Driving with my niece one day, Ella said laughingly,
"We just passed a picture of a funny guy with a moustache that someone drew
on a building". So on the way home again, I took the same route and when I
saw this graffiti, I had Ella snap a picture of it. Did the person who made
this realise the irony of its composition? I can accept that graffiti may be
considered art if it is done artistically, and I kind of don't mind the stencil
work on the Ron Burgundy, but is there anything less classy than sloppily spray
painted letters? Here's a couple of stories vaguely related to the notion of class that I'd like to share:
The other day, we were having our regular weekend visit
with my big brother, Ken, and his wife, Laura. Ken had gone on a party-bus trip
to Niagara Falls the night before, a routine fund-raising event for his department
at the hospital where he works, and we asked him how it went. He said:
Like every time we go,
when you get to the Falls you have the option to go to the casino, hang out at
a nightclub, or head to Sundowner, the strip joint. (I just looked it up
while I'm online and it promises Full Nude - Full Liquor - Full Friction. Yech.)
So, I went to Sundowner with a bunch of
the guys. As we're sitting there, this young kid, Tony, says he's never had a
lap dance, if you can believe it. So the guys throw some money together and
send him off to a VIP room with this incredibly hot stripper. A while later he comes back to the table, but
he's got this kind of hang dog look on his face. Someone says, 'What's wrong?
Didn't you get your lap dance?' And Tony said, 'Yeah, and it was amazing. But
when it was over she told me that her Dad is dying of cancer.' Ken finished his
story and waited for us to react; to be outraged like he and the guys were the
night before; outraged that this stripper had the nerve to open her mouth, to be an
actual human being with problems. To underline his point and break the silence,
Ken added, And this was his first
lap dance, remember.
Disappointingly for Ken, our only reaction was a couple of
embarrassed uh huhs and yeahs. Did he really expect us to be
sympathetic? Even if my husband Dave was in total agreement, he had the sense
to not say so right there. And here's my problem-- I don't understand the
concept of strip joints in the first place. Maybe they made sense in the days
before the ubiquitous internet pornfest, but what is the point of a bunch of
men getting together and watching women undress and grind to their mutual
sexual frustration? Lap dances make more sense of the experience, I guess, but
why would this mild form of prostitution need to be an essentially group
activity? What were these grown men hoping to learn when Tony came back from the private
room? Were they hoping Tony ejaculated in his pants? Is that the best outcome? And when my brother said,
"this was his first lap
dance" , is that meant to imply that Ken has had one or several or
whatever? Is that in itself appropriate for a conversation with his wife and
sister? And all of this is before you even stop and think of the point of the
whole story: some stripper couldn't keep her mouth shut about her personal
problems long enough to not totally ruin Tony's first lap dance. I have since wondered how she came to share the dying father story: Was she holding
back tears, trying to soldier on through her hated but necessary job, trying desperately
to earn the cash for expensive cancer meds, and when Tony asked her if
everything was okay, she couldn't help but let the story spill out? Or was she lying, crassly trying to manipulate the naïve young Tony's emotions for a big tip? I
actually hope it is the latter; at least then the group's outrage is earned.
One last thought on this matter: I have no idea if Dave has had a lap dance (or
several) or when the last time he was at a strip club might have been; I really
don't want to know. I don't have an absolute
moral objection to lap dances or visiting prostitutes (who don't look
desperate or taken advantage of) or even the concept of adultery if there's no
emotional attachment or lavishing of gifts out of our family's income (I
imagine the latter to be philosophically true but it contains the paradox that
if I ever found out that Dave had a mistress, I would be allowed my outrage
because what I would have a problem with is knowing about it, of being publicly humiliated by my husband's behaviour, of being the object of others' pity.)
Discretion is the key to classiness and I think that it's the indiscreet behaviour of my
brother and his coworkers, of any group of men who gather to get turned on
together, that seems vaguely shameful.
And my second story:
The summer we put in our pool, about five years ago, Dave
and I went to a local Lobsterfest with tickets he was given at work. I thought
it would be just about me and him gorging on the lobster, but there were enough
industry people there that Dave was continuously caught chatting with people
while I smiled and chipped into the conversations where I could.
One man that stopped Dave was the CEO of a big company, a
rich and powerful man, but he stood maybe five feet tall and was dressed in a
three-piece suit at this essentially casual event; his vest in particular
made me think that he stepped right out of the Sears Boys' Suit Catalogue.
His wife, however, was tall and gorgeous, probably over six feet, and looked
like a supermodel. While I smiled and nodded and added a few words here and
there, his wife remained silent and aloof, just there to look fine. When Dave
mentioned that we had just put in a pool, the CEO shared the following story:
There's this guy I
know who put in a pool, and like you, he has two daughters, six and four years
old. Once the pool was finished, the first thing he did was went out and bought
a chaise-lounge and a pair of big, wrap-around sunglasses. He told me his plan
was to spend so much time laying beside the pool in those sunglasses that he'd
become invisible. And then in ten years, when his daughters were sixteen and
fourteen, and especially when their friends
were sixteen and fourteen, running around and laying around the pool in
their little bikinis, they wouldn't even notice him there, watching from behind
his big sunglasses.
He ended his story there with kind of a challenging look in
his eyes, as though daring one of us to remark that this plan bordered on
paedophilia. I'm sure the smile that I had had was wilted, but for
Dave's sake I purposefully kept my face polite. Glancing at his wife, I could
see she hadn't really been listening; she was smiling and glancing around as
though searching for more amusing company. We didn't spend much more time with
this couple, but Dave and I had a head-shaking conversation about this man
later. Was it some kind of little-man syndrome, whatever insecurity that drove
him to attempt to deck himself out as someone important, that prompted him to
tell a story that dared the salesman in Dave to object? Or did this guy actually
think this was a funny or clever plan? Was Dave supposed to slap his thigh and
say, "That's brilliant! I'm shopping for shades tomorrow!" One thing
it did do was make Dave very careful around the pool-- no matter how hot the
weather, or if Dave has been doing lawn work in the sun all day and looking
forward to a cool dip, if one of the girls ends up having a friend over to
swim, Dave stays out of the back yard; even the appearance of impropriety is
out of the question.
Stay classy, Dave.
Edit from February 15/14
I had somewhere heard of a song since I wrote this post called, "A Lap Dance Is So Much Better When the Stripper is Crying". How weird is that? What better comment on the class-level of our times than to include the lyrics here?
Stay classy, Dave.
*****
Edit from February 15/14
I had somewhere heard of a song since I wrote this post called, "A Lap Dance Is So Much Better When the Stripper is Crying". How weird is that? What better comment on the class-level of our times than to include the lyrics here?
I was lonelier than Kunta Kinte at a Merle Haggard concert
That night I strolled on into Uncle Limpy's Hump Palace lookin' for love.
It had been a while.
In fact, three hundred and sixty-five had come and went
since that midnight run haulin' hog to Shakey Town on I-10.
I had picked up this hitchhiker that was sweatin' gallons
through a pair of Daisy Duke cut-offs and one of those Fruit Of The Loom tank-tops.
Well, that night I lost myself to ruby red lips,
milky white skin and baby blue eyes.
Name was Russell.
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well, faster than you can say, "shallow grave",
this pretty little thing come up to me and starts kneadin' my balls
like hard-boiled eggs in a tube sock.
Said her name was Bambi and I said, "Well that's a coincidence darlin',
'cause I was just thinkin' about skinnin' you like a deer."
Well she smiled, had about as much teeth as a Jack-O-Lantern,
and I went on to tell her how I would wear her face like a mask
as I do my little kooky dance.
And then she told me to shush.
I guess she could sense my desperation.
'Course, it's hard to hide a hard-on when you're dressed like Minnie Pearl.
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
So, Bambi's goin' on about how she can make all my fantasies come true.
So I says, "Even this one I have where Jesus Christ
is jackhammering Mickey Mouse in the doo-doo hole
with a lawn dart as Garth Brooks gives birth to something
resembling a cheddar cheese log with almonds on Santa Claus's tummy-tum?"
Well, ten beers, twenty minutes and thirty dollars later
I'm parkin' the beef bus in tuna town if you know what I mean.
Got to nail her back at her trailer.
Heh. That rhymes.
I have to admit it was even more of a turn-on
when I found out she was doin' me to buy baby formula.
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Day or so had passed when I popped the clutch,
gave the tranny a spin and slid on into
The Stinky Pinky Gulp N' Guzzle Big Rig Snooze-A-Stop.
There I was browsin' through the latest issue of "Throb",
when I saw Bambi starin' at me from the back of a milk carton.
Well, my heart just dropped.
So, I decided to do what any good Christian would.
You can not imagine how difficult it is to hold a half gallon of moo juice
and polish the one-eyed gopher when your doin' seventy-five
in an eighteen-wheeler.
I never thought missing children could be so sexy.
Did I say that out loud?
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
That night I strolled on into Uncle Limpy's Hump Palace lookin' for love.
It had been a while.
In fact, three hundred and sixty-five had come and went
since that midnight run haulin' hog to Shakey Town on I-10.
I had picked up this hitchhiker that was sweatin' gallons
through a pair of Daisy Duke cut-offs and one of those Fruit Of The Loom tank-tops.
Well, that night I lost myself to ruby red lips,
milky white skin and baby blue eyes.
Name was Russell.
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well, faster than you can say, "shallow grave",
this pretty little thing come up to me and starts kneadin' my balls
like hard-boiled eggs in a tube sock.
Said her name was Bambi and I said, "Well that's a coincidence darlin',
'cause I was just thinkin' about skinnin' you like a deer."
Well she smiled, had about as much teeth as a Jack-O-Lantern,
and I went on to tell her how I would wear her face like a mask
as I do my little kooky dance.
And then she told me to shush.
I guess she could sense my desperation.
'Course, it's hard to hide a hard-on when you're dressed like Minnie Pearl.
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
So, Bambi's goin' on about how she can make all my fantasies come true.
So I says, "Even this one I have where Jesus Christ
is jackhammering Mickey Mouse in the doo-doo hole
with a lawn dart as Garth Brooks gives birth to something
resembling a cheddar cheese log with almonds on Santa Claus's tummy-tum?"
Well, ten beers, twenty minutes and thirty dollars later
I'm parkin' the beef bus in tuna town if you know what I mean.
Got to nail her back at her trailer.
Heh. That rhymes.
I have to admit it was even more of a turn-on
when I found out she was doin' me to buy baby formula.
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Day or so had passed when I popped the clutch,
gave the tranny a spin and slid on into
The Stinky Pinky Gulp N' Guzzle Big Rig Snooze-A-Stop.
There I was browsin' through the latest issue of "Throb",
when I saw Bambi starin' at me from the back of a milk carton.
Well, my heart just dropped.
So, I decided to do what any good Christian would.
You can not imagine how difficult it is to hold a half gallon of moo juice
and polish the one-eyed gopher when your doin' seventy-five
in an eighteen-wheeler.
I never thought missing children could be so sexy.
Did I say that out loud?
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes, a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin'
If that's not the strangest song, I don't know what is...
