The Transitory Shelf-Life Of The Male Stripper (& Other Tragedies of The Ridic)

The other night, as personal favor for a friend, I did a bartending gig for this private party. I was told ahead of time that the tips would be cool, but the atmosphere might, ummm... "get kinda rowdy."

I wondered WHY he felt it was necessary to warn me. I mean, what exactly was I about to roll up on?

“Well,” he said. “This is a bachelorette party.”

Oh. Say no mo.

Having done of this kind of thing before, I knew that indeed things could get hectic, and LOUD, and crazy, and LOUD, and freakish, and LOUD and outta hand... and well, LOUD. Personally, I'm not a big fan of the LOUDNESS, but this was for a friend; and ya know a Brotha could always use some extra tippage. So, LOUD or not, I agreed.


So, I roll through around 7:30 to set-up the bar. Gradually, I see the women-folk (won't call ‘em ladies) sift through. Some come in pairs, and some in groups of four, five and six. They looked sedate enough (at first), and a couple of them even gave me some rhythm. The woman of honor, the Sista of the hour, the Bachelorette to be fetted was a chick in her early-30s, I suppose. She's all coiffed up weavey wonder-style, manicured down, and one could tell she was the woman of the evening because the others sort of swarmed around her in queen bee fashion, giving her kisses, props, and the occasional gift box.

Gradually, I noticed the crowd getting antsy, and LOUDER, as the drinks were flowing nicely and the liquor was going to their heads. I also knew what was expected to be the main emphasis, highlight of the evening, and The Big Tah-dah!: The male stripper…

Initially there were a couple of buffed cats I'd spotted patrolling the premises earlier, and I'd assumed they were the strippers, as both were rather rocked-up in the extreme. But NO! These cats were bouncers, not strippers. My bad.

The main cat, the cat-daddy stripper of some renown was a large chocolatized dreadlocked Brotha who went by the name of Aaron Anancoda. Trust! I couldn't make this ish up! There was even a BIG-AZZ "A.A." on the back of his gold cape, which was strange in itself, 'cause the dude was dressed as a cowboy!


There really should be a better set of stylists for this profession. I mean, no matter the machismo of the dancer, they always end up looking like some ridiculously femme, flamed-out superhero, gone all kinds and varieties of WRONG!

Not understanding the boots, the cape, the glitter, the tassels and such. Just NOT understanding, yo!


ANYWHO: When this A.A. dude made his way to the stage, the place went wild! I don't mean wild… or even WILD. I mean Wi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-le! Male strip clubs must unleash that sleeping inner CAVEWOMAN out in some women. They lose ALL control! And yeah, I must admit, in his rowdy raunchy rodeo glitter-gear, A.A. did look kinda impressive. I mean his shoulders were huge and his guns were looped and gi-normous. He was blessed of thigh, and had bountiful gluts. Yes, I understood the buzz, the hype, the squeals of delight generated by this he-man's hulking presence. Some of the women were indeed visually pleased to see such a well-built speciman.




However, when I looked closer, my writer's eye noticed, A.A. was no spring chicken. I mean, seriously, I'm all for shaking whatever yo mama (or daddy or granddaddy) gave ya, and I'm not about the age discrimination trip, but dude was tad long in the toofus (AND the jockstrap!) for such a physically… ummmm… demanding profession.

This was just something I NOTICED, and having noted it, I just kept pouring.

The crowd grew LOUDER, more juiced on liquor, and this only made them all the more impatient to see some more skin. So, A.A. ripped the back of this stripper-gear away, and showed ‘em some man-azz.

I heard a few "Ooohs…" followed by "oh…" and the "oh" wore a tinge of feminine disappointment. Still he received a bill or two as he continued going through his dated hip-swerving moves. The cat's dancing ability was... ummm... kinda lax and lacking. I mean, there was a distinctive absence of energy, as if his heart, balls and the rest of him wasn't really INTO it.

But the crowd grew louder and more demanding, and she, the bachelorette, straight up hollered: "Show us what you workin with, big daddy!"

Oh. My. Goodness!

Man... this is where it gets sad.

I mean, for real.


You might wanna stop reading at this point. If so… Peace.





















Aiight. Still reading?



Homeboy, churned and slowly rolled his hips in a freaky old skool circa 1985-style, and then he slowly, methodically whipped IT out. And, trust me, whip would be the correct terminology. Yeah, he was kinda blessed in the lax ding-a-ling department, BUT, I guess the women wanted to see the old anaconda dance, rear-up, get frisky, and bite someone. Unfortunately, all the damn thing did was hang there and swing, sway and flop, uninspiredly... and the women were just NOT having it! But trust... they WERE definitely amused.

They began to laugh, teehee and titter and some just straight-out guffawed.

"Damn! Is that thang asleep?"

"Somebody call 911, stat!"

More laughter ensued.

Charming, eh?

Then, for his next move of grace-free choreography, he launched into his MAIN ACT. He half-lumbered, half-gyrated over to the chick-of-honor and did his shake and swing-a-ding-a-ling dance thing for her. He began to slowly grind her now giggling thigh. He sat on her lap, which was shaking hysterically as he rolled his hips all lewdly upon her. And she, oh she was doubled–over laughing at his ass, and the rest of him! And no, this was not that shy, uncomfortable bachelorette giggle thing. Nah. She was mad laughing AT him! And, by now... so were the rest of them. I mean, they were all ROARING!

It was like this cat had become the stripper-comedian or some such shit.


Then, and this is the SADDEST part: homeboy left the lap, went back to the stage and laid on the floor, on his back, face-up.

Oh Lort! What was Aaron and his alleged Anaconda gonna do next?

Well, he commenced pouring oil all over himself, applying extra oil to his rippling, if declining assets… and still the anaconda wouldn't dance. Maybe all the laughter had killed the mood. I clearly could see why it would. But, that didn’t seem to faze him. He just kept pouring and rubbing, rubbing, and a-pouring and nothing noteworthy happened. The only thing throbbing in the room was the boom of the music.

Ironically, it was an old Sade tune, "War of The Heart," and it seemed that even she had conspired against him, as she sang:

“I’m loaded… Don’t know where to point this thinnnnnnng.”

Really? Et tu, Sade? Seriously?


Maybe that musical selection had already been pre-planned, but, for me, as a man, this was a pretty pitiful and putrid display.

I couldn't help but wonder... Did homeboy forget to pack his Viagra?


Picture it: a grown-azz man with dreadlocks, easily in his mid-40s, with a decent build, a large, if lazy johnson, spread out on the dance floor, with only a couple SINGLES surrounding him. A grown-azz man, old enough to KNOW better, dry-humpin’ the floor, and TRYING his level best to entertain these drunk, laughing and abusive women... I mean, you had to SEE it.


I seriously felt sorry for him. I felt like: DAMN… Bruh, I hope you got a good day job!

And the whole time, I'm mixing and pouring and having this mental dialogue with this cat that went something like:


Am I the ONLY ONE who feels this tragedy? I hope this scene doesn't scar you for life, bruh. In fact, I hope this scares you straight; awakens you to the reality that your stripping days are through. Done! Ovuh! Kaput! I mean, fo real, yo. Maybe this will be your epiphany… because surely, there's gotta BE a better life than THIS! Maaan, just GET UP, yo! Maybe if you leave now, no one will notice!


At this point, gangs of women were just a-walking by him, going to the ladies room, ordering more drinks, carrying on LOUD sista conversations, as if this naked cat on the floor didn't even exist.

I swear I wanted to throw a big ass blanket around the man and lead him away from that madness. But I was only there to serve drinks. So, I chilled.


Truthfully, I never understood the male stripper mentality. Other than using their assets to make a quick buck, and letting that become the seed money for some Bigger Dream, then what would be the point? It is ego-inflating? Well, maybe if you’re young enough to lack any other sense of esteem or self-possession. I definitely don't GET why anyone after, say, age 30 or 35, would still be out there shaking dat saggin’ ass for cash. It's clearly a young person's profession! And besides that, this tad-too-long-in-the-jockstrap cat was NOT bringing sexy back! In fact, he shoulda seriously considered retiring it! And just WHY was he the last one to know this?


Everybody's got a hustle… and more power to them. It’s not really fair to judge him or anyone. Witnessing this sadness was actually a lesson in social studies for me. The moral of this pitiful display: Whatever our profession, we need to KNOW when we've become a parody of ourselves. And when and IF that happens, hopefully we'll possess the grace to simply retire our respective tassels, and just say, goodnight...




This has been another of those Public Service announcements. Aiight?



One.

Aging, Like Life, Is Kinda Insidious, But It Beats The HELL Outta The Alternative

It happened yesterday. I didn’t start out being or feeling any differently, but then… LIFE happened.

While walking from Grand Central Station about 11 blocks into midtown, I felt this severe CRAMP in my left calf. It seized upon the muscle with such an intense vise-GRIP that I literally HAD to STOP, and stop immediately! I've always hated it when getting my-serious-tunnelvision-NYC-destination-stride on, then suddenly some fool just STOPS short in front of me and messes up my rhythm!

Never was a fan of those blatant rhythm blockers! Now, I was becoming ONE of those annoying people!

I told myself: ‘Shake it off, yo! This is embarrassing! Just keep walking, damn it! You have an appointment at 11. Let’s make it happen!’

So, I began to walk again, this time a little slower, and more tentative, to avoid the chance of that damn SEARING calf-pain thing recurring. Gradually I began to notice all these people (a couple of ‘em even had CANES!) just gliding by me. These people were not only, passing me, but leaving my slow azz deep in the Manhattan dust! WTF?

Truthfully, this bothered me a little. I can vividly recall being one of those physically-aggressive people who would often beat the subway by walking to my destination with a brisk long-legged stride. Where was THAT cat at? Suddenly, I WAS NOT THAT CAT anymore.

So, I make it to the appointment, a mere five minutes late, calf still feeling numb and uncooperative, but the rest of me was none the worse for the wear. We conduct our business. These were young professional people, handling things efficiently, and it was kinda cool. Although some nagging little thought in back of my head wondered: ‘How old is this person? They seem REALLY young. I wonder how long they’ve held this position, and just how much experience could they possibly have?’

Admittedly, this was a straight up ageist attitude. Nothing peeved me more than being in my early 20s, fresh out of school and having to deal with the often patronizing attitude of people not thinking I was capable of doing my job; even questioning my age and experience. The nerve of those tiresome mofos! Hmmmm. Déjà vu all over again. Only, I didn’t say anything rude or ask any probing questions. It was just one of those mental convos I was having with myself.

So I leave the office, and head back to GCS. Though I’m moving a little slower, I’d like to think I'd retained some of my cool understated dance, and that my patented L.M. Ross swagger was still intact. But who the hell knows? Again, I’m noticing people of all shapes, sizes, genders, and ages passing me by.

Finally, I make it to the station. But dammit! I’d just MISSED my train! Maybe if I had been walking with more pep and energy, I woulda made it on time! Pissed at myself, I sat and waited aboard the next train which departed in a half-hour. I was virtually the only person sitting in my car. But I HAD to sit. Trust! Sitting was MUST. My leg was beginning cramp up and ache again.... and PAINFUL as it was, I didn’t wanna start crying out loud in agony, while in public. That woulda been tres uncool!

So, I’m chillin in a secluded seat in back of the train. Gradually it begins to fill with people. People of all sorts… a typical NY crowd. As the minutes count down to the train’s departure, the car gets so full that instead of sitting in the seat next to mine, people choose to stand rather than risk intruding upon my presence. Who was I Quasimoto? What was I, hideous? Grotesque? Or just black enough to be seen as dangerous? Ordinarily when that’s happened in the past, I actually liked the fact that I could stretch out and have my own space during the hour long ride home. Only, yesterday it kinda bothered me, and I can’t really understand why it did.

So, the conductor rolls thru the cars, collecting tickets. I notice he looks about 25, maybe. And then I lazily gazed ahead. The car was full of faces and everyone on that train appeared to be younger than me. Decades younger. Not school age. Full ADULTS! Only these adults were considerably younger than myself. Even the people who might APPEAR to be older than me were most probably YOUNGER than me. As you mature you can tell certain things about people, detect their age range by their posture, their graying domes, their body-weight and its distribution, the amount of fat under their chins, etc. So, I determined that I was the oldest person in that entire car of more than 60-75 people. That's a very sobering reality.

Suddenly... I’m ancient. Suddenly, I'm feeling very old and alone in NYC.

It was one of those Twilight Zone Moments: Witness... A young man boards a commuter train, and he ages, light years, before the trip expires...


I took out my notepad & scribbled the following thoughts:

When did this happen? When did I become OLDER than everyone else in the room, older than everyone else in my orbit, everyone I’d see, meet, or come in contact with during the course of a day? This strange phenom began to take flight when I realized a profound shift: the people on TV, in movies, people in the media, the reporters who delivered the news were suddenly all younger than my self. It wasn’t always this way, but it clearly is now. But Bigger than this: The people who run the government, the people who make the laws, the people who are in executive positions, the people who are technically, my bosses, are all younger than me.

I’m beginning to feel not only OLD, but invisible on this train! No one pays attention. Am I really here? Look at them all with their iPods tuning out the world around them! Hey, I’m hip too, yo! Hell, I have an iPod, and I coulda brought mine with me today, but I wanted to least appear professional! Self-involved people can be such a panic!

Where are those beautiful older-than-me gray-haired people???? Is there a special train just for them???

I stopped going to clubs a while back. The music was amped up waaay too LOUD! Most hip-hop bores me. I’d wonder: Where was the REAL MUSIC? I missed it. Club-life… it didn’t seem comfortable anymore. It actually felt a little silly inside my spirit to even BE there, and check it: I once was a cat who LOVED to dance, could dance my azz off, and was known for this… Now, I’m sitting here, leg HERTIN like Hades’, and still a little fatigued from a 22 block walk that would’ve taken me about 10-12 minutes in my prime.

I’m OLD, yo! Not getting! Done GOT OLD, yo! Time for me to even stop saying the word: “YO!”

And when I finally come out of this Twilight Zone Moment, will I hear Rod Serling's voice narrating this incident? Or will he be at the sliding doors to greet me in that eerie staccato voice? Suddenly, I realize even the reference to Rod Serling is a tad dated, old, about to become archaic.

Dammit! GET HIP, MAN!!!!


The conclusion of this entry is simple: Life doesn't care about what once was, nor what we've planned. And getting older is sometimes a bitch; a lonely, Twilight Zone-type bitch, but it still beats the hell out of the alternative.



One.

NEW YORK... WHEN IT SPITS...

Some misshapen thing w/a mean tattoo
Some chic, urban island of random cool
Some street corner cat steady screaming: “REVOLUTION!”
Some mythic steely smile, w/ its front teeth missing...

Some blues-chick blonde diggin’ on black sounds...
Some den of poor poets all tryna be profound...
Some Jeep's street banger w/ a hip-hop fury.
Some downbeat varicose bluecity alley.

Some screaming people howling how their lives are so shitty.
Some shafts of pink neon painting everybody... pretty.

Some east village hipster decked in all black drag...
Some tripped-out tranny, keeps vogueing all fab
Some ditzy debutante on the cover of a mag...
Some pissed-off black man who can’t hail a cab.

Some carefree limousine flying down Fifth Ave...
Some subway atrocity, but what else is new?
Some Wall Street slick thief finally paying his dues...
Some poor soul in winter, cries, devoid of any shoes.

Some glossy picture postcard you had as a kid...
Some whore's fishnets, revealing everything she did.
Some terrible sickness that's left unchecked...
Some two-bit priest w/ a Messiah Complex.

Some bleeding fist swingin in some ig’nit beatdown
Some new minority w/ his face on the ground...
Some canyon full of sirens, w/ not a single cop around
Some scream that gets drowned by the constant citysound...

Some black poet cat that keeps taking steady notes
‘Bout a tribe of soulless eyes… devoid of any hope.
We joke, we smoke, we sip on our Snapple
While choking on the core of what’s called:
“The Big Apple.”



One.




copyright © 2010 by L.M. Ross

"Gone" (A Jazz Poem For One of The Dearly Departed)

Inside that concrete canyon of

Deep and steely

Regrets

Where the mean streets sucked

You in, like

Aimless junkies inhaling

Crystal meth…

And the garish avenues

Spat you out

Like the night’s

Haughty sophisticates

Exhaling smoke

From French

Cigarettes… I search for


Signs of your

Cool-ass

Ghost.

Where the hustlers are

Still brawling

The busters are balling

And queens lean into

Neon-coated

Tete a tetes… and the whores

Grow bored between

Johns and quickies

And marathon sessions of

Oral sex… where

The atmosphere is

Terminally blue, I find myself

Searching for you.



Sometimes I forget

Being lost

In a dream

Where I’m

Naked, screaming

Screeching your name

Like a wildman aflame

Thru uncaring streets

As if you were still

Alive, still seeking

Your piece of fame as

A skidrow celebrity. On Broadway


No one really

'Treats you fine.'

It’s just a contrived

Little R & B

Rhyme... a convenient line

From a long ago

Drifters song. I sing


Your name

And throw my voice from

The top my

Lungs in a shameless fit of

Disorderly conduct

Terrified to confess and

Afraid to admit

You are gone… really


Gone, man. Gone

Like those

Beatniks, wasted chicks

And misfits from the 60s. Gone

Like Bird and Jupiter Ray

And those spacey tribes of

Bricked-up eyes

In the dimly-lit

Cafes of the village.

Gone…


Like the comfortably numb

Hippies and the skag-

Shooting junkies nodding

Their lives away in

Needle Park. Gone

Like those angelic–sounding

Jazzmen sparking reefer and

Hitting pristine notes. Gone

Like the cool ones...

The transitory

Doomed ones

Doping in the dark of

52nd street.


Gone… in the night’s frightful

Debris of objects, mirages,

People and things

That matter to

No one else

But me.



I refuse to let the

Demons win or pillage this

Richness of your memory

When, you remain like

Some old soul song

Only old souls sing

When high on something

Even those dealers in Harlem

No longer sling.


You are gone, now

Like afros and dashikis

And beautiful visions

Fleeting from the corner

Of my mind’s eye.



Gone… in a blink

In a final sigh...

In this stink-hole

Lost soul ghetto. Gone from

This unfabulous uptown

Plantation zoo of

Habits that wink

And nod and fidget

At you… Habits

That ache and throb,

Shake and rob…

Wild, and lie

And vomit

In macabre

Projectile

Streams of nothing

Nada, utter

Nothingness...

But the bang/crash

Echo of




Regret.







One.





copyright © 2010 by L.M. Ross