Tuesday, January 26

True Stories

The missus and I had a rare night out on the town last Saturday. We happened across a trendy new bar downtown where the bartenders were exceedingly hot, the drinks expensive, and the bouncers big and black. What struck me about the bouncers was not the fact that they were black, and it wasn't that they were big. What struck me was that they looked like teddy bears. Seriously, the place was "guarded" by Anthony Anderson and Jerome. I like Anthony Anderson. I celebrate his entire catalog. In fact, it'd be quite fun to shoot the shit with him over a couple beers. And don't you ever say an unkind word about The Time! But, man, those dudes just ain't scary. Same thing with these bouncers.

I don't blame the bouncers for their cuddliness. They're probably some poor schleps, like me, trying to hold down a job, in these tough times. I'm not going to begrudge a man who's trying to get his. No, the blame, such as it is, lies with the douchebag who thinks that, just because he's hired ten big, black men to police his joint, the masses would be too terrified to start some shit.

If I didn't suffer from a chronic case of pacifism, Anthony Anderson and Jerome would not dissuade me from starting some shit. You know who would? Ving Rhames. That's one bad lookin' motherfucker!

True story: spanky and I were tooling around Vancouver some time around the turn of the century. After asking around for the best strip club, we ended up at Number Five Orange. There was no one at the door so we moseyed on in like we were regulars. We found an optimally situated booth with a good view of the entire stage, and were enjoying the sights, as it were. (It could be rose-colored hindsight glasses, but I remember the women there to be prettydamn hot.) A waitress waltzed by to let us know that she'd be right back to take our order. We watched her depart as Ving Rhames (did you know he's Canadian?) appeared out of nowhere, demanding to see some ID. He didn't talk loud but he was all business. His looming figure made it known that he could wipe the floor with our scrawny asses if he were so inclined. Dear god, I almost wet my pants, and not in the way I was planning. Ving Rhames is a big black man who instills fear.

I wish I had an interesting conclusion to this true story. Ving Rhames removed himself from our table after verifying that we were old enough to partake in the fun. I don't recall seeing him again that night. But we did learn a valuable lesson that night:

Don't talk to the stripper until after the lap dance.

1 comments [add yours!]:

spanky said...

Don't talk to the stripper until after the lap dance.

That right there is God's honest truth. I have never fallen into and then out of love quite so dizzyingly fast as that fateful evening.

Another 100% true addendum -- by the third day of that trip we had so thoroughly, blindingly debauched ourselves that at one point we turned to each other and, through a hungover haze, simultaneously expressed our ambivalence toward the idea of having any more stench trench in our faces. "I think we've had enough of strip clubs."

Sometimes it's important to cross the line. That's how you know where the line actually is.