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Knights of the Tiny Round Tables (In Thongs)

Issue Date: Monday, Feb. 14, 2005

I have on blue eyeliner today because I, am a tropical fish, and also… in the seventh grade… in 1986.

I has recently come to my attention that my cat eats Cheerios. They are a healthy snack, no? So now I find great pleasure at pelting my fur-bearing mammal with the little toasty-o's in the head when he decides to sing a seven-minute aria whilst I am fixing dinner. I should probably stop this as he may think I am actually sending him the kitty cat equal of throwing roses onstage when the diva sings.

Ok, enough stalling. I have a little story to tell… I've told you all about the Kerr Krew. And I have told you about how beautiful the women I went to college and high school with were and are. I have told you about how talented and what great dancers they were and are, I told you that they have grown up to be nurses, interior designers, teachers, detectives, mothers and a whole slew of other incredible things but have I ever told you how evil they were? Pure-D evil. Seriously.

Exibit A…
My nineteenth birthday. A select few of us headed to Dallas for a weekend at our parents homes and a few parties over the Easter holiday.

Ps. I am sorry Baby Jesus.

One girlfriend (Kerry) had a neighbor (Sandra) who was very European and whose father owed a gentlemen's club, the gentlemen's club was right next to LeBare. (This was before it got moved from Greenville and Lovers, for those of you who care… and yes, I'm old.) LeBare, for those of you who are not European but young, uptight, white, Southern Baptist girls whose biggest sin is mixing pastels… LeBare was like stepping into Caligula.

My Eyes! Bare male chests on stage with spotlights, booze!, "Can I light that for you ma'am?", holy shit!, is that a g-string? Women everywhere squealing and pawing at male flesh. Men dancing to the latest pop music on the main stage with poorly thought out costumes being flung behind them as they disrobed. Thrusting their hips to the beat of the bass. Dollar bills flying, liquor flowing, the maniacal gleam of hope and something else entirely flashing in the eyes of the crowd.

Kerry, Stacey, Stephanie, Sandra and myself all wandered in and looked for a place to sit that would let all of us sit together in a group without getting too close to the stages (um, hi, ball sweat may fling far and wide*) and we didn't want to be trampled by the seemingly millions of bachlorettes (with requisite condom veils on) that were teeming over the bar area.

*Yeah, I typed that. And I'd type it again too, are you getting sassy with me? Hey, we (Steph and I) were scared, it was our first time at a naked man place and we had no idea how absorbent those little g-string things were. Those guys were floppy I tell you… Flah- to the Double P. Or it just seemed like it when they did that hip thrusty thing and their junk would smack their-… Oh-kay… enough of that.

We found a suitable booth in the back that allowed us visibility to almost the whole bare, ordered our drinks… er, did I say drinks? I didn't drink at 19, no Siree Bob. I meant ordered our water and Shirley Temples and lit up to further view this testicle spectacle through the cleansing haze of Marlboro Light smoke.

There were men everywhere. Dancing on the bar, on the backs of the booths, on the three stages. You couldn't look anywhere and not see a bare man-chest or a man that had put in some serious time in a tanning bed… or a thong.

That last part was sort of disconcerting to me. I am from hearty farm stock, I was raised to feed people and to work hard… seeing men with better nails than mine and way better eyebrows raised a flag in my subconscious. Seeing as how I thought I was pretty cute before we walked in, in my little black blazer, black leggings (gag, I know… shut it… really, I know… seriously) and my little low-heeled flats…(gah… does it ever end?… no… did you not see my hair during that period of time? [scroll down]… ) I immediately began to hear that "Hot guy, you're not good enough!" siren going off in my head.

How could these women come here night after weekend night and feel that way about themselves? Then I figured out why. I thought, "These men are getting paid to pay attention to these women, and the women are eating it up. This is sort of like retail." It was a very basic principle, but it helped me deal with the squick factor and … why are these women screaming!?!!?

I walked over to give a particularly large specimen of man a tip for being… huge… (shut up, I know he didn't have anything to do with his genetic makeup, but damn, I like big men) and he grunted at me that his name was Conan. Conan? Seriously? He affirmed that I wasn't hearing things and grinned at me while dancing provocatively… and looking me in the eye. [Sidenote… how do they do that with a straight face? I'd be laughing my ass off.]

Then a fast song came on and Conan… apparently the barbarian… ever thankful for the two fucking dollars that I gave him, picked me up.

Did you get that? He picked my ass up… as in off the ground…with one hand, cupped my butt with one arm and pulled my ankles to his other side with his other hand... he could hold both of my ankles in his one hand…(!)… I must have looked like a three year old. He danced around for about seven seconds with me on his hip, and then put me down like he was the carnival's quickest two-dollar ride.

I was so stupid and naive that I shoved him in the chest like, "you big bully" and wandered off to go tell on him to my girlfriends. I had no idea what the protocol of a strip club was. I should have snapped his thong and asked for my $2 bucks back.

Or, thanked him for the dance… whatever. I still am pretty confused on that one.

So, after my lap/hip dance with Conan… (?)… I was over at the table with my girls and the place went dark…

"Ladies, Ladies, Ladies… It's what you have been waiting for allllllll niiiiiiiight, (sound FX of a motorcycle or something)…. Please help me Welcome to the Main Stage Of LeBare….. The MAAAAASTER BLAAAASTER!!!!!!"

The spotlights started going crazy and the music ramped up to an earsplitting level and then the lights all came on at once and this guy came out from backstage… he had on a Stetson, boots, and … leather chaps. He started dancing and put all of the others to shame.

Women were going crazy, throwing money, roses, bras and their vaginas on stage and still the Masterblaster danced nimbly on.

He tipped his hat and I said out loud and with much fervor, "Holy shit… I know that man!"

::Scooby Doo wavy noise…. You are going back in time!::

When I was but a wee lass there was a place in Lewisville, TX called The Good Luck Rodeo where I used to go to dance. It was once an old skating rink so the dance floor was sublime, but it was there that I met… Dun Dun DUN!… The Master Blaster… years before. Randy and I used to cut a rug or two around that wooden floor at the Good Luck so it was quite a shock to me to see him on that stage with vaginas being tossed at him willy nilly.

::Scooby Doo wavy noise…. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.::


The Master Blaster huh?

I turned to Stephanie, "Hey, isn't that Randy [last name] from Good Luck Rodeo?" She said that he looked familiar, but didn't know for sure.

I was going to find out.

I got up from the table and went to the stage with my little limp dollar bill. I pushed my way tough the throngs of heavy mortar fire and hand-to-hand enemy combat… um, wait… wrong journal entry… I pushed my way through the throngs of women hopped up on estrogen and bad champagne and by the time I got to the stage, he had removed his chaps.


Randy was nekkid.

Or… actually he was In A Pink Thong. I do believe that might have made me even more uncomfortable.

Holy shit, I used to dance with this guy, and apparently he was the hottest thing since Rico Suave. (Shut it, I told you I'm old.) I held out my dollar like he was some porpoise trained to snatch it with his oiled and well-trained muscular thighs… and holy shit... that is exactly what he did…. Eeeeeeeee!…….

Must not look him in the eye… will turn to stone… will… turn to…
Yeah… hi… there… dancing… sweaty guy, um. No… this isn't uncomfortable at all… Yep, must look natural, like I do this alllll the time… why are you touching me?…
You don't know me at all do you brother? Why don't you take her dollar there buddy? I'm gonna go back to my whoa---- hey there… those are your… wow.
Nice um, boob muscles…. Can you put me down?
Why do all of you want to pick me up? Is it because I'm a husky challenge? IS IT?

And then for some reason I got all "Yeah, everything is fine" and smoked like Robert DeNiro for about 15 minutes after I went back to the table.

After "Master Blaster's" set, he came over and yes, he did remember me, how was I blah, blah, blah… where was I in school… very charming… anyway… I went to the restroom to pee, reapply lipstick the whole nine and while I was gone, check this out.

Exhibit B…
While I was gone… Kerry gave this man my home phone number. And no… I didn't know about her passing the digits. Not so much in it's self an evil, evil thing… except… my parental units are Ward and June Cleaver. Now, yes, in the issue of transparency and to elicit a small shock from my mother's temporal lobe I told her exactly where I was to be going with the girls that very night.


That night we left the club with enough Master Blaster memorabilia to choke a small Beluga whale. Or even a large one. His paper, touting, "It's raining men!" a picture of him and his hairy chest. We had even found out that he was in the process or had just (the memory… she is a-goin) purchased LeBare…to quote, "So please come back anytime and I'll set up a private party for you and your girlfriends." Translation: "I will put you on the guest list, you don't have to pay cover, you get a premium table, a cheap bottle of champagne and a picture with the guys at the end of the night, I will more than make up for it by all the tips and other drinks you buy." Which, in all honesty is not a bad deal… Call him, take him up on it.

We all went back to school after the holidays and things went back to normal. Until… Dun dun DUNNNN!!!… Stephanie and I went back to our dorm one day after lunch to hear this message on our answering machine… "Suzanna, this is Randy last name… please call me at ###-###-####. Your mother gave me your number so I hope to hear from you."

Um… What?

Can you guys imagine that telephone call?

“Hello? June? This is Randy the Master Blaster, I am a male stripper for LeBare and I was given your little girl’s phone number at the club the other night. We’ve actually known each other for a while as we’ve danced at Good Luck. May I call her at SFA?”

“Well, hello young man, of course, I heard that you are quite the well oiled machine, why don’t you join us for church on Sunday… and Suzanna’s number in Nac is ###-###-####…”

So… yeah, I called my mom and asked her what transpired to have her give this guy my phone number before I called him. After all, I was slightly scared to death, and a little poor. Long distance call, yanno. I wanted to make sure that I really wanted to call this Randy guy back.

me: “Momma?”
Momma: “Hi Sue… how are you doing?”
me: “I’m fine… I just got a message from a guy that said you gave him my number…”
Momma: “Oh, yes, what a nice fellow. Isn’t he a dancer?”
me: ::gulp:: “Yep.”
Momma: “Did he dance with you at the Plano Academy?”
me: (under breath) ::snort:: “Ohhhh” ::ahem:: “Oh, um… no ma’am, I think you may be remembering somebody else. This was someone Kerry gave my number to over Easter.”
Momma: “….”
me: “….”
Momma: “…oh, OH… Oh, Dear.”
me: “Heh.”

So I balled up some confidence and actually called him back, it turned out that he and his troop of merry men were coming into town, or were planning on it and wanted to drum up some business. Always the businessman. Smart, that Randy.

Fast forward like 10 years, I’m back in Dallas… Kerry has come to visit from living in California and Stacey and I get a bright idea… we call ol’ Randy and let him know what’s goin down, he actually remembers us (or pretends to for business sake… see?.. smart, that Randy… S-M-R-T) and adds us to the guest list for a little private party thingy.

We walk in, they escort us to our table with champagne and … My EYES!… I still can not get used to this shit! Can I be any more prude? Holy crap!… Here he comes, thank God he has on clothes! Damn he looks good, what is that in his hand? A magazine?

Randy comes over and kisses each one of us on the mouth (actually bites me on the lip (!)), exclaiming all the while how long it’s been, how good it is to see us… always the showman, and has uh, Garcon open our champagne. This guy is good.

The next thing we know, Randy takes the stage… no kidding. I thought he was like over the hill by this point, um… not so my little pretty. Check this out… the man could be 30 or 50, who would fucking care? And that magazine he was holding? Yeah, it was one of the Playgirls he had been featured in.

I saw his wiener.

The whole reason for this lengthy diatribe is that Stacey called me on Wednesday and was squealing into the phone….

me: “Hello?”
Stacey: “Holy shit, holyshitholyshiiiiit!!!!! EEEeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!”
me: “Stace?”
Stacey: “You are Never going to believe who I saw.”
me: “Shaq? Neil? Kim? Marcus? Jesus?”
Stacey: “Heeeee! I was at Jason’s Deli over off of MacArthur because I had just picked my parents up from the airport and… [heavy breath]…”
me: “slow down there Speedy”
Stacey: “You’re just never going to believe…. Ok, so I was sitting there with my parents and out of the corner of my eye I saw this figure that looked so familiar… guess who it was… just guess….”
me: “Um… Austin Bur--”
Stacey: “No! …. It was Randy the Master Blaster! Ha HA!!!!”
me: “Holy Shit!”
Stacey: “Yeah! Holy shit… and if my dad wasn’t there I would have told my mom who it was, but I didn’t wanna do that with my dad there… because… ewwww…. And…”
me: “Ok… so did you say hi?”
Stacey: “I don’t think he recognized me… but OHMYGAWD…. Check this out… HA!”
me: “What?”
Stacey: “[daughter] was sitting there dancing in her chair and he saw her doing it and he said to her, ‘I have some moves too.’ AHHHHAAAAAAAHAAHAAAA!!!!!!!”
me: “Hee..”
Stacey: “Kinda skeevy…”
me: “Yeah… like guy?, give her 20 years or so…”
Stacey: “How about Forty years? Shit!!!!! But he still looks the same.”

Postscript: I have to be honest with you guys, I totally searched my house for photos of that first girls night at LeBare. I wanted to scan them and post them with this entry. Alas, denied by my lack of organization skills.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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