doggie style. I felt like a champ, finally being able to spank the ass that I had been daydreaming about for weeks.

When her butt cheeks got sore, she told me to lay down and got on top of me. Jean reached down to put her hands on my chest as she began riding me. As she picked up the pace, she used her fingers to squeeze my nipples.

We both began to climax at the same time. She took her fingers away from my nipples and started yanking on her own. She began screaming and moaning so loudly, I thought for sure the neighbors would wake up and start knocking on the wall. I waited until Jean finished her orgasm before pulling out to ejaculate.

Again, Jean rolled over to her side, panting and shaking. A few minutes later, she was fast asleep and snoring lightly. I decided to clean myself up, get dressed and quietly make my exit.

I took a taxi back to my car so I could get back home. When I got in my car and started my engine, I reached into my coat pocket for my cigarettes. Jean's bra was still there. I pulled it out, looked at it for a moment and smiled.

Rewind

2004-07-18T04:46:00.000-05:00

I was hit by a blast from the past tonight: I ran into a gal named Trina, who was a roommate of an old girlfriend, Jamie. Jamie was a college sweetheart.

Jamie and Trina shared a dorm room together. Trina was a pretty heavy sleeper. Me and Jamie had some very wild sexual encounters right next to Trina, and I don't think she ever knew.

Anyway, I haven't seen Trina since I graduated from college. We packaged ten years of our respective lives into nutshells and made a trade. Trina got married to her college sweetheart, had a kid and got divorced. Jamie is married with a couple of kids.

The whole time we were talking, I was overwhelmed by the urge to ask her, Did me and Jamie ever wake you up back when the two of you were roommates?

Blogging Under the Influence

2004-07-17T04:04:00.001-05:00

Tonight, my Korean buddies called me up and wanted me to meet them in a room salon. I'm not gonna front. Koreans are hard to keep up with when it comes to liquor. If I had gotten there any earlier, I'd be dead from alcohol poisoning right now. Not only am I guilty of driving under the influence, I am now guilty of blogging while intoxicated.

My dear friends decided that I needed a "partner" tonight. In a room salon, your "partner" is the girl who sits next to you, flirts with you, lights your cigarettes, feeds you by hand and makes you feel like a king. She is also there to get you and your friends to buy more stuff.

In any case, I'll have to say that my partner tonight was as cute as a button. A little bit on the thin side for my taste, but she would be a tasty morsel, indeed. We swapped numbers. But if she ever calls, I'm not quite sure what we'd talk about, because she's only been in the States for about a month and doesn't speak any English. Well, except for what you hear in the audioblog below.

I tried to get her to teach me how to swear in Korean, but she wouldn't do it. Instead, she spoke English and professed her love for me. My friends even had her calling me "big brother," which is what all those chicks were calling my buddies. (I almost felt like a real member of the group tonight!) Yea, I know she doesn't really love me, but she sounds so cute when she says it!

Summer Fling

2004-07-16T04:21:00.000-05:00

Hallie was a tall, slender hottie with long, dark hair. I'm not quite sure what she saw in me when I met her that summer, but I didn't give it much thought. You see, I'm not one of those crazy, mixed-up guys always trying to figure out the meaning of life. She gave me her digits and I took it from there.

The two of us were on opposite ends of the spectrum. I was a nightclub guy, up all night and asleep all day. Hallie was ten years younger than me, had just finished up her first year of college and was on her way to becoming a rocket scientist.

On our first date, we started with dinner and ended up at the beach. We had the shoreline to ourselves. I built us a small fire. She ended up giving me a blowjob that almost made my eyes pop out of my head. I blew my load into her mouth and she swallowed every drop. She then proceeded to lick me clean.

I was comatose and in disbelief. My first impression of her was that she was on the innocent side. Hallie was not the scandalous type, but she had definitely learned a few tricks somewhere.

Our sexual encounters got hotter as the summer progressed. She really liked to be manhandled in bed. There was always an element of degradation involved. And no matter what, my summertime hottie always insisted on swallowing my load.

As summer turned into fall, harmony slowly turned into discord. Hallie's mother found out she was consorting with, using her own words, "A low-life, uneducated nightwalking scumbag."

To tell you the truth, I really didn't care what her mother thought about me. But Hallie did. And in the end, what could I say? The girl was only 19 and wasn't ready to think independently. As Brittany Spears would say, she was not a girl, but not yet a woman.

Knowing that we would soon be parting ways, I turned the degradation up a notch. I would purposely avoid her for four or five days at a time, making sure I had a good nut saved up for her. When she finally came around to giving me one of her killer blowjobs, sometimes she wouldn't be able to swallow the end result fast enough. But the more I degraded her by making her choke on my juice, the more she wanted me.

The flame of lust was not enough to keep us together. Fall became winter, and our relationship went cold. I never offered her a future. Maybe that was the problem. But again, I'm not one of those crazy, mixed-up guys trying to figure out the meaning of life. She wanted me to walk, and I did.

Bartering Goods

2004-07-15T01:03:00.000-05:00

About a year into my first nightclub security gig, the ownership decided we needed uniformed rent-a-cops to supplement our crew of skull crushers. In our chain of command, they were subordinate to us.

We tasked the uniforms with pat downs. It was a job they took very seriously and did very well. It was not uncommon for them to uncover a dime bag of weed, or a small seal of coke on a would-be customer who thought s/he was slick enough to get through and get high inside the club.

Our biggest bust was approximately 100 grams of marijuana, individually wrapped in one-gram baggies and crammed into a large manila envelope. The guy who tried to bring the goods into the nightclub and distribute them was a local rapper/deejay named B-Rock.

For some odd reason, B-Rock tried to enter the club even after seeing that every person going in was being frisked. When it was his turn to get patted down, he tried to turn around and bolt. He was immediately tackled by two rent-a-cops and one of our guys. Once subdued, B-Rock was handcuffed and frisked. That's when our guys discovered the goodies.

The head uniform turned the goods over to me, and asked me for further instruction. I was experiencing a slight dilemma. I knew B-Rock. We weren't close friends, but our social circles intersected frequently enough that I really didn't want to turn him over to the cops.

I tried to discreetly tell Head Uniform that we ought to handle things in house, and not involve law enforcement. Head Uniform attempted to assert his non-existent authority. He cited chapters and paragraphs of state law that pertained to drugs, and that we had a duty to turn B-Rock over to the cops.

That's when B-Rock finally noticed that I was about 25 feet (7.62 m) away from him. "Yo, are you in on this too?" he asked.

I was just about ready to raise my voice at Head Uniform and make final my decision to flush the goods and let B-Rock go on his way. Momentarily distracted, I turned to B-Rock and replied, "If you're askiing if I work here, then yes."

"Yo, well fuck you too!"

My initial reaction was disbelief. There I was trying to help him out, and he tells me, Fuck you? I stopped myself from getting angry, and instead put an evil smirk on my face. I turned back to Head Uniform, tucked the manila folder full of chronic under my armpit and told him, "Go ahead and call the police. I'm going to show this to my boss."

Head Uniform nodded in acknowledgment, and I headed toward the manager's office. Deciding to take a detour, I went into the employee's restroom, counted out 20 dime bags and put them in my coat pocket. After taking a piss, I proceeded to the manager's office.

The cops eventually showed up, took statements from everyone and took B-Rock away. I gave them the manila envelope full of weed. It was 20 grams lighter, but no one else would know that.

After leaving work, I went to the nearest pay phone and called Jerry. Jerry wasn't fond of coke, but he made a living selling the stuff. I wasn't particularly fond of weed, but had a shitload of it in my coat. He agreed to a trade. I was happy, because the night was young once again.

Hey Deejay

2004-07-14T22:31:00.000-05:00

At a club, appreciating the deejay's skill. Photo taken by me recently.

Good Cop, Bad Cop Club Owner

2004-07-14T02:58:00.000-05:00

Bartending is a great gig to have in a nightclub, if you're mixing drinks for the right kind of crowd. My favorite nights as a mixologist were always the kind of nights that kept you busy, but not too busy to be able to shoot the breeze with a beautiful girl or two.

I was bartending on one of those slow kinds of nights. One of the owners, Joe, told me that we were going to have a closed-door, after-hours party. "It's 1:15 (a.m.) until I tell you otherwise," Joe told me, with a wink-wink and a nudge-nudge. In other words, Keep serving until I tell you to stop.

It was a small, intimate crowd that came in ~~after hours~~ at 1:15. Most of them were strippers and their sugar daddies. At some point in the night, I saw a familiar face: A tall Latin honey named Adelina.

Adelina used to be a regular on one of our 18-and-older nights, so I was surprised to see her at the club that night. I asked her if she had turned 21 yet. She nodded and told me had just celebrated her birthday.

The Latin hottie introduced me to her co-worker, Brad. I shook his hand and bought them both a drink. She giggled, clapped her hands and left her lip marks on my cheek. Brad gave me the evil eye, but tried to mask it with a smile.

Throughout the night, Adelina came to the bar (without Brad) to flirt with me. I flirted back. She bought me a few drinks. My boss told me to go ahead and enjoy. It was a good night.

The clock on the wall was unplugged, and the time was stuck at 1:16. Adelina had a pretty good buzz going, and so did I. She leaned against the bar, resting her breasts on top of the counter for me to gaze at. She asked me if she could have a cherry in her drink.

I handed her a Marachino cherry. She took it from my hand with her mouth, plucking the fruit from its stem using her teeth. She gave me a come-fuck-me look while sucking on the cherry.

I noticed something glitter inside her mouth. "Is that a tongue ring?" I asked.

She opened her mouth slowly, sticking out her tongue to reveal her tongue ring. Her bedroom eyes almost made me sweat. "I've never kissed a girl with a tongue ring," I told her.

"Can I be your first?" she asked.

Facetiosly, I asked, "What about Brad over there, is he going to kick my ass?"

"Brad's not my man. Besides, he's busy watching those two strippers making out with each other."

She leaned her head forward. As I began leaning toward her, over the counter, she pulled back. Hesitating, she asked, "You're not going to tell Jason, are you?"

"Who's Jason?"

"You know... Jason. He's deejayed here a few times. We started dating a few weeks ago."

I still couldn't figure out who the hell Jason was, but I made my promise: "Don't worry, Jason will never find out."

Once again, we moved toward each other, hovering over the counter. Our mouths were less than an inch (less than 2.54 cm for you non-American readers) from each other when she was forcefully grabbed from behind. It was Brad, on a cock-block mission. He gave me the evil eye, and took Adelina to the opposite side of the club.

After a while, things had slowed down quite a bit, so I walked around to the customer side of the bar to smoke a cigarette. Adelina walked up to me, thoroughly intoxicated and slurring her speech, to say, "Hey Johnnie, I gotta go home now. Thanks for the drinks, baby." She gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek.

"You're not driving, are you?" I asked.

She shook her head (no) and whispered, "You'll have to take a rain check, baby."

At work the next day, Joe told me that Adelina had gotten into some sort of trouble with the police after leaving the club. Evidently, Brad had given her a ride to the next town over, where her car was parked. She got into her car and drove to a McDonald's, where she fell asleep in the drive thru.

Out of concern for Adelina, and because drive-thru traffic had begun to wrap around the block, the manager called the police. When the cops showed up, they woke her up and found a half-rack of beer in her back seat.

"Did you know she was only 20?" Joe asked, laughing.

"No, she told me she was 21," I said. "But how do you know all this?"

"My brother's a deputy over there," said Joe, laughing. "He's the one who busted her."

I laughed, thinking, Me and my boss fed this underage chick liquor all night, in an illegal after hours party, only for her to be busted by his brother the cop. What are the chances of that?

Show Me the Money

2004-07-13T05:34:00.000-05:00

The first nightclub I worked in had a policy of letting professional athletes in free, with head of the line privileges. If they wanted to receive this VIP treatment, they were required to show our doormen valid ID and a player's card (professional ball players get issued a card from whatever league they are a member of).

I used to be a big baseball and basketball fan before working in that nightclub. After my first three months on the job, I became to despise professional athletes. Although I disliked them, I honored our club's policy of giving them VIP status whenever I worked the front door.

It wasn't unusual in those days to have a packed house, in addition to the 400 or more people waiting to get in. One night I was working the VIP line, clipboard tucked underneath my armpit. A guy approached me and stood there like I should have known who he was. Two of his cronies stood behind him. "May I help you?" I asked.

"Yea, I need to get in."

I pointed to the last person in the 400-person line and said, "The line's back there."

"No, man, I don't need to wait in no line," he told me matter-of-factly. "I'm Rod Strickland."

Having no idea who Rod Strickland was at the time, I looked down at my clipboard and scanned the VIP list for his name. I couldn't find it and told him politely, "I'm sorry Mr. Strickland, your name is not on the list.

He looked at me, shocked because I didn't know who he was, and said. "I'm Rod Strickland. I play for the Washington Bullets."

"Oh, OK," I said. "I just need to see your ID and player's card."

"I didn't bring any of that with me."

"I'm sorry, I can't let you in without ID. House rules."

The man was in utter disbelief: "But I'm Rod Strickland!"

A club regular, Tyrone, approached me. He shook my hand, discretely slipping me a 20-dollar bill and whispered into my ear, "Yo Johnnie, that's Rod Strickland." I was unmoved, but I did let Tyrone in as my VIP guest.

I turned back to Rod Strickland and said, "I'm sorry for the inconvenience. But if you don't want to wait in line, you've got to be on the list, or have a player's card. If you want to get in, you've got to have valid ID."

More befuddlement: "But... but I'm Rod Strickland!"

"Look, I don't care if you're Jesus Christ playing for the Heavenly Halos," I said impatiently. "If you want to get in, I need to see a valid ID and a player's card."

Some of the people at the front of the line started chuckling. I always loved an audience.

There was a broken record in front of me repeating, "But I'm Rod Strickland!"

I couldn't take it any more. I delivered a brief monologue. "My name is Johnnie Walker. I work here part time to help pay rent and tuition because I don't know how to dribble. I don't care who you are. I take care of people who take care of me. Yo, Rod, what have you ever done for me? When are you gonna show me the money?"

Suddenly, a light bulb switched on in Rod Strickland's head. He reached into his pocket and gave me a 50-dollar bill.

Smiling, I put the bill in my pocket, opened up the velvet ropes for Rod Strickland and his two guests and said with as much merriment as I could muster, "Welcome, Mr. Strickland!" I guided them to the cashier booth and told the cashier, "Hey Jane, this is Rod Strickland from the Washington Bullets. These are his two guests. Let 'em on through."

Drug Journey

2004-07-12T05:00:00.000-05:00

One night, during those times when I partied like a rock star: My buddy Julian scored a bunch of ecstasy and acid. We candy flipped and stared at his computer monitor's screen saver for two hours. Billy came over with some weed. The three of us smoked out like Rastafarians.

An alarm in the back of my head started ringing. I had a wedding to go to! I went home to shit, shower and shave. It took me an hour to properly put on my suit. I had problems with the necktie. It felt like I was attempting to turn a snake into a Half Windsor knot.

It took me a while to navigate the snaking roads and shaking highways. Familiar routes seemed frustratingly unfamiliar. The speedometer was melting. My gear shift felt like Silly Putty. Somehow, I made it to the wedding.

One of the bride's maids caught my eye. It was an outdoor wedding, and the gentle breeze made her dress flutter seductively in all the right places. There's no way I could introduce myself to her in the state of mind I was in. The drug-induced feeling of unrequited love dampened my spirits until the musical notes of the wedding recessional tickled my soul.

After making my rounds at the reception, I headed over to Jerry's place to score some blow. I did a few lines there to give me a little clarity, and headed off to my favorite nightclub.

I stood near the dance floor sipping my cocktail, being massaged by bass and caressed by treble. A girl approached me from behind and grabbed my waist. Her scent made sensual gestures inside my nostrils before ingraining itself into my brain.

As I turned around, she locked me in a tight embrace. It was Monica. She had been giving me her number for two months. I kept losing it. She tip-toed in order to put her lips next to my left ear and asked, "Why haven't you called?"

There was no good answer to be conjured, so I bent down and kissed her gently. She slipped her arms under my suit jacket and caressed my back with her hands. I closed my eyes. Monica became the bride's maid, and my love was no longer unrequited.

Our lips departed, and we gazed at each other. I smiled and suggested we find a booth. Monica smiled back at me, pointed to a booth, jabbed a finger at herself and pointed to the bar. She wanted to buy me a drink.

When she joined me at the appointed booth, Monica put her legs over my lap and guided a straw to my mouth. The libation slithered its way down my throat and created a warm fire in the pit of my stomach. "Do I have to get you drunk to take advantage of you?" she asked.

Once again, I traded witty response for a gentle kiss. And once again, I closed my eyes and Monica became the bride's maid. She guided my hand along her inner thigh, up her skirt and revealed to my fingers that she was not wearing any panties. Her moisture warmed my hand, sending an electrical current that went up my arm, down my torso and gave my crotch a gentle jolt.

My bride's maid fantasy was interrupted by Monica's voice: "So, why haven't you called me?"

I conjured up memories of a past heartache, relived the emotion that accompanied it and became a method actor: "I've been meaning to, it's just that..."

Monica sensed heartache, filled in the blanks with her delusion and finished my sentence. "You're afraid of getting hurt?"

Looking away, I nodded. She hugged me warmly and assured me that she wasn't out to hurt me. I excused myself to use the restroom and left the club. My deception spawned guilt. Guilt turned into sadness.

Back in my car, I did more blow. Several lines later, I drove off into the night, back to Julian's place. Billy was still there. The three of us hit some more chronic and stared at Julian's computer screen.

Decadent Bachelor Party

2004-07-11T01:40:00.000-05:00

Ladies, think about every scandalous thing you've ever heard about bachelor parties. They are all true. I just got back home from one. I am guilty of playing a minor role in setting it up.

A couple of nights ago, Phil called me up. He wanted me to head out with him to a local strip club. Our mission: Find two strippers to provide entertainment at the aforementioned bachelor party.

We lucked out. Two of the hottest strippers in the club agreed to perform at the surprise party. Phil exchanged phone numbers with them. We left, happy campers.

Tonight, at Phil's place, everything went according to plan. The two strippers, Alize and Giovanni, put on a strip show for the guest of honor. There was plenty of nudity, whip cream and handcuff action.

By the third song the bachelor's shirt was off and the two girls were naked. By the fourth song, Alize and Giovanni were spraying whip cream on each others genitals and licking each other clean. By the tenth or eleventh song, the bachelor was completely naked and the girls were taking turns giving him a hand job while making out with each other.

At some point, the two strippers and the bachelor were all licking whip cream off of each other in very private places. The 30 or so guys in attendance gathered around, hooting and hollering.

I've always found it strange when a group of guys gather around the television to watch porn. Tonight, I felt odd, observing this large group of guys huddled in closely around three naked people engaged in a porn-like performance.

I needed to get away from the crowd. I went outside, sat in a lawn chair and looked up at the stars. Giovanni came out a few minutes after me to take a break and ask me for a cigarette. She was kind enough to record this audioblog for all of you.

Warning: This entry contains explicit adult language of a sexual nature. If you are a prude, please do not listen.

Cussing in Korean

2004-07-10T01:43:00.000-05:00

Tonight, a couple of my Korean buddies called me. They wanted me to go drinking with them. These are the same guys who introduced me to the world of room salons.

Well, we didn't go to a room salon tonight. We ended up at a hostess bar. A hostess bar is one step down from a room salon. The girls are not as attractive, they don't expect you to spend as much money and so on. The biggest difference is that you don't have your own separate room to hang out in.

My Korean-language skills are non-existent. "Kimchi" is about the only thing I know how to say. So after a few servings of Black Label, I asked one of my buddies to ask the girls to teach me how to cuss in Korean. After all, that's the first thing we learn when picking up a foreign language, right? If you're interested, lesson one is below, in the form of an audioblog.

Note: I was pretty drunk when this audioblog call was made. I forgot the translation. If I have any Korean-speaking readers out there, please feel free to post a translation here. Thanks!

Friendly Racial Profiling

2004-07-09T00:10:00.000-05:00

Early 90s, Seoul, Korea: I was riding the subway. Two other Americans were in the same car. Obviously GIs, obviously lost and obviously lacking in Korean-language skills. Unfamiliar with the urban jungle of Seoul, I was unable to guide them.

Frantically, the two soldiers scanned a map of Seoul's ever-expanding web of subway lines. Was it Myeong-dong or Namyeong? They decided on Myeong-dong, and concluded that they were on the wrong line for either destination. They tried to formulate a plan to get back on track.

A seemingly Korean fellow had been watching the two soldiers try to navigate the subway map for several kilometers. As the train slowed down for the next stop, he gave the soldiers exact directions to their desired destination. His English was flawless. If I had to guess, his accent was west coast American.

The two soldiers paused and stared, jaws gaping. In disbelief, one GI asked, "You're American?"

"Yea," said the Korean-American, smiling. "What'd you think I was?"

Soldier #2: "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"You never asked," he replied, chuckling. "Good luck."

I joined the three of them, laughing. After a round of thanks, the Korean-American exited the car and went on his way.

Recently, in my town: I was riding the subway. Two other guys were sitting nearby. One guy was Asian, the other was white. They looked like old buddies.

Both of them were in business attire. They seemed to be deciding on where to eat lunch. I would have offered them a suggestion or two, but the common practice around these parts is to mind your own business.

Their conversation was interrupted by a middle-aged Caucasian woman who asked the Asian guy, "Excuse me, where are you from?"

"Atlanta," he replied with a slight southern drawl, smiling politely.

After a brief pause, the two suits continued their conversation.

Another awkward interjection from the white lady: "It's just that I saw the two of you wearing suits and figured you might be from Japan, here on business."

Without missing a beat, the Asian suit said, "Actually, this here is my old buddy Eckert from Germany. He's never been to America before, so I thought I'd show him around."

There was a moment of silence, followed by laughter from the white suit. The Asian suit joined in. I couldn't help chuckling. The woman looked down, embarrassed.

Women Are Pigs

2004-07-07T23:59:00.000-05:00

In many years I've worked in many different nightclubs. I've endured just about every type of music genre and dealt with just about every type of crowd. There are more differences than similarities, when looking at every group as a whole.

There is, however, one common denominator among all nightclub crowds: Women are the messiest creatures put on this earth. Girls might metaphorically refer to guys as pigs or dogs. I will have to say that girls are literally sows and bitches when using the restroom.

After a busy night in a nightclub, the worst thing you may encounter in the men's room is a puddle or two of puke or piss that missed a urinal or toilet. Take a look in the women's room, and you'll find that it looks like the Tasmanian Devil spent the night twirling away in there.

In addition to the puddle or two of vomit, you'll most likely find the following: Clogged up toilets because one too many a female decided to try and flush a tampon or sanitary napkin. Menstrual blood on the toilet seats. Yards of toilet paper scattered about, dampening in the little puddles of urine and menstrual blood. Stacks of toilet seat covers dampening in the same puddles of bodily fluids. You get the picture.

I've asked many a female, in jest, why it is that females are so much messier than males. They all giggle, act cute and say, "I don't know, but I don't make that kind of mess in the women's room."

Am I missing something? Is it just one-percent of the female population that is making 99-percent of the mess? Or is it that I've only been talking to neat and tidy girls?

I don't know the answers to these questions. But it seems that no one wants to 'fess up to all the mess.

Mending an Agreement

2004-07-06T06:14:00.000-05:00

My parents used to argue a lot. The arguments frequently turned violent, and my mother endured many beatings. She asked for a divorce on many occasions.

On one such occasion, my father told her that he would grant her a divorce. But if he did, she would never see her children again. I was in elementary school at the time.

We, the children, were summoned into the master bedroom by our mother. She showed us a handwritten agreement. I don't remember the exact wording that was used on that sheet of notebook paper. It was something like: "If mom and dad are divorced, we would like to be able to see our mother."

There were hand-drawn lines for us to place our signatures. We sobbed as we read the document and signed it. Mother held us in her arms, weeping.

Father stormed into the room, grabbed the sheet of paper and ripped it into many little pieces. He threw the pieces into the wastebasket and left.

Mother collected the ripped bits of paper out of the wastebasket. She wept silently as she carefully taped our agreement back together.

Vicious Catfight

2004-07-04T06:48:00.000-05:00

I’ll never forget the worst catfight I’ve ever had to break up. It happened years ago at closing time, when we were kicking everyone out of the club. A fight broke out between two black girls. One of them was obese. The other was obese and pregnant.

Me and another bouncer, Reggie, saw the scuffle near the front door and rushed over to break it up. I grabbed a girl, and Reggie grabbed the other one. At first, we couldn’t pull them apart from each other. They had quite a grip on each other. The pregnant one was getting kicked in her gut repeatedly.

As it turned out, both girls had their hands wrapped tightly in each others’ hair weaves. When we finally were able to pull them away from each other, each of them had a fistful of weaves.

Thankfully, their friends were in no mood to escalate the brawl. Each group took a girl and hauled her away, dragging and kicking.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and looked at the ground. Hair weaves were scattered about all over the pavement. I tapped Reggie on the shoulder and pointed down. We both had a good laugh.

Keep on Walking

2004-07-04T06:19:00.000-05:00

The bar looked nice, but there was no Black Label.

That's why I walked to another bar.

One Last Fling

2004-07-03T06:19:00.000-05:00

This girl I know asked me today, "What is the most scandalous thing you've seen while working in a nightclub?" The story I told her happened about 11 years ago:

I was a bouncer back then. It was a slow night. There were only two of us watching the floor. I didn't anticipate much action, because the bulk of the crowd was comprised of a wedding party. The bride and groom to be, as it turned out, were to be wed the very next day.

They were pretty mellow, with the exception of their incessant disco requests. I got bored and went into the kitchen to make myself a pizza.

When I finished my midnight snack and got back to work, the wedding party was leaving abruptly. Jake, the other bouncer, followed closely behind. Although he was grinning, it appeared that the wedding party was being ejected from the premises.

After they all left, Jake started laughing. Apparently, he caught a couple from the wedding party fooling around in a dark corner. The guy was getting a blowjob. Jake snuck up on them and said, "Hey man, take your dick out of her mouth put it back in your pants. Both of you gotta go."

The couple gathered up the rest of the wedding party and and made a hasty exit.

One of the bartenders, Daria, found out later that the wedding party left because two members of the group were ejected. She asked why they had been asked to leave. Jake told her the story. He described the two people responsible for the group's early departure. Darla looked at him in disbelief: "No way! The bride was giving the best man head?"

"How do you know it was the best man and not the groom?" I asked Daria. She told us that she knew one of the bride's maids, and was introduced to the whole wedding party.

Talk about "one last fling before marriage." Wow. The bride sucking the best man's dick in a dark corner, while the groom is obliviously enjoying a cocktail at the bar in the same nightclub. Scandalous, indeed.

Divorce From Hell

2004-07-02T02:44:00.000-05:00

I spoke to my buddy Phil tonight. He's going through a messy divorce with his wife Cammie. It's been less than three years since they tied the knot.

To tell you the truth, their whole relationship didn't start off on the right foot. They started dating about 11 years ago, after Cammie and Phil's best friend Gabriel broke up. She hooked up with Phil to get back at Gabriel for breaking up with her.

Their relationship was riddled with infidelities on both sides. Thus, it was no surprise to me when I heard that a little after their two-year wedding anniversary, Cammie traveled to Europe to commit an act of adultery with a guy she had been corresponding with via e-mail.

Apparently, all of her family members knew of the affair. Phil was the last to know. They tried to work it out, but after trying as hard as he could, Phil came to the conclusion that divorce was the only cure for his angst. But Cammie refused to sign the divorce papers.

Up until about a few months ago, their home was divided into territories. Each of them stuck to their side of the house. One morning, Phil had to enter Cammie's part of the house. He found some other guy lounging around half naked in the master bedroom.

Phil ended up beating the guy unconscious. He waited for him to wake up and beat him some more. The poor schmuck had to get one of his ears stitched back onto his head. It was after this incident that Phil decided it would be best if he found himself his own house. He moved out, and she still wouldn't sign the divorce papers.

A few months ago, I was having a few drinks with Phil in a nightclub I used to work in. Cammie found out he was there, so she decided to show up with another certifiable head case named Paula (a psycho ex-girlfriend of mine). Phil decided to be the bigger man and left through the back door.

That was about the last time we talked. And at that point in time, she was still refusing to sign those divorce papers.

Back to my phone conversation with Phil: Evidently, the latest bit of drama unraveled a few weeks back when Cammie paid for a round-trip ticket for one of his buddies (who lives out of town) to come spend some time with her. It was a weekend fuckfest at her place.

It seems as if Cammie wants to make Phil's life a living hell. She's successfully wreaking havoc on his personal relationships while refusing to sign the divorce papers. If she were to have her head examined, Cammie would most likely be diagnosed as having Borderline Personality Disorder.

One the one hand, it's not a surprise that Cammie's relationship with Phil would end the same way it began: Becoming intimate with a guy to get back at his friend. But on the other hand, I feel for my buddy. No one should have to suffer this kind of psychological torment.

Funny Money

2004-07-01T06:44:00.000-05:00

If you're in a cash business, you'll always run into counterfeit bills. In a high-volume sales environment, like a nightclub, your chances of dealing with funny money increases exponentially. Moreover, if in your dimly-lit establishment your bartenders get overwhelmed by mobs of liquor-thirsty clubbers, the chances of getting stuck with phony currency will be that much greater.

On a particularly busy night, my bartenders took in a total of $300 in counterfeit bills. It wasn't quite closing time, so I was able to investigate the matter, and found that all three phony $100 bills came from the same guy. There were a few off-duty cops hanging out in the club that night. I let them know that someone was using funny money at the bar.

Cops drank free at our place. So naturally, they had a vested interest in whether or not we were making rent. I pointed out the counterfeiter. One of the cops, BIll, had been drinking heavily. "Are you sure that's the guy?" he asked me.

After I nodded, the other two cops (John and Brett) grabbed the suspect, frisked him for weapons and presented him to me in the VIP room. I asked the counterfeiter to empty out his pockets. He paused and gave me a puzzled look. John smacked the guy on the back of the head with an open hand and told him to empty his pockets or they'd be emptied for him. Funny Money Man complied.

The contents of his pockets included keys, Tic Tacs, some loose change and about $1,200 cash wrapped in a rubber band. I took the wad of cash, counted half and put it into my pocket. I wrapped the other half and tossed it back into the guy's face. I told him never to come back.

Bill waited for the guy to collect his things before grabbing him by the back of his collar and dragging him out of the club. He took him around the corner into an alley, put his fingers around the guy's throat and told him to listen very carefully. Bill then outlined the boundaries of his police precinct. "This nightclub is in the middle of my precinct," said Bill. "If I ever see you in my precinct again, I can guarantee you that you won't walk out of it. You got that?"

"Yea," replied Funny Money Man. He looked scared.

"Now get the fuck out of my face."

I went back into the club with my three buddies and we sat in the VIP room. I bought us all drinks and gave each of them a hundred bucks as a finder's fee. The remaining $300 covered what was originally lost due to customer fraud. There's nothing like swift justice.

Not so Gay Marriage

2004-06-30T02:28:00.000-05:00

The other day I saw this show on television, which featured a guy who was going through a sex change. He had been married to his wife for 25 years, and together they had this 13-year-old daughter. I knew a lawyer once who was handling a divorce case in which a woman was divorcing her husband of over 20 years because he was having an affair with a 19-year-old boy.

These kinds of stories always give me a good chuckle. I can never understand why a person could not realize that her spouse is gay. I mean, a female friend of mine was dating this gay guy years ago, and she used to cry on my shoulders all the time because their relationship was always on the rocks. I tried to tell her that her man was gay. She never listened. I guess love is blind.

Just the other night, I found out that a woman I know personally is going through a divorce. As it turns out, her husband is gay. I hate to admit it, but I found myself laughing at her dilemma.

After I was done laughing (I know, I shouldn't have), a couple of thoughts came to mind: Firstly, how could you enter a nuptial situation without knowing that your prospective spouse swings the other way? When you really get to know someone, you have plenty of opportunities to see what kind of person s/he is, be it sexual orientation or other personal tidbits. I guess most people are not that observant, and this is why they always find themselves in compromising situations.

My second thought: Why the hell would you marry a woman if you are a gay man? It's one thing to be gay. Fine, that's your personal preference. But why would you want to mislead another person, and ruin her life just to hide your sexual orientation?

Sure, I understand that society at large is not accepting of homosexual people and all that. But at some point in your life, you have to own up to your choices (lifestyle or otherwise) and face the world without dragging other people through your own identity crisis or drama.

I'm not saying that society doesn't need to change. I believe the government should allow gay marriages. I believe gay people should not have to face discrimination in the work place. But I also believe that if you are a grown adult, you should be aware that any choice you make has consequences. And if you are not willing to deal with those consequences, make another choice.

Love Dream

2004-06-29T02:26:00.000-05:00

I had a dream about her the other night: My mobile phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but answered the call. It was her. She told me she was in a town about half an hour from where I live. She told me she needed to see me. We arranged a meeting time. After I got off the phone, I realized that I wasn't sure of our meeting time or place because of the language barrier between us.

Many thoughts ran through my head. I thought of not showing up. After a while, I decided I did want to see her, and set out to go meet her. I was unsure about the time, so I called her back on the number she called me from. There was no answer. Only an outgoing message, which said that there is no voice mailbox on the number I was attempting to dial. I figured she was using a pre-paid phone.

As I was driving down the street, I became overwhelmed by the feeling of anxiety. I felt as if there were so many things I wanted to say to her, but now I'd never have the chance because she would have too much pride to call me after I stood her up. And I had no way to even leave her a message.

When I woke up from this dream, it took me a couple of hours before I was relieved of my anxiety. I felt heavy and burdened. I was also confused.

During my waking hours, I never even think about her. I did see her about a week ago in the bar she used to work in. She told me she wasn't going on that trip anymore, and that she quit her job at the bar. I was surprised to see her, because I thought she was already gone. I didn't even bother to ask what her plans were. She tried calling about an hour after I left the place. I didn't bother to pick up her call.

I can't figure out why I was so overwhelmed with anxiety after waking up from that dream. My feelings for this girl have faded away. Why did I dream of loving her?

In the Club

2004-06-29T01:09:00.000-05:00

I was out of town and clubbing when I met these girls. Cities with friendly natives are cool.

Arab Snuff Videos

2004-06-28T02:03:00.000-05:00

I hate to admit it, but I am guilty of watching the South Korean hostage beheading video. I've also seen the Nick Berg video. I've even seen the Daniel Pearl beheading on my PC. Arab snuff videos are like train wrecks. You can't help but watch.

My gut reaction upon watching the Kim Sun Il murder was outrage. It was the same outrage I had when I watched Nick Berg and Daniel Pearl get their heads sliced off: What a bunch of savages!

After watching the latest Arab snuff video, and after experiencing the usual disgust and outrage, I thought a little bit more about what these terrorists were doing. It dawned on me that although their actions are indeed savage and brutal, maybe there is some sort of method to their madness.

We can all agree that there is no way these terrorists, or any of their supporters, would ever be able to win a conventional war with America and her allies. So these beheading videos (along with hiding behinds civilians while shooting at American troops and other cowardly actions) are really the only thing these assholes have in their arsenal against their enemies. Maybe they can't beat our (and our allies') troops, but they can hope to turn the world's public opinion against the war on terrorism.

In a way, the terrorists' tactics remind me of quite a few pencil-necked assholes that i've had to deal with in my various nightclub jobs. The ones who will pick a fight with someone, but will be the first to dial 9-1-1 when the shit really hits the fan.

I'm not trying to equate pencil-necked assholes with Arab terrorists. I'm just saying that both groups use cowardly, but smart, methods when dealing with their foes. They just do it on different levels.

The terrorists use cowardly methods and the media in an attempt to convince the rest of the world that they are not the bad guys, hoping that the world's public opinion will force America (and her allies) to pull out the troops. The pencil-necked geek picks a fight and when the other guy throws a punch, calls the police to present himself as a victim. Then he hopes to have his foe arrested, forcing him to deal with future legal problems.

Again, I'm not saying that the latter person is terrorist-like. I'm merely pointing out two examples of a weaker opponent, when confronted with a mightier foe, using alternate means and tactics in an attempt to win his battle.

I just wish there was a way we could round up all these terrorist assholes and put them in front of a firing squad. And I think that's a humane way to dispose of them, considering how Mr. Kim, Mr. Berg and Mr. Pearl were inhumanely slaughtered.

Lolita Wasn't My Lady

2004-06-27T07:49:00.000-05:00

I saw a girl tonight that I haven't seen in quite a while. She used to be a regular at a nightclub I used to work in. Dani definitely has a tight little package. She could be pretty, but she paints her face like a whore. It's kind of scary to look at. Anyway, when I saw her tonight, she walked right by me and pretended she didn't know me.

In a way, I don't really blame her. Dani developed this strange sort of fascination with me a few years ago. I was really annoyed by her, because she was as dumb as a rock.

One night, I was in my apartment, relaxing and watching TV. I don't know how Dani found out where I lived (because I never tell anyone where I live, and never have guests in my place), but she did. She came over with some other girl.

I didn't want to be rude, so I let them in. Dani introduced me to her girlfriend, who proceeded to make herself at home on my couch and started channel surfing on my television. Dani told me she needed to talk to me, and went into my bedroom. Admiring the view from my bedroom window, she told me I had a nice apartment. She then took a seat on my bed, and sat there looking at me seductively.

"Is everything OK?" I asked.

Dani started drawing invisible semi circles in my carpet with the big toe of her right foot. She leaned back and assured me everything was alright. "But I need to borrow some money," she said.

The girl didn't know me well enough to be borrowing money from me, so I pointed out my window: "There's an ATM about two blocks down the street."

She quickly changed the subject, and made herself really comfortable on my bed. She lay on her side, and asked me to sit with her. There was this "Come over here and sex me up" look in her eyes.

I checked my watch. It was about 3 a.m. "You know, it's getting pretty late. It might be a good idea if you and your girlfriend went home."

It took me about ten minutes, but I finally got the girls out of my place. I looked around to see if anything was missing. I was relieved to find that nothing was stolen.

A few weeks later, Dani wanted to hang out with me before I had to go to work at the club. I was in her general area, so I agreed to meet up with her. I was on time. She was ten minutes late. I called her. "I'll be there in five minutes," she told me.

Thirty minutes later, I got tired of waiting and left. Dani called me ten minutes after that, and asked where I was. I told her I was tired of waiting for her and left. She started crying, saying that she was dropped off and was stuck without a ride. "There's a bus stop about a block from you," I told her.

That was on a Saturday night, as I recall. Sunday rolled around. Another club hoochie, Annie, called me up and asked me if I was dating Dani. Apparently, Dani had been going around telling a bunch of people that I was her boyfriend. I flatly denied any involvement with her.

Annie was somewhat relieved. "You know the girl is only 17, don't you?"

I was stunned. I had no idea the girl was that young. Dani told me she was 22. I can't tell you how glad I was not to have had sex with her the night she came over uninvited.

The next weekend, I told every bouncer not to let her into the club regardless of what ID she showed them. Dani showed up at the front door, and asked one of the bouncers to go get me. I told that bouncer to tell her that he couldn't find me.

A few girls came up to me and told me, "Your girlfriend is trying to get into the club."

I was frustrated and angry, but tried not to show it. "I don't have a girlfriend," I told them, denying any rumor that said Dani and I were an item. The girls looked genuinely confused.

Back to tonight. I had a sick, fleeting thought: Dani must be 20 by now, and I haven't been laid in months. I immediately brushed the thought out of my head, and walked on by, pretending I didn't see her.

Lost Pen Pal Found

2004-06-26T03:51:00.000-05:00

I only met her once in person. She was in town performing in a large theatre production. The total length of our conversation couldn't have been more than 45 minutes. We never spoke on the phone after that. A few weeks later, she sent me a flyer from another stage production she was in, thousands of miles away. There was a brief note penned on the back, and she included her address. We became pen pals.

There's something about writing and receiving hand-written letters that you just can't get from e-mail or instant messaging. A letter is much more personal and thoughtful than most e-mail correspondence. I found myself waiting for the mail man more frequently than I'd like to admit, waiting to see if I'd get an envelope with her handwriting on it. I'd laugh at myself sometimes, because I felt like a child.

We wrote to each other for several months. At one point, it was her turn to write, and I never received a letter. I waited for weeks, still no letter. I briefly entertained the thought of calling directory assistance in her city. But I quickly dismissed the idea, thinking that it would be an odd thing to do. Months went by, and it appeared that we lost touch.

A few years went by. I was watching a movie with my girlfriend (at the time). And guess who pops up on the silver screen? My pen pal! I couldn't believe it at first. I was so fixated on trying to figure out if it was her or not, that I missed a lot of dialogue. I wasn't absolutely positive until I saw her name in the end credits.

I couldn't help but to feel immensely proud of my pen pal. She had a dream, reached for it and was able to grasp it. I just feel fortunate to be acquainted with a person who is living her dream, even though we are no longer in touch.

A Heathen Am I

2004-06-24T02:27:00.002-05:00

According to the Good Book, I am in league with Satan because I'm a person of the night. Click on the title of this post to read about how I am trapped in darkness, and am up to no good.

Drunken Scorn

2004-06-24T02:01:00.000-05:00

Several years ago, on a slow night at the nightclub I was working in, I found myself bored and impatiently waiting for the night to end. The arrival of two freaky girls who proceeded to get their lesbo on was a welcome distraction, and would turn into high drama. To understand the events that unfolded on that cold, rainy fall night, a prologue is in order:

Alex was an active duty Marine stationed at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island. He was on leave and visiting Bryce, a bouncer working at the same club as me. The day before he left our fair city to go back to the Island, he met Jana at some other nightclub.

The two lovebirds seemed to hit it off well. During the next month, he came back here to visit her about four times. She, in turn, endured the sand fleas of South Carolina to visit him.

Jana was a single mother of two, living below the poverty line. Alex was a lonely active duty serviceman with a steady income. There was also the potential for more government-issued income, should she and her kids become his dependants. Was it true love, or was it a potentially symbiotic relationship? Who am I to say?

Back to that cold, rainy fall night:

The two lovebirds sung a song of discord during a long distance communiqué. I am not privy to the details, but what I do know is that one hung up on the other.

Later that night, Jana showed up at the club, with her friend Sandy. Bryce thought it was odd to see his friend’s lover at the club, as she didn’t even like it there. He found out that Jana and Alex had a long-distance lover’s quarrel. Bryce deduced that Jana came down to the club to sow the seed of discontent in that Marine so far, far away. She would do this by getting drunk and acting foolish, and letting the rumors get back to Alex.

By midnight, both girls were tipsy. They went out to the dance floor began freaking each other. Freak dancing turned into kissing. Kissing turned into a horizontal romp in the 69 position.

A pack of young males formed a circle around the two girls putting on their freak show. They stared with glazed looks in their eyes, licking their lips and salivating like dogs circling around a fresh slab of red meat.

Out of concern for his friend Alex, Bryce went out to the dance floor, grabbed both women by their arms and dragged them to a secluded corner of the club. Another bouncer kept watch on them, hoping they would sober up.

After closing time, Bryce took both ladies to his place to let them sober up in his room. He took to the couch. His slumber was interrupted by the sounds of Jana and Sandy having sex in his bedroom. They called for him to join in. He told me he refused their offer.

If it were any one of my other guys, I would not have believed it. But Bryce is a man of his word; a true man of honor.

Thus, Bryce lay on his couch, wondering how he would explain this situation to his good friend Alex. At the crack of dawn, the girls were ready to leave. Jana pleaded for Bryce not to tell Alex about the events that transpired: “He’s so good to my kids. I don’t want to lose him.”

Bryce agreed to keep it on the low. Unfortunately, Jana was not as discreet. It seemed that Jana, after pleading for Bryce’s discretion, turned around and called Alex to tell him about everything that happened. She added the embellishment of Bryce’s involvement in a ménage à trois.

Alex was angry when he called his old friend to confront him about Jana’s version of the story. Bryce steadfastly denied the torrid allegation and asked, “Are you going to believe some skank over a friend you’ve known all your life?”

To this Alex retorted: “Just because I’ve only known this girl for a month doesn’t mean we don’t have something special.”

This is the drama that ended years of friendship. Many guys would like to believe they adhere to the adage, “Bros before hoes.” The vast majority of them, in reality, sing to a different tune.

Hungry Crack Fiend

2004-06-23T03:09:00.000-05:00

I made my way back home late last night. I drove through a bad neighborhood, which is in the process of being gentrified. I stopped by a 24-hour supermarket for a pack of smokes. A canned food donation bin outside the entrance greeted customers as they walked in. Some crack fiend was rummaging through the bin.

At first, I felt a twinge of anger upon seeing the food donation bin being pillaged. After a while, I figured the guy must be hungry and broke so hell, he must have needed some food. The thought of a broke and hungry guy raiding a food donation bin didn't seem so bad.

Then, after thinking about it some more, I got a little angry again. This fucking pooh butt, who is spending all his money on crack (and not food), is depriving some poor child of dinner. All of a sudden, I was compelled to pistol whip the asshole. But I wasn't about to go to jail for smacking around a junkie. So instead, I went about the business of purchasing my smokes.

On my way out, another thought struck me: Maybe this pooh butt was stealing canned food to sell it, to save the money for his next fix. For some reason, I couldn't stop chuckling.

UFOs

2004-06-22T04:08:00.000-05:00

I think I might have seen a UFO tonight. There was a point of light, that looked like a star at first, zipping across the night sky. I couldn't tell how far away it was, so I couldn't guess how fast the thing was moving. It didn't look like a shooting star. Whatever she was, her movement was pretty erratic.

Damn. I've been sober all night. Maybe it was a just weather balloon.

I'm sleeping with my pistol underneath my pillow tonight. Just in case some little green fellow has any ideas about trying to give me an anal probe.

Give Me Some Blue Label... and a Smoke

2004-06-21T22:30:00.000-05:00

Johnnie not only drinks, he used to smoke too!

The Life and Times of My Monkey (part II)

2004-06-21T02:56:00.000-05:00

About six months after I severed my cocaine ties, I ran into an old acquaintance. He had a line on some really good ecstasy. It had been seven years or so since I tried any MDMA, but I did have many fond memories of it. I decided to give it another whirl.

An hour or so after dropping my first hit, I noticed that the high was a little different than what I remembered. My eyeballs would involuntarily twitch from time to time. But other than that, the high was quite enjoyable. Everything was beautiful.

Over the next year, I noticed that many of the regulars at the club I was working in started doing ecstasy. To tell you the truth, that year passed by as somewhat of a blur. I was making a lot of money, and dropping a lot of e-bombs. I remember this period of time as the year of hugs, kisses and confessions.

One night, this girl I know came down to the club. I’ll call her Candy. Anyway, we were both high as a kite. We made conversation that didn’t make much sense, and began kissing each other passionately. I led her to a back hallway, where we continued to kiss and grope each other. Eventually, a bouncer walked in on us and laughed, patting me on the back. He told me that the club owner was on his way, and that I’d better get out of dodge.

I knew my girlfriend was inside the club somewhere, and I started getting a little bit paranoid. I wiped off Candy’s lipstick, and made my way back to the crowd.

Female regulars on ecstasy revealed a lot of personal information to me that year. There was a real feeling of openness. Abortions, infidelities and family problems made up the bulk of their drug-induced confessions. I wiped many tears from many different faces.

There was one girl, Tammy, who proposed marriage to me after telling me her deepest family secrets. Although her proposal was ecstasy induced, I was flattered. I reminded her that I was 12 years her senior, and told her she was a little too young for me. Tammy looked upon me with puppy eyes as she hugged me tightly and asked, “Will you wait for me?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell Tammy that I had a girlfriend, who was jealously glaring at her.

The bliss and beauty of that year did have a dark side to it. Many of the club girls who were flying high over the weekend always crashed hard during the week. I dealt with a lot of suicidal ramblings.

My own depression was made worse by the continued drug use. The wall between my girlfriend and I became increasingly insurmountable. It eventually destroyed our relationship.

At the time, my rationale for our failing relationship was that she couldn’t understand where I was coming from because she was completely drug and alcohol free. She decided to drop ecstasy with me one night. We made love after the drugs kicked in, and it was one of the best fuck sessions we’d ever had. But in the end, it was just an illusion; a temporary diversion from the inevitable path which led to separation.

After a year, the world wasn’t such a beautiful place anymore. I’d drop 15 e-bombs in one night, and not even get the same kind of high I got a year earlier dropping one or two. Flowers looked like weeds. Life felt like a dark, neverending tunnel. I became a pain in the ass to my friends and family. They had no clue as to my drug habit. I found myself contemplating suicide.

One of my friends had a heart to heart talk with me one day. She was finally able to reach me. I ready for a change. I came to my senses. I stopped the insanity.

Today, the world may not seem all that beautiful. But at least it’s real.

Previously: The Life and Times of My Monkey (part I)

Not Quite a Booty Call

2004-06-20T06:45:00.000-05:00

Not too long ago, I got a call from this girl I hang out with from time to time. I'll call her Judy. It was pretty late, considering she's more of a day person. She wanted me to go over there, but was being pretty coy about it. I asked if she wanted me to come over. She did.

I met Judy a while back in a nightclub. We were making out once, and she told me she was infatuated with me. She asked me what I felt about her. I suppose I could have lied and told her I felt the same, but that just isn't my style. I told her that I was actually really into this other girl.

Needless to say, I didn't get laid that night.

Anyway, back to my story: I went over to Judy's place. By the time I got there, the sun was up and day people were already on their way to Starbuck's to get their morning caffeine fix. She was telling me about some of her asinine boy problems, and I sat there tuning her out, peppering my side of the conversation with the occasional, "Uh, huh," "Really?" and "Wow." I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted her to shut up and just start sucking my dick.

Judy asked me to lay down with her and hold her. I obliged, guessing that it would lead to something else. I tried to kiss her, but she told me that she didn't want to go any further than that. I stopped. I've never been the kind of guy to force a girl into a sexual situation. I always respect "no," even when it really means "yes."

Immediately after I stopped my advances, she locked lips with me and slid her tongue into my mouth. After kissing her for a while, I undid her bra and started sucking on her nipples. And after that, I started eating her out.

On several occasions, in many different conversations, Judy had complained to me that her boyfriend was no good in bed. It seems that the guy was too much of a "neat freak," and didn't like oral sex, unless he was on the receiving end. She also complained, because he was never able to give her an orgasm. I figured that if I was able to make her come good and hard, I would be reciprocated.

After making her come twice, I was ready for a blow job. But the orgasms made Judy comatose, and she started falling asleep. Although I was pretty disappointed, I convinced her that everything was okay and that she could get me back later. She wanted me stick around and cuddle with her as she fell asleep, but all I could think about was the comfort of my own mattress.

Before I go any further, I'll be the first to admit that I am not the greatest looker in the world. But there was something about Judy that kind of turned me off. The girl has short, stocky legs and her breasts don't quite fill up her "A" cup bra. I suppose you can hide a lot of things with clothes. It kind of grossed me out, finally seeing her naked.

For the next few days, Judy wouldn't stop calling me. I picked up the phone on one occasion, and she went on and on about some guy she was having problems figuring out. I was so disinterested that I told her that I was late for a meeting. I told her to call me back later, and turned off my phone.

It seems really hard to find a good booty call these days.

Burdened

2004-06-18T19:33:00.000-05:00

A recent series of trips made me feel burdened. I'll keep the reason for my travels to myself for now, but these monuments really came to symbolize how I felt about being in airports, on planes and in hotels for an extended period of time.

I felt burdened in Vegas. Maybe because of the heat.

I even felt burdened in Atlanta.

Burdened some more in New York City.

Psycho Love Shrine

2004-06-18T02:08:00.000-05:00

Paula was the queen of all psychos. Something in her head just wasn’t right. I should have seen her psycho tendencies coming. But what can I say? I was just an ignorant fool back then.

I can’t deny that the clues were all there. It started with little things. Like the first time we got into an argument. I left her apartment to go cool off. She stole my phone book and called ex-girlfriends or any other girl she thought seemed too friendly. She threatened a few of them.

Then there were the missing phone numbers. After any given Friday or Saturday night, I would have a pocketful of phone numbers from other girls. Names, numbers and lip marks on cocktail napkins and matchbooks. They’d all mysteriously disappear each morning after spending the night at Paula’s apartment.

After a several months of these juvenile shenanigans, I had just about all I could take, and decided to hit the road for good. She called and left messages. She begged me for a second chance. I caved in.

When I got to Paula’s apartment, I was greeted by a disturbing sight. Every flower I had ever given her was dried and placed neatly upright against her bedroom walls. The two dead flower trails went from the door to the opposing wall, and ended at the head of her mattress.

A photo of us together was placed on a pillow. The photo frame had been snapped into several pieces. The glass was broken in three pieces. The photo itself had been ripped. Everything was neatly taped back together.

Boy George’s song, “The Crying Game,” billowed out of Paula’s boombox. It was turned up too loud, creating sound distortion.

The music sounded like a ritualistic song. Her bedroom was a shrine to lost love. The bed was an altar. I couldn’t help but to think that I would be sacrificed on it.

Paula moved in closely and told me she wanted to make love. I just wanted to fuck. Hormones triumphed over reason.

When we finished, I got dressed and was ready to leave. She became enraged. “So, you’re just going to fuck me and leave?”

I was stunned, and unintentionally blurted, “I guess so.” She picked up a telephone and hurled it at me. It missed my head by a few inches and broke a mirror. I quickly made my way to the front door.

She was still naked when she got up to chase me. I felt her hand grabbing my arm. I broke free of her grip and ran out the door. She gave chase naked, cursing until she saw a neighbor and ran back to her apartment.

On the way back home, my pager rang every minute for about 20 minutes. I received dozens of voice mails — angry ones, followed by apologetic ones again followed by angry ones. Her last message was a plea for another chance.

I should have listened to reason and stayed away. But what can I say? Hormones triumphed over reason.

Chocolate Smiles

2004-06-17T05:31:00.000-05:00

During my tour of duty as nightclub doorman, I must have encountered hundreds of girls who were willing to fornicate or otherwise sleaze their way to VIP status. As hot as many of them were, the funny thing is that I don't remember any of them: their names, faces or what they were all about.

There is one girl I do remember and think of from time to time. I don't remember her name. Even her face is fading out of my memory now. She wasn't some sleazy chick trying to fuck her way into the club. But she did try to get in with some other girl's driver's license. Since I don't remember her name, I'll call her Lynne.

When I checked Lynne's ID, I knew immediately she was using someone else's license, and confiscated it. Instead of getting angry, Lynne asked me if I would please consider giving the ID back to her, promising that she would never try to come back until she turned 21.

She wasn't even trying to charm the ID out of me, but I couldn't help but be charmed by her. I asked Lynne for her her real ID, and found out she was a 20-year-old foreign student. Three years younger than me, I thought. I felt compelled to try and get to know her better: "Let's make a deal," I told her. "Come back here after I get off of work and take me out to breakfast, and I'll think about giving you this ID back."

Lynne agreed.

After I helped close shop, I left the club and found Lynne waiting for me in her car. She took me out to a late night Chinese joint. I don't remember our conversation. The girl didn't speak much English, so we couldn't have had much to say to each other. But I do remember that we were both smiling a lot.

It wasn't the kind of smiling you see between two people who are trying to mask nervousness, discomfort or an awkward silence. It was as if we knew each other from some distant yet fond past. I'm not quite sure how else to describe it.

She paid the bill. I gave her the driver's license back. We kept in touch.

The two of us began seeing each other, but it didn't last long. You see, as charmed as I was by her smile and overall cuteness, she was simply too slow for me. My hormones had the better of me during those years, and I thought it was silly to waste time with a girl who wasn't putting out. I stopped calling her.

Although I stopped calling her, she continued to try and keep in touch with me for a few months. But her messages would go unreturned. After all, there were plenty of other girls to debauch.

One night, Lynne stopped by the club with a few of her friends. She smiled and said, "Hi." The girl showed absolutely no sign of anger, spite or sadness. She just had this warm smile and looked at me fondly.

I couldn't help but smile back at her. "You know I can't let you in here, right?"

She told me she didn't want to go into the club, but came by to give me something. She pulled out a Cadbury chocolate bar from her purse. It was the kind with fruits and nuts in it. She handed it to me and smiled.

"Thanks," I said, warmly smiling.

Lynne smiled, waved and walked away with her friends. I waved back. That was the last time I saw or heard from her.

The Life and Times of My Monkey (part I)

2004-06-16T04:07:00.000-05:00

My fascination with the night began early in life. My mother would say that this nocturnal proclivity began in the womb, when she was working graveyard shifts until her pregnancy got the better of her.

Be that as it may, my childhood and teenage nighttime activities were not very noteworthy. Late nights meant watching “Night Flight” instead of MTV because my parents couldn’t afford cable. All in all, I was a pretty good kid. I wasn’t out there getting girls pregnant or getting arrested for petty crimes. And drugs were the last thing on my mind.

Somewhere along the line, years after I had left the nest, something went wrong. I can’t say it was because I was enjoying freedom for the first time and didn’t know how to handle it responsibly. After all, it had been several years since I moved out of my parents’ house. I can’t say it was because my folks were either too loose or too tight, because they were not laissez faire, nor were they overbearing.

My introduction to the world of drugs was with a little bit of chronic, although I’m not quite sure we were calling it “the chronic” back then. Perhaps we referred to it as “Mary Jane” or simply, “weed.” It’s all a haze to me. It was a friend’s birthday and someone started passing around the peace pipe. I found it to be a very pleasant experience.

A few years later, a friend invited me to something called a “rave.” I dropped a hit of acid before going and saw the world in a completely different light. It wasn’t long after that someone else turned me on to MDMA. The world was a beautiful place to be in after that.

I can’t remember who turned me on to coke, but I remember the first time I did a line, it didn’t do a damn thing to me. When I gave it a second chance a few weeks later, I was on top of the world.

For the longest time, I was an “occasional” sniffer. But I don’t think too many people stay occasional cocaine users for long. It didn't take long before I was spending more money than I was earning. It wasn’t soon after that I was taking out cash advances on my credit cards to cope more blow.

Luckily, I never resorted to committing crimes peripheral to my cocaine purchase and usage. That may have been my only saving grace during those coke binging days. That one saving grace, however, is not enough to save a soul from the purgatory of addiction.

During those crazy nights I’d be pacing around my apartment, unable to sit still, snorting line after line. I’d look out the peephole in my door to make sure no one was watching. The blinds would be checked to see if they were shut as closely as they could be. I made sure to snort my coke as far away from the windows as possible. Cocaine-induced paranoia got the better of me every time.

When was it no longer a fun trip? It’s not something you think about, because you’re too busy chasing that one great high. But the kind of high you seek is as elusive as a rainbow.

After a year and $50,000 worth of credit card debt, I was eventually able to shake that monkey off my back. I had no money. I had no job. And I was not willing to commit crimes in order to chase my rainbow any further.

I was also tired: Tired of popping valium just to be able to sleep, tired of waking up with my head on a pillow covered in blood and snot and tired of wasting my nights away in a 300 sq. ft. studio apartment doing blow, watching TV and thinking about how to get more coke.

So what did I do? I cleaned myself up, got a better paying job and started doing a lot of ecstasy. Not exactly a happy ending to this drug story, is it?

Next: The Life and Times of My Monkey (part II)

Hip Hop Lacks Grease

2004-06-15T06:58:00.000-05:00

I remember a time when top 40 music was not hip hop-centric. That was a really great time to work in a nightclub. Don't get me wrong, I've always been a hip hop fan. But for some reason, the aforementioned musical genre and nightlife always seem to result in drama.

Back then, you were either on the VIP list, or you were not. And if you weren't, you knew that if you didn't want to wait in line, you'd have to grease the doorman at least 20 bucks to look like a VIP. Since top 40 has gone hip hop, and cable television has become affordable to the masses, things have changed quite a bit.

For instance, here's how a non-VIP clubber used to bypass a lengthy line:

Patron: [Extending his right hand to the doorman, with a $20 bill neatly folded in the palm of his hand] Excuse me, I should be on the guest list.

Doorman: [Shaking the patron's hand, feeling the folded currency, acknowledges that he is being greased] Sure, what's your name, sir?

Patron: My name is Thomas Jefferson.

Doorman: [Checks the VIP list, sees that Thomas Jefferson is not a name on the list, but denotes the denomination of currency that was placed in his hand] Thank you Mr. Jefferson, I see your name right here. Please come on in.

See what I mean? A drama-free transaction. Nice, discreet and handled in a civilized manner.

Today, the art of greasing the right people is lost among the hip hop generation. Instead of a quiet, discreet entrance, like the one described above, you might might witness the following:

Patron: [Not on the VIP list, but limping his way to the front of the line] Yo, what up, dog? I'm V-I-P.

Doorman: What's your name?

Patron: My name is Blah Blah.

Doorman: [Looking at list, not seeing patron's name] I'm sorry, but you are not on the list.

Patron: Yo, look again, biatch! I'm on that motherfucka!

Doorman [Checking again, sees Blah Blah is not on the list] I'm sorry, you're not on the list.

Patron: Yo, even if I'm not on that bitch, I should be, after all the motherfucking cheddar I drop in this motherfucker!

From this point on, the situation either escalates into the patron being physically subdued by the door staff after a physical altercation, or the police coming to escort the unruly would-be patron from the premises.

At the risk of sounding like some old guy who tells young people he used to walk to school and back home in the snow, uphill in both directions, I'll have to say that I miss the days when people still had a little bit of class going to a nightclub. I'm not saying that things were peachy all the time. After all, you are dealing with alcohol, hormones and assorted mating rituals no matter what year you are talking about.

It's always refreshing, however, to think about people who are actually willing to pay VIP prices to be treated like a VIP. After all, what is a VIP? Someone who spends a bunch of money in your gin joint, right? It seems that such logic is lost in today's nightclub crowd, who want caviar at fish egg prices.

Get Your Freak On

2004-06-14T17:36:00.000-05:00

Two girls getting their freak on in a nightclub. I took this photo way back when. I thought I'd use it to see what this photoblogging thing is all about! I'll make sure to post more, if I find some interesting pictures that I don't have to scan.

Remembering Something That Didn't Happen

2004-06-14T07:06:00.000-05:00

It was years ago when I got my first job in a nightclub as a doorman. The guy who hired me was this 300 lb. Samoan named Junior. Everything was pretty peaceful my first night on the job, until closing time when I saw a couple of paramedics carting this girl out of the club on a gurney.

I went to the men's room to take a piss. As I entered and approached a urinal, I noticed that there was a lot of blood splattered on the walls. Then there was the ominous sight of Junior hovering over his prey. Junior didn't look like he needed any help, and hell, it was none of my business, so I continued on to relieve my bladder.

"It wasn't me, man, it wasn't me," declared the guy who was curled up in a fetal position at Junior's feet. His mouth sounded juicy, probably from all the blood dripping from it.

"So, are you telling me that my guys are full of shit?" Junior asked.

"I'm not saying that, man," replied the bloody guy. "I'm just saying, y'all got the wrong nigga."

At that point, another bouncer poked his head through the restroom door. It was Bob, a tall, good-natured white kid.

The Samoan turned his head slowly, looked at Bob and asked him, "Is this the guy who put that chick in a stretcher?"

"Yep, that's him," Bob matter-of-factly answered.

Junior turned back to his prey and asked, "Are you saying that my guys are blind, then?"

The bloody guy just kind of groaned. The walls shook as Junior dealt a few more punches.

By that time, I was done and zipping up my fly. The Samoan turned to me: "Hey new guy, go to the bar and get me a scotch on the rocks."

I returned from the bar with his drink. Junior gulped it in one shot and threw the glass at the bloody guy. It bounced off the guy's head and shattered on a wall.

"OK, new guy, you can go now," Junior told me. "Go ahead and clock out. Good work tonight. Did you notice anything worth talking about?"

"No, not a damn thing, boss."

Room Salon Fascination

2004-06-12T08:47:00.000-05:00

I have a confession to make. After our last visit to a room salon earlier this week, I have developed a fascination with that particular scene. It's not about the girls who work there, because I'm definitely used to seeing better looking girls in a regular nightclub environment. It's not that these girls seem so eager to flirt with and make you feel like a king, because I've experienced enough of that in my days as a nightclub employee (where I got paid to flirt back with female customers).

What really fascinates me is the way Korean people drink. Koreans like to have their own place to sit and relax. They buy liquor by the bottle. The waiter brings it out for you, along with glassware, ice and food ("anju") that is meant as an accompaniment to the booze. When you and your friends sit at a table and order all of those goods, the table is yours for as long as you are hanging out there.

Compared to a regular nightclub environment, I'd have to say this is pretty darn relaxing. In a mainstream nightclub, you have to fight the crowd in order to get a drink, and when you're ready for another one, you have to muscle your way to the bar once more. Doing this all night can be more aggravating than relaxing.

Whether you're in a room salon or a Korean nightclub that caters to younger people, the drinking aspect of each scene is pretty much the same. I'd really have to say that it's a preferable way to enjoy liquor, if you can afford it. While it's true that mainstream nightclubs can get pricey if you order top shelf stuff all night, the more frugal clubber can usually find a good drink special or two. But there's no such thing as a one dollar well drink in a Korean watering hole.

Another point of interest is some of the drama that can unfold at the end of the night. For instance, me and one of my buddies from Wednesday night went to the same place tonight. Between the two of us, we didn't request any "partners," but we did go through a fifth of Black Label.

On Wednesday night, there were four of us there, and everyone but me had a "partner." All three of the girls that were at our table on Wednesday were working tonight. They seemed as busy as they were the other night, splitting their time in different rooms.

Anyway, the other night, one of the girls saw a group of customers off, and when she came back into our room, she was drunk and in tears. Tonight, as my buddy and I were ready to pay our check and leave, another one of the girls from the other night came into our room drunk and in tears.

In both instances, the girl would not tell us what had transpired. However, the source of each girl's grief is pretty clear: A customer probably tried talking the gal into going to some other place after closing time, or even tried to proposition her for paid sex. After refusing, she was most likely asked, "What makes a whore like you think you're too good for me?"

I know that there is no prostitution going on at the place we were at tonight. But the next thing I would like to know is whether or not room salon girls have the same kind of messed up boyfriends that strippers do. Although I would need the help of an interpreter to research this topic, I'm sure it would make for interesting reading later on!

Love is on My List of To-Dos

2004-06-11T05:48:00.000-05:00

I haven’t had my heart broken very many times in my life. And even during those rare occasions where love gave me a good beating, it never left me with any scars. I used to think I was a pretty lucky guy because of this. Now that I’m in my 30s, I’m not quite so sure that I should look upon my unscathed heart as a badge of honor.

Lately, I’ve been feeling as if my heart grows colder with age. I develop an attraction to a woman only to find that the more I get to know her, the longer the list of annoyances grows. And then, more quickly than the attraction developed, I lose interest. I fear that I may find myself one day to be a grumpy old man. (Oddly enough, I do not fear being alone in old age.)

I would really like to experience an all-consuming love once in my life while I still have some lead left in my pencil. I guess for now, I’ll just have to jot it down on my life’s to-do list while I continue take pleasure in good scotch and the lovely lasses that come my way.

I met a foreign gal a couple of months ago. It seems as if we have taken a liking to each other. The language barrier has been pretty tough, but we are able to maintain a basic level of communication. We kissed once, but it hasn’t gone any further than that.

Tonight, she told me that she’s leaving town for a while. Although she said that she’d be back in about a month or so, I have this odd feeling that I may never see her again. As I got off the phone, I felt a twinge of sadness.

A couple of shots of Black Label later, I thought about why I felt so sad about the possibility of not seeing this girl again. After all, the entire sum of our conversations, if transcribed, would probably be about the length of a short story with a couple of missing pages. I’ve never even slept with her.

After a bit of introspection, I concluded that I’d miss this girl because for once in my 15 plus years of dating and fooling around, I’ve finally met a woman that I can’t communicate with. Because of our language barrier, our phone conversations don’t last more than five minutes. Moreover, I don’t see her more than once a week because she works almost every night in a bar I don’t frequent much anymore.

I can’t help feeling that my mind is a little sick and twisted because of this. What kind of strange person is going to miss someone that he doesn’t talk to or spend much time with anyway?

That strange person is me. Now that it’s been five hours since I got the news, and I am over the fact that I may never see her again, I’ve got to work on figuring out why my heart is so hardened. That may take a while. In the meantime, I may see this girl in person one last time before she goes. More on that later.

Room Salons vs. Strip Clubs

2004-06-10T06:31:00.000-05:00

Me and the boys went to a room salon tonight. For those of you who don't know what a room salon is, I'll break it down for you: It's a place where you can round up a group of guys, sit in your own private room and request the company of females who sit, flirt and drink with you. It's pretty much expected that you purchase your liquor by the bottle and order a tray of food. Room salons are everywhere in Korea. Here in the States, you can find room salons in cities that have a decent amount of Koreans living in them.

Anyway, I thought about how room salons are viewed in such a negative light by those wishing to demonize Korean culture as misogynistic. Room salons are frowned upon, because the customers are usually married men who are there to drink and flirt with the girls who they book as their "partners" (the girl who sits next to you and entertains you).

My thought on that is this: What about strip clubs? I've worked in many bars and nightclubs and I have gotten to know a quite a few strippers (strippers like to party, too). All of them have told me that their best customers are married men. Does this mean that American culture is misogynistic?

Those who would continue to demonize room salons might argue that there is a lot of prostitution going on in those types of establishments. I'm not going to say that prostitution doesn't exist in room salons (because some of my wealthier friends have had such experiences first hand), but I will say that I've seen plenty of strippers giving out hand jobs right inside of a strip club.

I rarely go to room salons or strip clubs. But when I do, I don't request a partner, and I never get lap dances. I will say that there is nothing wrong with either type of entertainment, and people should not demonize either one of them. I don't particularly like video games, but that doesn't mean I think video game arcades are a cesspool of evil.

Perhaps being entertained by females and playing video games are completely different things. But why is it OK to fantasize (through the game) about slaughtering/maiming/killing teeming masses of enemies, and not OK to enjoy the company of a woman?

As far as the misogyny thing goes, I don't think one culture is any more so than the other. What's the difference between the Korean CEO who hires the occasional room salon girl for sex, versus the American company man who buys a stipper her boob job and gets to debauch her from time to time? Seems like an equally misogynistic transaction to me.

Give Me the Night Any Day

2004-06-09T06:28:00.000-05:00

The night person is the most misunderstood of all misfits. But that's OK. Let 'em all misunderstand me.

I've always liked being up when everyone else is asleep. Going to the supermarket at 3 a.m. is much more pleasant than being there in the middle of the day when everyone else is trying to get groceries. If you set your own schedule, working in those boonie hours means you will not be disturbed by the usual assortment of day people. Telemarketers plan their calls around the typical day person's schedule.

Sure, there are a few drawbacks here and there. Most businesses run their operations during daylight hours. Many good restaurants shut down their kitchens after 9 or 10 p.m. Your options for late night eateries are usually 24 hour fast food drive throughs, Denny's or Shari's. That might get old if cooking for yourself means poisoning yourself.

But all in all, I prefer the night over the day. Sure, I could use a tan. But hell, laying out on the beach was never really my thing, anyway.

Give me the night any day. I like to sit in a good bar, in the company of good friends and pretty women, with plenty of scotch to go around. And after we close a bar down, it's time to go crack open a bottle of Black Label at one of our places.

When I was a punk kid, it was a 40-oz. bottle of cheap malt beer. During my college days, it was liqueurs. After that it was vodka. Now it's scotch. But the one common denominator is the night. No afternoon martinis for this guy. I'm usually asleep at that time.

By the way, I don't trust people who don't drink. There's something fundamentally wrong with a teetotaler. S/he has something to hide. Sure, there are those people who are allergic to a good libation. But I'm not concerning myself with those types here in this narrative. I'm talking about the person who has no good reason not to drink with you other than s/he is a teetotaler.

Ah, I digress. The night is when it all happens. Nighttime in an urban setting. The human zoo. If you want to go camping or white water rafting, don't bother to invite me. Those are daytime activities. Find me a good bar and invite the rest of the gang.