The Kicker FOR QUITE A NUMBER of reasons, I'm not a big fan of strip clubs and lap- dancing. I think everybody finds the dead-eyed dancers, the nasty music and the entrance fee somewhat depressing, but you should try going there during the daytime in the bright LA sunshine, writes John Butler.
When I was last there, an English producer I know vaguely rang up one afternoon. He had just flown in from London, his body clock was all over the shop and his hotel room still wasn't ready. He was staying in a dingy part of Hollywood and he didn't really have his bearings yet. He had a big meeting the next day - the very purpose of the trip - so all he wanted to do was stay up until 9pm then go to bed and sleep right the way through.
His chosen method for achieving this end was to get drunk enough to fall asleep at nine and continue to sleep like a log. In fact, he was on a pay phone - in a strip club - right now. Would I join him? I said I would. I thought I'd go over there and get him, and bring somewhere nice, in the sun. With that, I wouldn't be spoiling his fun. Even in daylight hours at the hotel bars of LA, there are pneumatic strippers parading around wearing next to nothing, and there, at least the smell of Red Bull and disinfectant wouldn't be as strong.
When I reached the club, my friend was easy to find, but not because it was empty - it was by no means so. In fact, he was the only person there drinking alcohol, and the only one not wearing a suit. This was your common-or-garden strip club; podium in the centre, poles, topless women and jockish guys, rock music and a wind machine to complete the "ambience". In hindsight, we found out that the place was known locally to offer a fairly reasonable all-you-can-eat lunch buffet, to which fairly reasonable people would flock on their lunch hour. Only in LA.
At a table, my dissolute friend was taking receipt of a beer-and-a-shot from a topless waitress, and tipping her a $10 bill, in the time-honoured miscalculation of those just off the plane. Behind him, the buffet.
I waved, and just as he acknowledged my wave, something across the room caught our eye and we each looked over. A respectable young man with a passing resemblance to actor Tobey Maguire stood up on the far side of the stage, produced something silver from under his jacket and was shaking it vigorously.
I am ashamed to say that at first I thought gun, then a bomb, and when I saw some kind of powder was being emptied into the air, I settled on deadly anthrax. The powder caught the current of the wind machine and was sweeping across the far side of the stage. My friend caught a light dusting of it in his hair, and most of the rest of it seemed to land on the buffalo wings, the potato salad and on the backs of oblivious punters, who were queuing for their cheap buffet lunch with paper plates and plastic fork in their mitts.
The man replaced the lid on the tin and made to walk out. He seemed sane but nervous - he had every right to be. Out of nowhere, two security guards pounced, grounded him (with no resistance), and dragged him out. My friend was trying to determine what the powder was. He said it tasted of dust. Clearly, it was nothing serious, and though some people had seen the scuffle and were talking to each other, music continued playing, girls continued dancing and diners continued dining. We decided to find a better place and left.
Outside, one bouncer was holding the guy in a headlock while the other called the police. I was a little surprised that they hadn't already gone to town on him. I had to ask what had happened. When I came over, the bouncer just kept saying "ashes". I asked that little head with the tousled hair under the arm of the first bouncer to clarify, and he explained, in a voice that was squeaky from the pressure of the bouncer's grip.
He was maybe 23 and the ashes were those of his grandfather. Up until he passed away at the age of 91, the old man enjoyed Maker's Mark and soda, seven-card stud and the film oeuvre of Pamela Anderson. His will requested cremation and for his ashes to be spread in a strip club. His grandson decided that the request was no less valid for its choice of venue - in fact, it was special for this very reason and had to be obeyed to the letter.
Upon hearing this, the bouncer's arms loosened and then let go, and the young man stood upright and thanked him. He explained that he had rung every strip club in LA - Spearmint Rhino, Blue Zebra, 4Play, Crazy Girls, you name it. LA is full of sin and it took him the best part of a day to call around, but no one would even countenance it. Some declined on the grounds that the ashes would be dirty, while others concluded that it just wasn't sexy enough. Many thought he was a crank caller and hung up on him.
He said that the guy on the phone at this place was by far and away the rudest and most abusive and that's why he had chosen it, and at that, one of the bouncers actually laughed. Understandably, my friend was keen to drink some water, so we left the three men waiting for the cops.
As we drove out of the lot, the two bouncers and the young man were laughing, and I remember thinking, Hallelujah. In addition to lightly seasoning the potato salad, the old man is smiling down on his boy. Write off strip clubs at your peril.
John Butler blogs at http://lozenge.wordpress.com