Birthday Memory Lane

I thought that you all would like this two part story. It is about my 18th birthday, 2 years ago:

On my 18th birthday, we decided to go to a strip club. Now, for any guys who are reading, this may seem like a good idea when you first think about it, but it's the type of idea that is doomed to failure. When I say failure, I don't mean slight failure, I don't even mean monumental failure. I'm talking about EPIC-SCALE MOVIE FAILURE. We would've had to work to achieve normal failure.

Anyway.

The adventure opens with us going out to find the shuttle. A simple task, yes? No. We missed the first one, because certain members of our party neglected to remember that the shuttle stops at a completely different location. So we walked. And we turned around and walked. Finally, we caught the shuttle. The night has not yet begun to kick our ass.

So the shuttle drops us off on 12th street. We needed to be on 8th street, so we started walking. Started.

We made the left onto 8th street and continued walking. It took us about 10 minutes to get to a dive bar and ask where the hell we were and how the hell we could get to Hanky Panky (yes, you heard right... the place was called Hanky Panky). The dive bar owner looked up from his haze and stared. After a moment of reactivation, he nodded at us. That's when I asked how we could get to the club. The dive bar owner seemed to be trying to decide which hand was his left. That's when I asked how we could get to the club. The dive bar owner picked up a glass, then put it back down. That's when I asked how we could get to the club...

So the bartender told us that we needed to go about 20 blocks down the road to get to Hanky Panky. Thats right, 20 blocks. Two-Zero.

So we started walking.

And walking.

And walking, etc.

As we neared the club, we came upon a gas station. This particular gas station was called Country Fair. Here in Erie (and who knows where else), there is a chain of gas stations called Country Fair. There's nothing really that you can say about these except that it's like a bug lamp for shady-looking white trash people (sorry, I dont mean to offed, but from a Black man's perspective it was scary. I do have white readers). Except that it doesn't kill them, it supplies them with cigarettes and lottery tickets, and fuel for their F-150s, so they can be on their merry white trash way. We got hot dogs and left.

More walking.

Finally, FINALLY we saw the promised land. Hanky Panky (actually it was no longer Hanky Panky, but Juliette's, having changed ownership). In our elation, we began a rousing verse of 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot' as we neared the club. We entered, to be greeted by a man who I can only describe as frighteningly similar to the doorkeeper to Oz (yes, he even had the moustache). We slapped our I.D.s on the table and started to break out the money. It was at this point that the doorkeeper informed us that we had to be 21 to enter.

There are many natural reflexes in the human body, such as flinching at unexpected noises or the leg moving when hit on the knee. Another reflex would be when your hand is resting on a desk, behind which a man who looks like Captain Hook sits and proceeds to tell you that you just walked 20 blocks for no reason, and the hand at rest jumps 4 inches towards the Captain Hook-looking man's jaw before you can stop it.

So we went outside, where we met a large black man named Doc. We informed Doc of our plight, and he proceeded to hook us up. Or so it seemed. It turned our that Doc is a strip joint afficionado-of-sorts. He told us of a place we could go where our troubles are all the same, a place we could go where everybody knows your name. Actually, it was a place called Teezers, and it was only a short cab ride away.

Ok, it was a LONG cab ride away.

Down a dirt road.

Into a large, old house.

Well, it WAS a strip joint. So we went in.