Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 11
March 30, 2012
JESUS IS A DEMOCRAT (TIME TO PRAY)
JESUS: Awww! It's Romney again!
HOLY GHOST: Another posthumous baptism? Who's it this time?
JESUS: Mother Teresa.
HOLY GHOST: Momma T -- isn't she already here?
JESUS: That's her playing canasta with the Buddha.
HOLY GHOST: The Buddha?
JESUS: Mitt baptized him last week. [Faces downward.] HEY, MITT! SLOW DOWN! IT'S GETTIN' CROWDED UP HERE!
HOLY GHOST: Did he hear you?
JESUS: Nah. He's baptizing Pope John Paul II.
HOLY GHOST: Boy, Mitt's really on a roll.
JESUS: You're tellin' me. If he doesn't take it down a notch, they're gonna be posthumously baptizing his presidential campaign. On top of everything else, I've got Santorum stirring the pot about contraception . . . says he wants everyone to go to Heaven.
HOLY GHOST: What would those poor saps do if they knew Santorum's the Antichrist? . . .
Read the complete story:
www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/201...
HOLY GHOST: Another posthumous baptism? Who's it this time?
JESUS: Mother Teresa.
HOLY GHOST: Momma T -- isn't she already here?
JESUS: That's her playing canasta with the Buddha.
HOLY GHOST: The Buddha?
JESUS: Mitt baptized him last week. [Faces downward.] HEY, MITT! SLOW DOWN! IT'S GETTIN' CROWDED UP HERE!
HOLY GHOST: Did he hear you?
JESUS: Nah. He's baptizing Pope John Paul II.
HOLY GHOST: Boy, Mitt's really on a roll.
JESUS: You're tellin' me. If he doesn't take it down a notch, they're gonna be posthumously baptizing his presidential campaign. On top of everything else, I've got Santorum stirring the pot about contraception . . . says he wants everyone to go to Heaven.
HOLY GHOST: What would those poor saps do if they knew Santorum's the Antichrist? . . .
Read the complete story:
www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/201...
February 20, 2012
THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS
Mr. M&M waves and does a little dance. There's an unmistakable spring in his step. Not surprising given his giant, cartoon foam rubber shoes. Don't be so cynical, I tell myself. At least the guy has a paying gig. It's not how you start, it's how you finish. With a little hard work and perseverance, he might one day ascend the human-TV snack food chain. Perhaps work his way up to Milk Dud.
Navigating the Las Vegas Strip these days is like stepping through the looking-glass. Never know who you might run into: a life-size, hoofing M&M, member of The Justice League -- or a frog-voiced, bullhorn-throated black dude who looks as if he once played defensive-end for the Denver Broncos, but dresses like Gypsy Rose Lee (right down to the feather boa).
"BAM! . . ." He croaks, like a toad farting underwater, "Ever see such sexiness?" He twirls his boa, gives his Buddha-like belly a slap. "You mister, you're smilin', you got someone." He tells the male component of a tourist couple hurrying past. He turns to me, "You, you're alone. Smile an' someone'll come to ya . . ."
I smile. Stuff a stray single in his tip jar. What else can I do?
Then there's my personal favorite: Catwoman (the Michelle Pfeiffer version). For a five-spot you can have your picture taken with her. A double sawbuck buys the deluxe package: not only a pic, but the opportunity to buff 'n' shine her patent leather clad junk with a shammy and spritz of Armor All. Only thing seperating you and the good stuff; a veneer of catsuit so thin, it could only be measured by a theoretical physicist.
Like modern incarnations of the minstrels wandering the countryside of post-plague Florence in "The Decameron," a new breed of Vegas street performer has descended upon the Strip. Not just your granddad's old three-card monte hustlers, or garden-variety Elvis impersonators; but acrobats, magicians, performance artists -- human statues, scantily clad nymphs, strangers bearing exotic reptiles . . .
Look, over there . . . Michael Jackson isn't dead, he's been cloned! There's Sponge Bob sharing the pavement with a couple Transformers. Ol' Shell-head (Iron Man, to non-comic book nerds) talking shop with the Dark Knight of Gotham.
Superheroes, cartoon characters and deceased music icons all reduced to hustling tips in the wake of a post-apocalyptic job market. Welcome to Las Vegas -- ground zero for unemployment, foreclosures and bankruptcies -- and oh yeah, how'd you like a free limo ride to the strip club? Where are you when we need you Oscar Goodman? Wait, it gets even stranger . . .
Add to the mix nightclub shills; newly arrived immigrants touting a $69 2-for-1 escort special; self-promoting Hip-hop artists; timeshare salespersons; helicopter tour guides -- still not interested? How about some curbside acupuncture or a stimulating Asian foot massage? Thinking of visiting the Strip? Be warned: a veritable Mardi Gras of the disenfranchised awaits . . . and please remember to show your tits!
Navigating the Las Vegas Strip these days is like stepping through the looking-glass. Never know who you might run into: a life-size, hoofing M&M, member of The Justice League -- or a frog-voiced, bullhorn-throated black dude who looks as if he once played defensive-end for the Denver Broncos, but dresses like Gypsy Rose Lee (right down to the feather boa).
"BAM! . . ." He croaks, like a toad farting underwater, "Ever see such sexiness?" He twirls his boa, gives his Buddha-like belly a slap. "You mister, you're smilin', you got someone." He tells the male component of a tourist couple hurrying past. He turns to me, "You, you're alone. Smile an' someone'll come to ya . . ."
I smile. Stuff a stray single in his tip jar. What else can I do?
Then there's my personal favorite: Catwoman (the Michelle Pfeiffer version). For a five-spot you can have your picture taken with her. A double sawbuck buys the deluxe package: not only a pic, but the opportunity to buff 'n' shine her patent leather clad junk with a shammy and spritz of Armor All. Only thing seperating you and the good stuff; a veneer of catsuit so thin, it could only be measured by a theoretical physicist.
Like modern incarnations of the minstrels wandering the countryside of post-plague Florence in "The Decameron," a new breed of Vegas street performer has descended upon the Strip. Not just your granddad's old three-card monte hustlers, or garden-variety Elvis impersonators; but acrobats, magicians, performance artists -- human statues, scantily clad nymphs, strangers bearing exotic reptiles . . .
Look, over there . . . Michael Jackson isn't dead, he's been cloned! There's Sponge Bob sharing the pavement with a couple Transformers. Ol' Shell-head (Iron Man, to non-comic book nerds) talking shop with the Dark Knight of Gotham.
Superheroes, cartoon characters and deceased music icons all reduced to hustling tips in the wake of a post-apocalyptic job market. Welcome to Las Vegas -- ground zero for unemployment, foreclosures and bankruptcies -- and oh yeah, how'd you like a free limo ride to the strip club? Where are you when we need you Oscar Goodman? Wait, it gets even stranger . . .
Add to the mix nightclub shills; newly arrived immigrants touting a $69 2-for-1 escort special; self-promoting Hip-hop artists; timeshare salespersons; helicopter tour guides -- still not interested? How about some curbside acupuncture or a stimulating Asian foot massage? Thinking of visiting the Strip? Be warned: a veritable Mardi Gras of the disenfranchised awaits . . . and please remember to show your tits!
January 20, 2012
WAS HEMINGWAY A QUEEN? (OR DID HE JUST USE A LITTLE EYELINER?)
As any Papa-O-phile knows, the true nature of Hemingway's sexual orientation has been literary water cooler talk since the iconic author's suicide in 1961: the proverbial 800-pound pink gorilla in the room. Seems Mark Dery has once again raised the question in this week's Las Vegas CityLife.
Was Papa Hemingway truly a he-man who made Charles Bronson seem like the shampoo boy in a hair salon? Or was he secretly wearing lace bloomers under his khakis while bagging big game in Africa? I'll give you one avowed Hemingway aficionado's humble opinion: Doesn't really matter!
Whether Papa's swagger was the product of genuine machismo, or an attempt to suppress a deep-seated desire to be lead dancer in the Folies Bergere, is a moot point. The guy walked the walk -- both as a writer and a man. I wouldn't have squared off in the ring with him. (And you wouldn't have either!)
Was Papa Hemingway truly a he-man who made Charles Bronson seem like the shampoo boy in a hair salon? Or was he secretly wearing lace bloomers under his khakis while bagging big game in Africa? I'll give you one avowed Hemingway aficionado's humble opinion: Doesn't really matter!
Whether Papa's swagger was the product of genuine machismo, or an attempt to suppress a deep-seated desire to be lead dancer in the Folies Bergere, is a moot point. The guy walked the walk -- both as a writer and a man. I wouldn't have squared off in the ring with him. (And you wouldn't have either!)
January 17, 2012
EARTH TO BILL O'REILLY . . .
To: oreilly@foxnews.com . . .
Not only is Bill O'Reilly a blowhard, but a nitwit as well. Thinks if we raise the capital gains tax so Mitt Romney's paying more than 15%, Mitty and his millionaire pals are gonna stop investing . . . REALLY??? Tell me Bill, what's Mitty gonna do with that 200 mil he's sitting on??? Stuff it in his mattress??? Bury it in the backyard??? Mitt stop investing? Yeah, when Rick Santorum leads the Gay Pride Parade down Wall Street.
Then again, Bill wants us to believe if President Obama raises his income tax another 3%, he's gonna quit his 10 mil a year job at Fox -- we should only be so lucky! Got another question for ya Bill: In 1986, when your God, Ronald Reagan, raised the capital gains tax to 28%, where was Mitt Romney (working at Bain Capital) and his pals investing their money? Answer: Right here on Wall Street!!! I was a Wall Street stockbroker back in '86, and Reagan's 28% cap gains rate deterred NO ONE from investing! (Certainly not Mitt and the boys at Bain.) Why doncha stop "bloviating" about things you obviously know NOTHING about?
More "fair & balanced" bullshit!!! . . .
Not only is Bill O'Reilly a blowhard, but a nitwit as well. Thinks if we raise the capital gains tax so Mitt Romney's paying more than 15%, Mitty and his millionaire pals are gonna stop investing . . . REALLY??? Tell me Bill, what's Mitty gonna do with that 200 mil he's sitting on??? Stuff it in his mattress??? Bury it in the backyard??? Mitt stop investing? Yeah, when Rick Santorum leads the Gay Pride Parade down Wall Street.
Then again, Bill wants us to believe if President Obama raises his income tax another 3%, he's gonna quit his 10 mil a year job at Fox -- we should only be so lucky! Got another question for ya Bill: In 1986, when your God, Ronald Reagan, raised the capital gains tax to 28%, where was Mitt Romney (working at Bain Capital) and his pals investing their money? Answer: Right here on Wall Street!!! I was a Wall Street stockbroker back in '86, and Reagan's 28% cap gains rate deterred NO ONE from investing! (Certainly not Mitt and the boys at Bain.) Why doncha stop "bloviating" about things you obviously know NOTHING about?
More "fair & balanced" bullshit!!! . . .
December 22, 2011
WELCOME TO WOODSTOCK
"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE! Hope you die!" Not the first time I'd heard these words, nor, I'll wager, the last. But from an utter stranger?
Can't say I didn't see it coming. I'd spotted the guy outside the Harley Davidson Cafe on the corner of the Strip and Harmon -- flailing his arms and shouting obscenities at passing tourists. Big manatee of a fella. Perhaps some outlaw biker who'd nicked a brain pan snorting crank off his old lady's mud flaps. Another casualty. Why do people seem to wig out with the approach of the holidays?
Thirty-two years on the mean streets of NYC. Seven years as a pub owner. I'd earned my merit badge in dealing with hostile psychos. Smile, nod, don't engage. Keep moving . . .
"Sir! Sir! Please -- can you spare some change . . . anything?"
Hey, I'm all for helping out a fellow carbon-based unit in need. The Old Man was a soft touch, and I inherited the gene. As a teen, a couple friends and I had once resorted to panhandling: Ran out of gas on a road trip through Woodstock, N.Y. So I was more than simpatico with this guy. Problem is, I rarely carry anything but plastic these days.
"Please sir! Anything . . . a penny! You don't have a fucking penny?"
Then he dropped the A-bomb.
Thirty years ago it would've been a no-brainer. I was a tough welterweight out of the Lost Battalion Hall in Queens, head made of cement, pretty good left hand. I would've dropped him like an over-possessive girlfriend. But the onset of middle age -- and the realization I now stood to lose more in a potential suit than a pair of sneakers -- has pussified me.
Rummaging through my wallet, I found an old Dunkin' Donuts punch card.
"Sorry, sport. Don't have any coin, but get yourself a hole punch, and this bad boy's good for a large, hot beverage of your choice . . ."
Read the complete story:
www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/201...
Can't say I didn't see it coming. I'd spotted the guy outside the Harley Davidson Cafe on the corner of the Strip and Harmon -- flailing his arms and shouting obscenities at passing tourists. Big manatee of a fella. Perhaps some outlaw biker who'd nicked a brain pan snorting crank off his old lady's mud flaps. Another casualty. Why do people seem to wig out with the approach of the holidays?
Thirty-two years on the mean streets of NYC. Seven years as a pub owner. I'd earned my merit badge in dealing with hostile psychos. Smile, nod, don't engage. Keep moving . . .
"Sir! Sir! Please -- can you spare some change . . . anything?"
Hey, I'm all for helping out a fellow carbon-based unit in need. The Old Man was a soft touch, and I inherited the gene. As a teen, a couple friends and I had once resorted to panhandling: Ran out of gas on a road trip through Woodstock, N.Y. So I was more than simpatico with this guy. Problem is, I rarely carry anything but plastic these days.
"Please sir! Anything . . . a penny! You don't have a fucking penny?"
Then he dropped the A-bomb.
Thirty years ago it would've been a no-brainer. I was a tough welterweight out of the Lost Battalion Hall in Queens, head made of cement, pretty good left hand. I would've dropped him like an over-possessive girlfriend. But the onset of middle age -- and the realization I now stood to lose more in a potential suit than a pair of sneakers -- has pussified me.
Rummaging through my wallet, I found an old Dunkin' Donuts punch card.
"Sorry, sport. Don't have any coin, but get yourself a hole punch, and this bad boy's good for a large, hot beverage of your choice . . ."
Read the complete story:
www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/201...
December 15, 2011
THE CHICKEN LADY COMETH
A coyote howls at a full moon dominating the starless desert sky. Beneath, a range of silver-lit mountains hunker like golems. At their base, two silhouetted figures, stark as hieroglyphs, engage in what resembles a ritual dance. There's the lone totem of a cactus; the colors orange and blue. The scene is primal. Tribal. Conceived in the mind and eye of my friend, artist Eduardo Ramirez-Marin ...
Read the complete story:
www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/201...
Read the complete story:
www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/201...
November 25, 2011
BLACK FRIDAY
More Black Friday mayhem? Little Cindy trampled by a throng of overzealous bargain hunters at the local Walmart? What a surprise! 4,000 sleep deprived douchebags amped up on triple shot espresso and Red Bull, waiting for the doors to open so they can all descend upon a single discounted Xbox like a pack of hyenas tearing at an antelope carcass -- what's the problem???
Hey Mom & Dad, just a thought: wanna ensure the tykes' safety? Try taking 'em somewhere just a tad less violent and unpredictable -- like the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, or a mixer with the Crips and the Bloods. Seriously, getting shanked, pepper sprayed, or beaten senseless with a sockful of quarters is no way to usher in the holiday season. Remember: When it's on your mind, it's on eBay.
Hey Mom & Dad, just a thought: wanna ensure the tykes' safety? Try taking 'em somewhere just a tad less violent and unpredictable -- like the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, or a mixer with the Crips and the Bloods. Seriously, getting shanked, pepper sprayed, or beaten senseless with a sockful of quarters is no way to usher in the holiday season. Remember: When it's on your mind, it's on eBay.
October 4, 2011
BEND OVER AMERICA
Shed a tear for Bank of America (or as I like to call it, "Bend Over America"). After receiving billions in taxpayer bailout funds, the Tyrannosaurus Rex of U.S. retail banking, announced that it'll be charging customers a $5 monthly debit card fee. Hey, as Mitt Romney astutely pointed out, corporations are people too, and times are tough (just ask the thousands of BOA mortgage holders whose homes were wrongfully foreclosed on).
Today while depositing a long awaited check for some pieces I'd written, I joked with a teller about BOA's new policy.
"Are you gonna charge me for this?" I asked, when told to swipe my debit card.
The teller, an attractive tho somewhat beleaguered looking young woman, smiled wryly, "I might."
"I knew you'd say that. What happened to the days when banks actually gave people stuff in return for their business -- toaster ovens, Waterpiks?"
"Did they really?"
"Once upon a time. Seems every time I turn around I get hit with a new service fee. I'm paying a $3 monthly maintenance fee for a savings account -- and I have no savings."
"Why not close the account?'
"I'm an optimist."
"Anything else I can help you with?" Asked the teller, handing me my deposit slip.
"Do you have any free samples? I'm partial to hundreds."
There was that smile.
My business concluded, I headed across the mall to a little French cafe for a cappuccino: paying with a credit card rather than my debit. I couldn't help but smile (wryly). All that bailout dough, and corporate America still giving it to the proletariat right where the cat got the thermometer. I remembered that old fable about the turtle and the scorpion. For those unfamiliar, it goes like this:
A turtle and a scorpion are relaxing by the bank of a river.
"Gee, I'd really like to see what's on the other side of this river," Says the scorpion, "But I can't swim. Say, what if I hop on your back and you give me a ride across?"
"Are you kidding?" says the turtle, "You're a scorpion. We'll get halfway across and you'll sting me."
"Don't be ridiculous," Says the scorpion, "I can't swim. If I sting you, we'll both drown."
"Guess you're right," Says the turtle, "Ok. Hop on and I'll give you a lift across."
With that, the scorpion hops on and they start across the river. At the midway point, true to form, the scorpion stings the turtle. As they begin to sink beneath the water, the turtle looks back at the scorpion in stunned disbelief.
"Why did you do that?" He says, "Now we're both gonna die!"
"Why do you think stupid?" Says the scorpion, "Because I'm a SCORPION!"
Why do House Republicans foolishly insist on believing that all we need do is treat corporations nicely -- give them bailout funds, lower their taxes; in some cases even subsidize them with tax dollars -- and somehow they'll create jobs?
Corporations don't exist to create jobs. They exist to turn a profit -- and not just turn a profit, but maximize that profit. If that means sticking customers with a $5 debit card fee, or shipping jobs overseas, well . . . that's just what they're gonna do. It's their nature. Doesn't matter if they're offing the host; sowing the seeds of their own demise by killing off the very same working class that made them profitable to begin with. A scorpion is a scorpion. Ask any turtle.
Today while depositing a long awaited check for some pieces I'd written, I joked with a teller about BOA's new policy.
"Are you gonna charge me for this?" I asked, when told to swipe my debit card.
The teller, an attractive tho somewhat beleaguered looking young woman, smiled wryly, "I might."
"I knew you'd say that. What happened to the days when banks actually gave people stuff in return for their business -- toaster ovens, Waterpiks?"
"Did they really?"
"Once upon a time. Seems every time I turn around I get hit with a new service fee. I'm paying a $3 monthly maintenance fee for a savings account -- and I have no savings."
"Why not close the account?'
"I'm an optimist."
"Anything else I can help you with?" Asked the teller, handing me my deposit slip.
"Do you have any free samples? I'm partial to hundreds."
There was that smile.
My business concluded, I headed across the mall to a little French cafe for a cappuccino: paying with a credit card rather than my debit. I couldn't help but smile (wryly). All that bailout dough, and corporate America still giving it to the proletariat right where the cat got the thermometer. I remembered that old fable about the turtle and the scorpion. For those unfamiliar, it goes like this:
A turtle and a scorpion are relaxing by the bank of a river.
"Gee, I'd really like to see what's on the other side of this river," Says the scorpion, "But I can't swim. Say, what if I hop on your back and you give me a ride across?"
"Are you kidding?" says the turtle, "You're a scorpion. We'll get halfway across and you'll sting me."
"Don't be ridiculous," Says the scorpion, "I can't swim. If I sting you, we'll both drown."
"Guess you're right," Says the turtle, "Ok. Hop on and I'll give you a lift across."
With that, the scorpion hops on and they start across the river. At the midway point, true to form, the scorpion stings the turtle. As they begin to sink beneath the water, the turtle looks back at the scorpion in stunned disbelief.
"Why did you do that?" He says, "Now we're both gonna die!"
"Why do you think stupid?" Says the scorpion, "Because I'm a SCORPION!"
Why do House Republicans foolishly insist on believing that all we need do is treat corporations nicely -- give them bailout funds, lower their taxes; in some cases even subsidize them with tax dollars -- and somehow they'll create jobs?
Corporations don't exist to create jobs. They exist to turn a profit -- and not just turn a profit, but maximize that profit. If that means sticking customers with a $5 debit card fee, or shipping jobs overseas, well . . . that's just what they're gonna do. It's their nature. Doesn't matter if they're offing the host; sowing the seeds of their own demise by killing off the very same working class that made them profitable to begin with. A scorpion is a scorpion. Ask any turtle.
September 16, 2011
IN SEARCH OF THE GOLDEN BANANA
"So . . . you spent the entire night riding around on a bus with a bunch of drag queens? . . ."
Eddie nods and wolfs a bite of his Fatburger. It's been a while since our paths have crossed, so we're getting caught up over a couple XLs at the Fatburger over on Flamingo and Rainbow. Eduardo Ramirez-Marin is my good friend: a local artist who -- in the six years I've known him -- has proven to be a lightning rod for attracting oddballs of all sorts. He's telling me the story of how he was recently shanghaied by a busload of drag queens, searching for a mythical gay bar known as, "The Golden Banana." Like the imaginary Tibetan Utopia of Shangri-La (which, ironically, IS a gay bar), The Golden Banana, it would seem, simply doesn't exist -- at least so far as a bus full of gay men dressed like Celine Dion could ascertain.
Now, just to set the record straight (no pun intended), Eddie isn't a gay man. Given this fact, one might logically ask why a man who's not gay, would spend the evening riding around on a bus filled with drag queens searching for a place called "The Golden Banana?" Let's hold that question til the end -- shall we?
Apparently Eddie had been drinking at one of his regular haunts, when the drag queens rolled up in their bus.
"One guy was a dead ringer for Kirstie Alley." Eddie tells me. No doubt.
The queens were a raucus crew and immediately began buying shots for everyone in the establishment. Eddie -- already knee deep in tequila -- was swept up in the revelry. Next thing he knew riding a tour bus with Kirstie Alley: on a quest to find a non-existent gay bar.
The evening soon became a blur; Eddie busting out some of his old dance moves despite a trick knee -- the result of an old football injury (he once tripped over one while half in the bag).
"Man, don't know how many bars we hit . . . we had a blast."
"But no Golden Banana?"
"Nope. Don't think those queens really cared. Just wanted to have a good time -- and we did! Made a few new Facebook friends and even got a commission out of it. Great guys. At the end of the night they dropped me off at the bar where they picked me up."
I look out the window of the Fatburger; the sun slanted low in the desert sky. Another day draws to a close in Sin City. As I attempt to digest Eddie's story along with my burger, I have a sudden epiphany. This isn't just a tale of drag queens in search of a gay bar. No. The Golden Banana is merely a metaphor. A fundamental truth has been revealed unto me . . .
"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive."
We must all learn to travel hopefully. To enjoy the journey -- no matter where it may take us. For what is life but a journey? . . . Even if there is no Golden Banana at the end of the rainbow.
(Check out Eddie's awesome painting "TEQUILA" in my photos!)
Eddie nods and wolfs a bite of his Fatburger. It's been a while since our paths have crossed, so we're getting caught up over a couple XLs at the Fatburger over on Flamingo and Rainbow. Eduardo Ramirez-Marin is my good friend: a local artist who -- in the six years I've known him -- has proven to be a lightning rod for attracting oddballs of all sorts. He's telling me the story of how he was recently shanghaied by a busload of drag queens, searching for a mythical gay bar known as, "The Golden Banana." Like the imaginary Tibetan Utopia of Shangri-La (which, ironically, IS a gay bar), The Golden Banana, it would seem, simply doesn't exist -- at least so far as a bus full of gay men dressed like Celine Dion could ascertain.
Now, just to set the record straight (no pun intended), Eddie isn't a gay man. Given this fact, one might logically ask why a man who's not gay, would spend the evening riding around on a bus filled with drag queens searching for a place called "The Golden Banana?" Let's hold that question til the end -- shall we?
Apparently Eddie had been drinking at one of his regular haunts, when the drag queens rolled up in their bus.
"One guy was a dead ringer for Kirstie Alley." Eddie tells me. No doubt.
The queens were a raucus crew and immediately began buying shots for everyone in the establishment. Eddie -- already knee deep in tequila -- was swept up in the revelry. Next thing he knew riding a tour bus with Kirstie Alley: on a quest to find a non-existent gay bar.
The evening soon became a blur; Eddie busting out some of his old dance moves despite a trick knee -- the result of an old football injury (he once tripped over one while half in the bag).
"Man, don't know how many bars we hit . . . we had a blast."
"But no Golden Banana?"
"Nope. Don't think those queens really cared. Just wanted to have a good time -- and we did! Made a few new Facebook friends and even got a commission out of it. Great guys. At the end of the night they dropped me off at the bar where they picked me up."
I look out the window of the Fatburger; the sun slanted low in the desert sky. Another day draws to a close in Sin City. As I attempt to digest Eddie's story along with my burger, I have a sudden epiphany. This isn't just a tale of drag queens in search of a gay bar. No. The Golden Banana is merely a metaphor. A fundamental truth has been revealed unto me . . .
"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive."
We must all learn to travel hopefully. To enjoy the journey -- no matter where it may take us. For what is life but a journey? . . . Even if there is no Golden Banana at the end of the rainbow.
(Check out Eddie's awesome painting "TEQUILA" in my photos!)
September 8, 2011
ANATOMY OF A LAP DANCE (NO TOUCH)
WE SETTLE ON A PRICE. More than I'll likely earn for writing this piece. Next come the rules of the road: "No touching my tits or ass. No fingers. And don't put your mouth anywhere." Not a problem. I never kiss on the first date. The V.I.P. room isn't very V.I.P.: a dark-blue velvet sectional, table for resting my drink. A bit Spartan, but who's paying for the accoutrements? She straddles me, hands on my shoulders. Wearing a G-string fashioned from purple satin and butt-floss, she leans back just a bit, so I feel the weight of her bare, exposed buttocks resting on my knees. Her breasts are small, capped with pale, pink buds that remind me of tiny strawberries. Perfect accent to her shouder-lenght, blood-orange hair. My pupils remain fixed on them (less intimate than eye contact). Everything about this woman evokes the color red in all its hues. If pressed to conjure a nickname for her, it'd be "Pink." That's what I'll call her.
She knows why I'm here. I've agreed not to use her name (not even her stage name), or identify the club where she works. Can't quite peg her age. Somewhere between 19 and twenty-something. Somewhere between Laurie Partridge and Courtney Love. Tall. Coltish. Eyes as startlingly blue as the sky over an Iowa cornfield. If Sherwin-Williams had a shade to match, I'd paint my condo with it . . .
Read the complete story:
https://issuu.com/lvcitylife/docs/cit...
She knows why I'm here. I've agreed not to use her name (not even her stage name), or identify the club where she works. Can't quite peg her age. Somewhere between 19 and twenty-something. Somewhere between Laurie Partridge and Courtney Love. Tall. Coltish. Eyes as startlingly blue as the sky over an Iowa cornfield. If Sherwin-Williams had a shade to match, I'd paint my condo with it . . .
Read the complete story:
https://issuu.com/lvcitylife/docs/cit...
