My Dancer Diary

Some of you already know the brilliant work of Austin photographer extraordinaire Todd V. Wolfson, and if you don’t just check out half my blog’s profile pics, scan almost any issue of the Austin Chronicle (especially during SXSW or the Music Awards) or just go to his Flickr page. Todd is practically an Austin icon and definitely an Austin icon photographer not to mention MY photographer (the poor dear and god bless him as I really am the worst model in the world though you would never know it from his pics). He’s also been a good, kind and generous friend to me, a friend who now, due to a recent accident, is also a friend in need.

Todd V. Wolfson, award-winning Austin photographer noted for his insightful portraits of Austin's musicians and lifestyle, is on a forced hiatus due to a career-threatening bicycle wreck. On July 11th, leisurely cruising neighborhood streets on a pre-dawn ride, Todd hit a patch of defective pavement and was thrown over the bike's handlebars into the street landing squarely on his right elbow and head. His elbow joint was split in half and he sustained two additional compound fractures in that arm. His head injury required 11 stitches, and he suffered numerous internal injuries.



A highly skilled orthopedic surgeon repaired Todd's arm with 16 pins and two metal plates. After several months of healing and physical therapy Todd will be able to use his right arm again to create the artistic portraits that have won him so many fans. But until that time comes, Todd is out of work -- facing staggering medical bills and a long road of painful rehabilitation.



Todd has lived as part of Austin's artistic community for 30 years, generously giving his time and skills to fellow musicians and artists. He has devoted many, many hours to creating posters, promotional pictures, and album covers for numerous charitable causes. He also grants nearly unrestricted access to his copyrighted images at no charge to his artist subjects. Because of his generous spirit, Todd is blessed with the friendship of some of the most talented people in the world. A benefit concert is planned for September 9, 2009 at Antone's nightclub in Austin. Further information will be provided as soon as the details are final.

The whole situation has left me at a loss for words (I know, shocker, right?) possibly because the idea of a hard-working, independent artist with no insurance having a sudden & painful accident which hinders both his artistic pursuits and his very livelihood, well, that just happens to be my biggest fear ever. Even before this happened Todd’s attitude of acceptance and forgiveness has always struck me as a rarity (outside my program of recovery) so his continued positive attitude now is truly inspiring. Anyone who’d like to help ease his burden a bit as well as help get him back behind the camera where he belongs, can donate to his Medical Benefit Fund.

Some of my long-term readers will remember that shortly after my shoot with Todd I posted one topless picture here, which I took down after getting in a relationship. I don’t intend to ever repost it however I’d be happy to email a full-size digital version to anyone confirmed to have donated $50 or more to Todd’s fund (because Austin needs Todd back in good working condition and the grrls (@)(@) are always happy to *put themselves out there* for a good cause).

I just changed this blog's Subtitle to read "A Sexy Smart Sober Stripper/Screenwriter Blog" and (as I've been doing for a couple years) will continue to post content falling under any one of those headings. This one can be filed under sobriety because it represents how far I've come from the debilitating eating disorder I had 10-12 years ago. Because eating disorders stem partly from obsessive-compulsive behavior, many addicts succumb to them early in sobriety, as I did.

Beginning 8 months after getting sober from drugs & alcohol (4/18/97) my life slowly became ruled by thoughts of food; compulsive eating, spontaneous fasting, binging, starving, purging, and generally just obsessing, obsessing, obsessing. It's a nightmare, truly, and in a way it can be even harder to overcome than other addictions because you cannot abstain from food. Drugs and alcohol are monsters you can lock away. But food is like a monster you have to let out of the cage and take for a walk 3 times a day, praying all the while it doesn't suddenly turn on you and rip you to shreds.

For me the worst of it lasted about 18 months before I managed to get it under some small amount of control through the same principles I'd been using to stay sober. But I absolutely struggled with it to some degree (though less every year) for another 8 years, during which time I read around 100 books on nutrition, health, and fitness and slowly improved my diet. These days I'm continually asked how I stay in shape at my age and/or what kinds of foods I eat so I thought I'd share it here with some pics.

Besides, last week's post was such a downer I'm keepin' it "lite" today (although +/- 2,000 calories probably isn't considered "lite," I'm +/-123 lbs which I guess means I am). I should also add that I love and savor every single delicious morsel I eat, I'm never hungry, never uncomfortably full yet always completely satisfied.

BREAKFAST = 1 scoop Ultimate Meal green food, 1 banana, 3-4 oz frozen strawberries, 1 cup unsweetened hemp/almond/coconut milk (all organic ingredients).




LUNCH = organic spinich salad, dressing of hemp oil + apple cider vinegar, 4 oz wild salmon, raw flax crackers.




DESSERT = Yum!




SNACK = one of the following (raw, organic nut/seed/fruit bars)...




DINNER = organic Braeburn apple + raw nut butter (almond or walnut).

My 2nd stage set is at 2:30, after everyone has eaten lunch and indulged in whatever allotment of dances their thinning wallets dictate. On the secondary stage is C, one of the best dancers we have – a real dancer – with a tight, lean body and impossibly flexible hips who can kick straight up into standing splits the same way you and I blink an eye. He pole work is effortless and even when she’s just leaning against it she knows how to throw one hip out and both shoulders back so it is still dancing. She’s like me that way, knowing that every second, every limb, every joint, every move counts.

I watched her first set on main stage but now it’s my turn and I’m watching my own, moving extra slow today, achingly aware of every step, every turn, every twist, arch, slink, spin, spin, spin... A tiny smile is frozen in place – it is all I can manage as I grit my teeth to keep from screaming out loud, from crying out in a terrifying, high-pitched wail about the deep, sharp pain in my lower back. It has barely left me for 7 days. The smile and the constant awareness of each next step – from pole to pole to floor vent that blows my hair into a pretty fan around my face – help keep the tears at bay. If I think about where my right foot will be 2 seconds from now I won’t have to think about the hot poker digging ruthlessly into my spine and I won’t start crying, I won’t collapse into a weeping, crippled puddle on the stage.

There is nothing less sexy than an aging and injured stripper. Nothing less appealing than a 41 year old with few to no good options and a dwindling bank account. Nothing less attractive than fear of financial insecurity bordering on desperation. If I don’t power through I won’t make my quota. And if I don’t somehow find a healing, I cannot continue this dancing. If I can’t continue dancing, I can’t afford to keep writing. If I’m forced to take a straight job for minimal pay I’ll have to give up the one and only part of my life that means anything to me. If I don’t have time to write, I will shrivel up and die inside.

I am on stage in this kind of agony because I need the exposure – it is a slow day and yet even more dancers have arrived to work, just 30 minutes ago, making it an even ratio of men to women, yet again. There is not one dancer-less customer for me to approach, not one customer even looking at the stage right now. It’s just Dave Edmunds and I up here, his badass British guitar licks and my fucked up degenerated disc. Two aging, underpaid performers doin’ their thing in a Round Rock Texas strip club on a Thursday afternoon.

Sometime later, after my 6 song set and a small but decent influx of customers I’m taking a break in the dressing room, the sharp pain having receded to a dull ache. I’m standing at my locker because sitting makes the pain worse, staring at the top shelf wishing someone would distract me with a text to my cell phone propped up there in the corner. Perhaps a Hollywood producer with financing for my script or Ed McMahon calling from the grave with a million bucks to be paid out in monthly installments of unlimited chiropractic care for life. Instead a petite, adorable dancer I’ve never met, a soft-spoken, young, black girl with a gorgeous smile and a Jessica Rabbit figure passes by my row. I watch her, tired of staring into my locker and trying to remember what it’s like to walk with such ease with a heavy dancer bag slung over one shoulder.

She catches my eye and stops, smiling sweetly. “Oh hey,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for the longest time, I just love watching you on stage, every time. Just because you’re so… oh, you know… graceful!”

I thank her, 2 or 3 times, I don’t know… enough to make her uncomfortable I think, though she keeps smiling then shyly scoots out the door. I sink softly against my neighbor’s locker, trying to avoid any position that will spark the deep, sharp pain in my lower back again. I’m trying not to cry.

I just returned to yoga after 4 weeks off only to discover my leg strength has diminished enough to make my quads to tremble and shake during Dandayamana - JanuShirasana and Utkatasana like I’m standing on a vibrating mattress. I’m not surprised, having been around the block enough times to know I can’t ever rest on my laurels. I can’t stop making an effort anywhere I want continued prosperity or even just to maintain what I’ve got. If life is a journey more than a destination then empowerment is too, and the best you can hope for is to avoid getting stuck next to that obnoxious, smelly passenger who’s convinced he’s entitled to your arm-rest the whole time.

My first week back at work was great, no trembling legs whatsoever (nor vibrating mattresses which hopefully goes without saying) though one helluva blister on my pinkie toe, which I guess means stripper shoes give you thicker skin (possibly a metaphor to explore in another post). Though none of my best regulars could make it on the short notice I gave them, I never expect them to cater to my schedule anyway. They’re only responsible for visiting as frequently as they feel the need while I’m responsible for creating that need in the first place by simply being damn good at what I do. I do get lucky sometimes, showered with huge sums of money just for the pleasure of my fabulous company and I’m grateful for all of it, for the windfalls as well as every dollar I earn. Gratitude is a form of prayer, integral to manifesting and quite frankly a more pleasant way to live than the alternative.

Take the recent case of my semi-regular customers, Mr. & Mrs. Red, not only an adorable couple whose combination of lust and love for each other could restore faith in the most cynical and jaded woman ever born (not that I know anyone like that), but also two of the most genuinely respectful, easy-going, generous and fun customers you could ever hope to meet. They’re the kind of customers most strippers love, treasure and hope to be able to clone someday. For the love of God, they’re the kind of customers even the most private, introverted, anti-social stripper might spontaneously agree to meet at a tiny intimate venue for a late-night Ian Moore gig long past her usual bedtime (not that I know anyone like that). They are the rarest of the rare – customers you actually like who also happen to frequently freely spend money on you.

They are also, apparently anyway, the kind of customers some strippers take completely and utterly for granted, such as the very inner circle of dancers with whom the Red’s have been so generous for so long, who have now come to expect it, every time, as soon as the Red’s show up, by planting themselves at their table and proceeding to insist on strings of dances just as soon as they’ve guzzled the expensive cocktails they ordered without even asking (Gee ladies, entitled much?).

Exactly 24 hours after hearing that disgusting story last week, at Palazio I bump into a customer I recognized as a long-time regular of an Exposé dancer I’ll call “Minnie.” Since customers sometimes frequent more than one club I thought nothing of his presence at Palazio until, with absolutely no prompting, this customer launches into an explanation of why he’s not at Exposé. “Every single time I walk through the door Minnie instantly attacks me, drags me to a booth and expects me to start buying dances!” About an hour later I’m commiserating with yet another equally offended customer who’s just shared an almost identical story. And had SuperDave been around I’m sure I’d have heard the same story yet again since he tends to buy strings of dances from a variety of girls in a variety of clubs, making him a frequent target of those exact kind of entitled dancers, the same girls, by the way, who are enraged by an attitude of entitlement in their customers (which obviously is completely warranted, just also very ironic).

The thing is, we all deserve to be making more money per dance, this much is true – that a rate increase is looong overdue. Dances in Austin cost the same as 20 years ago while living expenses obviously don’t. So the same $20 that buys me so much less than it used to (and less and less every day) actually buys my customer one HELLUVA LOT MORE because what I’m expected to do for that $20, in fact to remain competitive what I absolutely MUST do for it, is SO much more physical & sexual contact than was even allowed 20 years ago. I started dancing in 1986 so trust me when I say I get this fucked up *math* as well or better than anyone. And while I absolutely feel entitled to a higher income, I do not feel entitled to just take it, at will, from any and every customer who walks through the door. My customers pay a set rate (though my good regulars happily pay more) but management & owners are the men who set it (and I’m guessing they’re pretty content with it considering the owner of one of my clubs just bought himself a Bentley).

For strippers, entitlement works only short term, if at all, and even then is usually at the expense of future business. He’ll either laugh you out of the room or you’ll chase him right out, at which point all that’s left is to work as a Domme, the only job where clients happily pay to be bossed around all day and then come back for more. It is an exceedingly rare regular customer who allows himself to be treated like an ATM and repeatedly taken advantage of, so everybody loses in the end. And call me crazy but I LIKE customers with a healthy dose of self-respect, it’s the only way I can be sure they know how to treat ME with any. And because I happen to have a healthy dose of it myself, it’s impossible for me to treat them with anything less. There is no empowerment in entitlement (although if you’re the owner of a strip club, there is very likely a $250,000 car in it).

I'm back to work as of tomorrow ~ Thursday, July 9, following my usual schedule:

Thursdays at Perfect 10, 11am - 7pm
Fridays at Palazio, 11am - 7pm

Come see me soon! Come, come, my little fishies! (attempts best Caligula voice) [edit: does best Peter O'Toole as Tiberius imitation]

Of the dozen film producers & managers I pitched my screenplay to last month, one third turned out to be genuinely interested. One woman, from a production company responsible for a ballsy and authentic cable drama about drug use, promised to contact me in a few weeks (since her entire office was in Australia and she was completely swamped).

Another guy requested my script, which I sent, but has yet to get back to me (if he even plans to).

Another has been more encouraging in that he (and apparently others at his very reputable company) likes my script and want to see more of my work. We’re also on the same “page” regarding the creative process – writing what you know and sticking with your gut without catering to “the market.” He said the very reason he asked to see my work in the first place is because it’s “different” and not to worry about the supposed difficulty of selling dramatic scripts with female leads – he’s got that part covered.

The fourth guy was actually a surprise to hear from and he did, in the end, decide to pass on my script, the story of a small town punk rock chick who succumbs to Meth addiction before finding an unlikely redemption as a stripper. He called it “good writing” but also said:

We want to like her, but we just don’t know enough about her past to excuse her present. I love stories about people who are kind of sucked into something they can't handle or a world they never knew, but she's not so much sucked into it as she does jump into it. I think it might be easier to swallow or she might be more sympathetic if we thought she was this innocent type before she moved there and met these other types of people, but she's not. And I thought her story with her [initial love interest] could be a bit stronger since he kind of disappears for a long time.

Last week I wrote one long-ass blog post mentioning the need for research into various factors leading to drug dependency, so trust me when I say I’m both informed and skilled enough to have covered that very issue in my script. It IS there, revealed in the first 20 minutes, in fact, in about 10 different ways – the attitudes and aspects inherent in the punk scene, in needy romantic relationships and typical dysfunctional families not to mention the traits and behaviors of most rebellious teens and all addictive personalities – everything necessary to explain (I would never use the word “excuse”) the path this character takes. If you’re not an addict, a punk, or a stripper, it is a world you may not *get* immediately, but all you have to do is read carefully and you absolutely will long before you’re done.

It’s not Pretty Woman – it’s the raw, harsh truth about three incredibly intense subcultures. And while it might be “easier to swallow” if my lead were the “innocent type” being led astray by big, bad villains, that’s not who this girl is, that’s not how drug dependency usually starts and it’s definitely not how this screenwriter writes. To anyone baffled by a girl who “jumps” into hardcore drug use instead of getting “sucked” into it, my best response is in the words of my roommate from the mid-80s who, like me, launched straight into intravenous Meth. Trish Trash as I liked to call her (because everyone had a nick-name back then), an equally complex and hardcore addict now turned recovered, empowered, single mom survivor, when asked why she thought we didn’t ease into it slowly, perhaps snorting first instead of shooting up, replied without hesitation, “Because that would’ve been like swimming with your clothes on.” It takes all types… just sayin’.

I wrote a script about punks and Meth addicts – is it any wonder their launching pad had a little extra juice behind it? Still, I do understand the misogynist mindset, that archaic insistence on all women as Doe-Eyed Innocents. It’s not that these men dislike or fear flawed women, they just need them to be flawed in a certain way – which is to say weak as opposed to angry, helpless as opposed to volatile, simple as opposed to complex, and innocent as opposed to damaged. And yet is anyone walking out of Public Enemies feeling put-off in the slightest by John Dillinger’s unapologetic and violent crime spree? Is anyone thinking that, just maybe, this guy was a little over the top? Don’t get me wrong – I love over the top-types but what if he was a woman? Angelina Jolie might get away with it, but what about Halle Berry – would a pissed-off, entitled, half-black woman backed by an arsenal of automatic weapons and a small, self-righteous, female army be nearly as romanticized? Or would that script even get read?

A naïve teenager from a small town and a dysfunctional family, already lonely, insecure and clearly displaying signs of early-stage alcoholism, is suddenly, painfully and repeatedly rejected romantically immediately after being transplanted into an intensely rebellious subculture known for high-risk behavior, few-to-no boundaries and a firm mindset of complete invincibility. Keeping in mind the near total ignorance of this fairly new street drug Crystal Meth, both by peers and the medical community to whom she actually turns at one point for help, call me crazy but I really think you’d be hard-pressed NOT to know exactly where that story inevitably leads (and if you don’t, and you have kids, then god help you, seriously). And since everyone else who read my script DID find this damaged, angry, sensitive character to be not just sympathetic but quite likable, I kind of have to wonder about the one guy so far who didn’t.

Recently, while reading Spike Gillespie’s insightful and important collection of essays, Pissed Off, on Women & Anger I realized how much she and I have in common as 40-something female writers who’ve spent most their adult lives single and working through anger issues, while often being labeled by others as “too sensitive.” Funny enough it’s a trait we’ve both come to appreciate about ourselves while wondering, as she puts it, “Could it be (yes, of course!) that people who level the “too sensitive” accusation are, in fact, too insensitive?” Something else on which Spike and I seem to agree is that by demonizing women’s anger, men absolve themselves of any responsibility for it. So maybe, for some men, the problem is less that a girl can get caught up in a dangerous drug-infused lifestyle, than that she would have enough anger in her to purposely seek out that lifestyle.

My lead character is an especially sensitive teenage girl who directs her anger inward and then responds to painful situations by (gasp!) self-medicating. Ahem… trust me, she’s plenty sympathetic to at least 51% of the population. I’m not saying she’s anyone’s idea of the perfect date (albeit a FUN one) but I gotta believe there are precious few intelligent viewers out there who really think we need more movies like Enchanted and less like Rachel Getting Married, The Professional, or even True Romance. I mean, how much longer do we really have to put up with this tired, misogynist Ivory Tower, Big Studio perspective? It’s like this joke from Spike’s book (in which the terms writer/editor and screenwriter/producer are interchangeable):

A plane crashes in the desert and the only survivors are a screenwriter and a producer. They crawl around for days, nearly perishing, until at last, on the very brink of death, they happen upon an oasis. The writer, overjoyed, plunges her head in the water, laps it up thirstily, and is just starting to feel better when she looks over and sees that the producer has dragged himself to his feet, pulled down his zipper, and is pissing in the water. ”What are you doing?!” she yells. “I’m making it better!” he says.

I’m just saying that if you don’t *get* addiction, and if you don’t *get* the punk scene and you don’t *get* the allure becoming a stripper, consider reading Speed Punk on it’s own merits instead of automatically rewriting it to, Helpless Ingénue Rescued by Dashing Savior in Spider Suit. Most people didn’t *get* multiple-personality disorder until Sybil. Most people didn’t *get* the lure of the porn industry until Boogie Nights, a script with a naïve lead character who starts out as a not-so-innocent hustler by the way. And c’mon… did we learn nothing from the upper class, white honor student turned-crack-whore in Traffic?

I am an open-minded and flexible girl. That said, I’m not letting anyone piss all over my script. Made the right way, my expectation is that this film will resonate with addicts, recovering addicts, punks, strippers, students, parents, most women, some men, and anyone battling unresolved anger and depression. My HOPE is that everyone else will learn from it. Because if we do not start sharing these stories, and if these stories don’t get made due to the shortsightedness of those in positions of power, men in Ivory Towers who just don’t *get* it, then no one else ever will – and the thought of that makes me just a little angry.

Since I’m not working again for another week or two, I’ve launched back into memoir revisions and it’s going really well. Today I polished up through chapter 9 which is 17 double-spaced pages about the first time I shot up Meth. Fun stuff – the writing I mean, not the Meth … although, well DUH cuz, yeah… that was too, at the time.

I read every addiction memoir I can get my hands on – you could say I’m hooked on 'em, but well, that would just be stupid, so never mind. Anyway, it’s always fun when I’m reading a new one and the author manages to capture my exact feelings, especially regarding those increasingly elusive memories of the High. Like in Down and Out on Murder Mile, when Tony O’Neill, an ex-junkie, writes about preparing to shoot some dope he just scored with a friend.

And this was it—this was beauty—no sickness, no worries, no nothing, except friends and the safety of heroin and the crack we were about to smoke and a whole day to waste—nothing but days and days and weeks to waste—no matter, life could not intrude into this sacred space.

That was my perception too, a sick and twisted reality where I felt safe and my activities were sacred whenever I scored some crack or cooked up my own batch of rock in preparation of spending a day or two (or three) smoking it up in my boyfriend's $1.2 million pad while he was out on tour. Until the shame, guilt and paranoia crept in and the voices whispering from every single tree on our massive lot freaked me out so badly I had to crouch on the floor of the upstairs hallway with a gun I wasn't 100% sure how to use, gripped tightly in my little hand. Yeah... fun stuff alright.

Recently I went to a book signing at Austin’s uber-fabulous, locally owned bookstore BookPeople where father and son, David & Nic Sheff, did a couple very powerful readings from their respective memoirs. A few weeks later, while devouring these heart wrenching yet ultimately uplifting stories, I again found my own experiences and emotions very closely mirrored.

In his raw, wrenching, phenomenally personal account, Tweak, Growing Up on Methamphetamines, Nic Sheff writes,

Growing up I’d heard, you know, never to do heroin. Like, the warnings were everywhere and I was scared – do heroin, get hooked. No one ever mentioned crystal to me. I’d done a little coke, Ecstasy, whatever – I could take it or leave it. But early that morning, when I took those off-white crushed shards up that blue, cut plastic straw – well, my whole world pretty much changed after that. There was a feeling like – my God, this is what I’ve been missing my entire life. It completed me. I felt whole for the first time.

That quote pretty much sums up exactly how I felt the first time I did Meth, which incidentally I'd never heard of until about an hour before I did it, intravenously no less. Like Nic, I was afraid of heroin (the only drug I never used, though I eventually smoked opium a few times). Up to that point in my life I'd had pot, acid, mushrooms and Ecstasy a couple times each, but my "gateway drug" really was alcohol which, along with the cocaine I'd become addicted to 4 years later, also made me feel "whole."

Because Nic’s father David Sheff was a successful writer already, I probably looked forward to studying his style of writing more than reading this particular story, that of a non-addict dealing with the disease from the other side. And in fact his prose was as beautiful and brilliant as I could’ve possibly hoped, yet it was his story that captivated me, so much so that I literally couldn’t put his book down, night after night, almost falling asleep with it still gripped in my hands.

In Beautiful Boy, a Father’s Journey Through His Son’s Addiction David recalls being taught in Alanon (a 12 step program for the loved ones of addicts), You didn’t Cause it, you can’t Control it, and you cannot Cure it. He says he accepts the last two thirds of that statement but also that,

I still don’t fully accept the initial C. Instead, I recognize that I will never know how much I caused or contributed to it...I don’t absolve myself—even now...I am so sorry.

Now, I know parents don’t mean to fuck up their kids when they ignore them, brush them off, and otherwise erode their confidence by withholding love, acceptance or affection. It’s not usually with malicious intent that they emotionally abandon them or lash out at them under duress. But mistakes are made because parents are human and thus flawed, no matter how much their children want to believe they’re perfect – the very delusion that sets kids up for getting so hurt. Thinking that goes, "If Mom and Dad are gods, and they don’t like me or think very highly of me, well then those must be the facts, right? I'm unlovable, even worthless, I guess..." makes perfect sense, to a toddler.

Near the end of his remarkable and important book about the various manifestations of addiction, America Anonymous, Eight Addicts in Search of a Life, Benoit Denizet-Lewis says,

If I believe anything about addiction, it’s that its roots can usually be found in childhood. (In one study of 872 boys, low self-esteem at eleven mostly predicted drug dependency at twenty.) Not every young victim of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse develops an addiction, just as not every addict had a terrible childhood. But if neuroscientists truly want to combat addiction, a good start would be to develop a pill that buffers kids against the struggles and mistakes of their families.

In the 12 years that I've been informally studying addiction (not to mention my 15 years of "hands-on" research), it’s become clear there are 2 major contributing factors. One is a genetic predisposition – it really does run in families genetically, as in through “nature,” completely aside from the effects of “nurture.” The other factor is childhood trauma (here's the "nurture" part) and by that I don’t mean just the kind of shocking physical and/or emotional abuse you hear on the news, because to sensitive children, something as common as divorce or a lack of quality attention can cause a traumatic shift in the delicate, budding sense of stability or self-confidence a young child has managed (hopefully) to establish. Voilà – trauma. And while growing up with one of those 2 issues can contribute to future addiction, the odds increase dramatically when someone is saddled with both the genetic predisposition and childhood trauma.

I used to feel such shame for the pain I inadvertently caused my parents as an addict, but later I realized it was very likely equal to the amount of pain they inadvertently caused me as I was growing up. Depression and stress can make people act in ways that hurt their children in exactly the same way addiction causes children to act in ways that hurt their parents. It’s actually kind of a cool form of karma.

David Sheff says of his son Nic’s behavior,

Often when he was using – his behavior unconscionable, his self-destructive course unfathomable and unstoppable – I felt, How could he do this to me? How could he do this to [our family]? ... [Then, after reading Nic's book] I learned anew that he wasn’t doing it to us. He was doing it to himself. We were innocent bystanders, collateral damage.

In the book’s Afterward, David then delves into how our government is handling what many of us believe to be the biggest (costliest) problem our country faces.

Testifying before the Senate Judiciary Subcommittee on Crime and Drugs in 2008, Leonard J. Paulozzi, M.D., MPH, an epidemiologist with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, summed: “The mortality rates from unintentional drug overdose have risen steadily since the early 1970s, and over the past ten years they have reached historic highs.” First-time users are younger, the drugs themselves are stronger, and there are many more types of drugs to abuse. Users can get their drug of choice whenever and wherever they want. Yet in spite of these facts, the federal government boasts that we’re making progress. Statistics are manipulated, misused, and ignored to mask the fact that we’re playing a zero-sum game, because addicts, unless treated, will find drugs.

The government’s handling of the problem would be laughable if the implications weren’t so disastrous. Four thousand Americans have died over the course of five years in Iraq, whereas more than twenty thousand die each year of drug overdoses alone, and that number continues to rise. In many regions of the country, overdoses have or will soon surpass automobile accidents as the leading cause of non-natural death. Consider the related tragedies that can result from drug use – crime, accidents, suicide, drug- and alcohol-caused illnesses, lost productivity – and you’ll begin to fathom the enormity of the problem, much of which is hidden.

It’s hidden because most addiction-related deaths are officially ascribed to other causes: suicide, homicide, auto and other accidents, heart attacks, hypertension, pulmonary disorder, strokes, and other brain hemorrhages, hepatitis and other infections, HIV/AIDS, liver disease, respiratory disease, kidney disease, septicemia, and on and on. Health insurance companies – and Medicare and Medicaid – often refuse to pay (or pay at a lower rate) for treatment of illnesses or injuries caused by drugs or alcohol, so doctors trend to report a diagnosis that will ensure payment. Thirty-two states still enforce statutes – the Uniform Accident and Sickness Policy Provision Laws, enacted in 1947 – that allow insurance companies to refuse to cover medical care in hospital emergency rooms if alcohol or drugs contributed to the patient’s condition. Also, payment of life insurance may be denied if drug or alcohol abuse led to death, so doctors and medical examiners do grieving families the “favor” of citing a death’s immediate cause – an accident or an ailment – rather than the underlying, primary one. And apart from these more practical reasons, addiction remains a secret because of the overwhelming shame associated with it. Last year, when the scion of a prominent Midwestern business family died suddenly, newspaper accounts cited the cause of death stated on the coroner’s death certificate: injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident. The lethal dose of heroin in the young man’s bloodstream was never mentioned.

While we go on denying the ubiquity of addiction, we marginalize and stigmatize its victims. According to a national survey called The Face of Recovery, one quarter of the people in recovery have been denied a job or a promotion or have had trouble getting insurance; seven in ten reported that they had experienced shame or social embarrassment. In our society, addicts are viewed as having a character deficiency rather than a serious illness. We ignore their condition except to criminalize it and the dangerous behavior it can lead to. In addition, the threat of arrest and prosecution make it less likely that addicts will admit their problem and seek early treatment. So the disease progresses, making it more likely that addicts will become criminals, often dangerous ones.

We fail miserably when it comes to education about drug abuse and addiction. The week-long education sessions provided at school pale – in quality and quantity – in comparison to messages that promote use and abuse. We fail at prevention too because we’re inept at diagnosing and treating the psychological and social problems that create fertile ground for addiction. “A presentation on the dangers of drug use will have little impact on the likelihood that a child who is experiencing depression, anxiety, learning disabilities, eating or conduct disorders, low self-esteem, or sexual or physical abuse or neglect, or who has no hope for the future, will self-medicate with drugs and alcohol,” writes Joseph A. Califano Jr., the former U.S. secretary of health, education and welfare, in the book High Society.

Stigma and prejudice have also curtailed financial support for research into addiction. As a result, few effective treatment options have been developed, and thus addiction carries a relatively poor prognosis, which reinforces its stigma. (Many people think addicts can’t get well.) Addicts who manage to find their way to a good program may find it impossible to pay for it; costs for the most highly recommended programs may run at $30,000 to $50,000 a month – or more. Therefore few addicts get the long-term, comprehensive care the need.

According to the National Institute on Drug Abuse, an estimated 23 million Americans are hooked on drugs or alcohol, representing an annual economic loss of $524 billion. Go ahead and read that line again, I’ll wait.

Now, chew on this tasty statistic for a moment: For every dollar spent on treatment for addiction, taxpayers save more than seven in other services, largely through reduced crime and medical fees and increased productivity. A visit to the emergency room, for instance, costs as much as a month in rehab.

And one more: Each year we spend, or rather misspend, more than $50 billion on the war on drugs (total so far is more than $2 trillion). On prisons we spend billions more as a result of drug use. And yet the annual budget of the National Institute on Drug Abuse, which includes almost all drug-related research and development, is less than $1 billion.

In America Anonymous, Benoit Denizet-Lewis asks the question, Why do some recover and others die? He doesn’t know, but believes the “experts” can teach us – meaning the addicts themselves. He writes,

We’ve historically “treated” [addicts] in two ineffective ways: We’ve either locked them in prison, occasionally offering cursory rehabilitation there but more often hoping they’ll be scared straight and return to their drug-infested communities with a newfound resolve to "Just Say No.” Or, we’ve mandated them to short-term treatment programs, barely scratching the surface of their problems before patting them on the back and returning them to their drug-infested communities—but not before reminding them to avoid the “people, places, and things” that might cause them to relapse.

The [Drug Treatment Alternative-to-Prison] program recognizes the absurdity of both approaches. It understands that recovery rarely happens in thirty days and that it is about far more than stopping the addictive behavior. Recovery demands that addicts learn “all the adult things you weren’t doing because you were too busy getting fucked up,” [a drug counselor] once told me. Long-term treatment allows for that kind of process.

On the last page of Benoit's book he echoes one of my long-held opinions, one which has compelled me for years to speak and write openly about my own past addictions. Benoit quotes his friend Jody, a recovering addict and drug counselor, who says,

You can have the best treatment center in the world ... but nothing will really change in this country until people in recovery, and those who care about people in recovery, decide that they’ve seen enough heartbreak, enough needless death. People in recovery need to stand up and demand to be counted. We don’t have nearly enough people out there screaming until something changes, until we start devoting real money and resources to fighting this disease. Where are the millions of addicts in this country who are sober and have turned around their lives? They need to be on the front lines of this war, but they’re at their AA and NA meetings in church basements, talking to each other. And that’s great, and that’s important, and personal recovery depends on it, but man, that’s not enough anymore! I mean, when will we wake up and flip the fucking script?”

Speaking of scripts, I just wrote a helluva good one about Meth addiction. I’ve also written an addiction memoir that I’m more than one third of the way through revising. I’m also almost halfway through writing a collection of short stories on the topic of addiction, one of which has been published already. I just had an essay on addiction accepted for publication and I intend to blog, every now and then, on it too. I know this is a long post but I felt it was important so thanks to anyone who managed to stick with me here. In fact, while I’m at it, thanks to everyone who managed to stick with me *out there* too – not the easiest thing to do when you love an addict.

Tourist Casey, and her trusty camera-phone, hit the mean streets of Beverly Hills, CA:



1) The Pasadena Whole Foods store kinda kicks the Beverly Hills store’s ass. However they both sell the most amazing raw, organic, vegan desserts by Earth Café Living Foods that my own Austin flagship store has yet to carry (until I get home and convince them to stock it immediately lest I go on a hunger strike which, considering how much I shop there, just might work).

2) Austin could really use more palm trees (like this one outside my hotel room window):



3) Having attended only my 2nd screenwriting conference ever I’m beginning to suspect that some executives have the potential to be as unapologetically arrogant as the snobbiest stripper ever, and I am not quite sure how I feel about that. After all, I know as well as anyone the frustrations of weeding through dozens of delusional, ignorant time-wasters for a living – ya smile and move on, it’s called professionalism and a far cry from leading a panel for hundreds of insecure artist/writer-types (who’ve each scraped together approximately $1,000 for airfare, hotel & registration) and callously crushing their delicate spirits in order to demonstrate just how tedious you find them to be.

4) If it’s true that Los Angeles film industry people are “cooler” than the rest of Americans (yeah, I'll actually concede that point), than Austinites are just plain exempt from the entire conversation. I call this the Harry Dean Stanton Effect. You see, while Jack Nicolson may be the “coolest” guy in L.A., as soon as Harry Dean enters the room the whole competition suddenly loses all meaning, becoming as trivial and embarrassing as a dethroned pageant queen with huge, tacky earrings and a fake-ass spray tan (just sayin’).

5) I miss my Bikram yoga class.



6) There must be some kind of city ordinance in Beverly Hills, akin to Lease Agreements in Austin, regarding pet size/weight because while strolling through residential neighborhoods these past 3 days, I’ve counted 10 dogs being walked, 9 of which were the approximate size/weight of a football (though possibly less aerodynamic – I didn’t ask).

7) I did not even know there was such a thing, but here it is, the prettiest roof I have ever seen:



I am not freaking kidding - it SPARKLES.



Sparkles!

After spending more money this weekend on 2 pay-per-view movies than I spend in 5 months on Netflix rentals, I’ve had a couple revelations.

One, that Daniel Craig is the first addition in years to my hypothetical “Guys to be Stranded on a Deserted Island With” list which (since we're both fair-skinned) also means adding “extra sunscreen” to my “Three Items I Absolutely Must Have if Stranded on a Deserted Island” list (the other two items being Benecio Del Toro and the 1990s Armand Assante).

And two, if Joaquin Phoenix and Gwyneth Paltrow, in a dark, complex, character-driven drama, can keep me glued to the screen for 2 hours in the middle of the night when I really should be resting my exhausted brain and body in preparation for pitching MY dark, edgy, character-driven story all the next day, that I might have a fighting chance at getting produced too, even though, being in a recession, the timing couldn’t be worse for financing anything, much less this particular hard-to-sell genre.

In a way you could say my timing has been terrible all my life. When I was in high school I discovered the San Diego punk scene just in time to make it in to a couple cool parties and make-out with a few hot punks (Hi, Marc Zizzo, Casey Barber and Thayne) before being shipped off to Amarillo which, for the record, is the absolute worst nightmare imaginable for a lonely, horny, sixteen year old punk rock chick.

I started my stripping career in 1986 in a seriously slumped Texas economy. Five years later I moved to L.A. to live with my boyfriend (at that time), one of the most talented and famous guitar players in rock ‘n’ roll history, just as his career was nose-diving into near-oblivion. About 6 years later, just as our doomed engagement made the exact same downward spiral, he went and got his clean & sober shit back together along with the “old band,” a feat which propelled him, almost instantly, right back into rock stardom and multimillionaire status – incidentally just as I was hitting my pitiful, incomprehensible, near-suicidal, raging alcoholic “bottom.”

A couple years later after getting my own clean & sober shit back together, I had a pretty fabulous 18 months career-wise, raking in the dough via one of Vegas’s hottest gentlemen’s clubs. Unfortunately my burnout quickly got so bad I had to actually retire, just before the entire industry went through a massive boom, peaking a few years ago right as I finally returned to the business (on top of my game like never before, no less).

As for my Real Estate career, I busted my ass those first 2 years to work my way into the high-end “Silicon Hills” market just as the tech bubble burst and all my clients suddenly decided not to sell after all. I spent much of the rest of that 9 year career slaving away 6-7 days a week in a much lower price range. I’m 41 years old and (truly remarkable body notwithstanding) just don’t see myself stripping past another 3-5 years - a block of time, I should add, promising to be the toughest, most lean phase this industry has ever seen.

So I guess you could say my timing has been a bit “off” in this lifetime. You could also say that, thanks to that very trend, I’ve developed enough determination over the years to become exceedingly adept at beating the fucking odds.

The odds that an addict of my severity will ever get clean & sober are slim. The odds that she’ll stay sober for even a couple years are something like 2 or 3 in 100 and I actually have no idea what the odds are she’ll stay sober more than 12 years (but the odds that she’ll STILL have the body of a 21 year old by then have got to be mind-bogglingly low). So you can see why I’m not too concerned with the odds on getting dark, edgy dramatic screenplays produced.

Someone made THE WRESTLER and someone else made BOOGIE NIGHTS and someone else made LEAVING LAS VEGAS for fuck’s sake (a few of my all-time faves). So all I have to do is find the right manager and producer (and financer and distributor and whomever else it takes to make a great movie in this dark, complex, character-driven drama of an industry) even if, as everyone keeps pointing out, the odds are incredibly slim.

After attending some fun, informative Pitch Fest classes and panels in the Burbank Marriott convention center, I proceeded to pitch my little heart out to over a dozen producers and managers. Of the 6 that seemed to really like the story, half asked me outright to email them the script and there’s a 4th guy who said he’d be contacting me. I’m told that’s a high level of interest, especially for a dark drama with a female lead, so it seems the odds are in my favor thus far. I mean (as my Ex used to say) I could be wrong … but I’m not.

About 18 hours from now I’ll be at the Austin airport removing my sandals for security, also, incidentally, the last act of anything resembling stripping I'll be doing for the rest of this month. Friday morning I head to Los Angeles for the Pitch Fest screenwriter’s conference followed by a couple weeks of rest and relaxation. It’s the only break I’ve had resembling a vacation in the past 9 years, other than the 2 weeks I spent at my folks’ over Christmas, 2007. Amarillo is relaxing but has no beach and even if it did no one would go in December because it would very likely be frozen solid.

I’m also looking forward to my last day (half-day actually) at Perfect 10 tomorrow because I know I’m going to miss dancing, just a little, while I’m away (also because it can’t hurt to have extra shoe shopping money since my hotel IS in the same neighborhood as Jimmy Choo – just sayin’). Still, my aching back could use a little time off (got X-rays, no worries) not to mention my overall perspective. I have posted a lot of complaints about customers lately (c’mon, it’s like shooting fish in a beer mug sometimes) and wouldn’t mind interacting in the real world for a change (not sure if meeting bunch of Hollywood producers, managers and agents actually applies here, but we’ll see). Anyway, spending too much time in a strip club can result in taking all its little blessings for granted.

Just ask SuperDave, a favorite customer who probably spends as much time in strip clubs as I do, drinking beer and spreading the wealth (as well as the occasional, amazing back rub) among countless girls at clubs all over town, until his cell phone invariably rings, summoning him back to the office. Recently he came into Perfect 10, spied me on stage and headed straight over to where, in short order, I’m doing my standard mini-dance for him at the edge of the stage.

I start my mini-dance by standing in front of the customer so that we’re approximately crotch-to-eye (my crotch, his eyes but you probably got that, sorry). I proceed to gyrate or otherwise bounce my pelvis lightly (in a cute & sexy little way I just don't think I can describe here) before slowly dropping to my knees until we’re breast-to-eye. At this point I press his face into them (my breasts, not my eyes) before slipping onto my back where I do some cute & sexy leg moves which eventually lead to the center splits.

This happens to be the exact moment SuperDave’s phone rings, which would be no big deal except that he actually retrieves it from his pocket TO CHECK IT. At which point I snap my head up in utter shock and yell at him from between my still-split legs, “Tell me you are NOT checking your phone less than eighteen inches from my vagina!!” at which point he sheepishly returns the phone to his back pocket as I clamp my knees shut and roll onto my side, laughing my ass off.

I don’t know if Dave needs a break from strip clubs (though he won’t be answering his phone at the stage anytime soon). As for me, I didn’t kick him in the head so I’m probably fine too. I do, however, have a damn good screenplay to pitch and a writing career to get off the ground not to mention a deteriorating disc between L3 and L4 (have yoga, no worries). So, I’m off to L.A. to do a bunch of mini-pitches (fully clothed, sitting upright) for a bunch of strangers whom I’m assuming will not be checking their cells phones until I’m done. I will let you know how it goes.

A new customer told me last week he got the sense that my life was kind of empty (and no, before you ask, I am not typing this from a jail cell awaiting trial on assault charges). I’m a recovering addict and alcoholic. I’m a struggling writer. I’m an (almost) middle-aged woman attempting a life of empowerment while working in the adult industry. I like to think I’m at least somewhat aware of how easy it can be to lose perspective at times. I decided to give his comment some thought.

Besides, he’s a smart and savvy man who’s read a fair amount of my blog and while you can’t completely know a person from a thin, little sliver like that, you could still probably pick up subtle clues as to the level of joy or meaning in her life. I think I have a lot of meaning in my life (puhleez, I can find meaning in everything from Triangle Pose to tea leaves to toe length) but about joy, well, maybe not so much. I don’t kid myself about that though neither do I spill any tears over it. For a girl like me, each day spent without a hangover or liver disease is something to be grateful for, not to mention yet another opportunity to strive for greatness and one more chance to nail down that elusive bitch Joy.

I suppose many people find joy in raising a family and providing for their kids or being in love and sharing their lives with a soul mate. I really don’t miss being in love which actually seems strange considering I developed every other dependency known to man but whatever (thank god for small favors and fabulous lovers, ‘nuf said). Neither do I have any of what I’d call “close” friends though I do have “good” friends, people with whom I share few common interests and even less about my private life yet who genuinely care about me as much as I do them. It's a nice feeling, just not fulfilling per se.

My work is fulfilling to some degree, certainly as a dancer more so than as a Realtor, a job in which creative expression consists primarily of marketing slogans and financing options (some of the latter often being legally questionable while some of the former really should be). Dancing itself has always been creatively satisfying, limited though that fulfillment may be in the “exotic” arena (though a weekly funk fest at Antone’s was always pretty damn good for the soul). But for the most rewarding life I really need both the freedom to be creative and the opportunity to be of service (as symbolized by my two wrist tattoos).

The emotional labor I expend at the club is some of the only chance I have to be of service these days, since I’m not currently sponsoring any women in my 12 step program. Ever since returning to stripping in 2006 I've found more satisfaction in the little intimacies playing out with my customers (compared to the previous hard hustle of Vegas), especially the stressed, lonely men who seem to really benefit from such personalized attention. In fact that dynamic is probably what I've blogged about the most this past year but if it reads lately like I'm feeling empty at work, maybe I am a little.

Recently a male friend who frequents strip clubs suggested that some of the customers who've been confusing me for their unwillingness to work on their marriages or just get divorced and enjoy bachelorhood again, very likely have NO interest in making the required effort to improve their stagnant situations. That even if they're not "happy" they are content enough, especially since they can get the occasional reprieve from strippers like me. Which is logical I guess, but having little respect for that kind of laziness or mediocrity, the revelation took a little wind out of my sails and maybe a little satisfaction out of my work.

Anyway my life revolves more and more lately around my writing, which validates me daily (side note: my essay Tomb and Temple was just accepted for publication). But still, is creative expression, even if it someday provides financial security, enough to make life full? Or will it simply elevate me to a place with a clearer view of how empty it really is?

One of the last movies I saw with my last boyfriend was Into the Wild in which Christopher McCandless abandons modern society for the wilderness believing “You don’t need human relationships to be happy” and [*spoiler alert*] survives just long enough to scribble out his final epiphany that “Happiness only real when shared.” Whether or not this is true (and I tend to think it is) how much does it apply to someone whose every spare moment is spent trying to build a life she can live proudly and happily before finding someone to share it with?

The ultimate irony of our relationship was that my boyfriend Lalo’s love turned out to be the magical remedy for healing that ancient, crippling grief my addictions had left me with, that dark phantom pain no amount of therapy or 12 step work had managed to reach. Once healed, I was finally able to realize my passion, embrace my dreams and dedicate myself to becoming a writer. What irony that my transformation eventually forced Lalo right out of my life and even more so that it happened immediately after seeing this movie about how Happiness only real when shared. The difference, I suspect, is that while most people think the actual sharing is what makes for happiness, those relationships seem pretty empty to me, lacking the satisfaction of any significant individual achievement. It is in fact [*spoiler alert*] probably where most unwanted babies come from (as well as "pageant parents," invitro multiples and Octomoms, but I digress).

One of the most important lessons I learned getting sober was that I didn’t have to reinvent the wheel – that I could learn a new way of life by staying teachable and open to the experience, strength and hope of others in recovery who’d trudged this path before me, that listening was more important than talking (hey, no one ever said anything about typing, okay so just leave my blog out of it) and that if enough people try to tell you "You’re growing a tail" you should really consider turning around and taking a good, close look at your ass (thanks Tj).

So when this customer and blog reader tells me he’s read 8 months worth of thoughts and ramblings I apparently considered important enough to devour all my Saturday afternoons since last Halloween, typing and editing incessantly before ultimately posting for the entire Universe to read from now until the end of time, and that it left him with the sense that something’s missing in my life, well let’s hope I’m smart enough to spend at least a couple days mulling it over.

Which I have. And I’ve come to the conclusion that while my life and job aren't technically “empty,” neither are they anywhere near “full.” The job *is what it is,* I'm lucky to have it and truly blessed by every opportunity to be of service therein. And as for my life, well, who says you get to have a “full” life and be “happy” without working your ass off for it, especially if you already wasted half of said life chasing shortcuts via crack pipes and shot glasses.

Assuming a full life equals a happy life (and I tend to think it does) happiness is also rather subjective. Depending on where you come from there’s a lot of value to be had in just trudging your path one day at a time. If life really is a journey (and I tend to think it is) I may just need to cover more territory before I’ll experience any happiness through sharing it (with someone other than my blog readers anyway). Remains to be seen I guess but when that time comes I’ll be sure to scribble MY epiphany here (edited incessantly) before expiring. You can judge for yourselves whether or not I’m “full” of it then.

A homeowner hires a maid to clean his house. The service includes vacuuming, dusting, cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms, washing the windows and doing laundry. The services and rates listed on the maid’s website are pretty standard for her industry and exactly what most clients typically expect upon hiring any professional cleaning service. The homeowner agreed to them and set an appointment.

The maid shows up on time with all her necessary equipment and immediately begins cleaning, impressing the homeowner with her exceptional skill and dedication. She’s fulfilling her end of the contract as well as anyone could possibly expect. Suddenly, before the maid is even halfway done, the homeowner asks if she wouldn’t mind weeding his garden as well. He offers no extra payment for the extra request.

The maid politely refuses. The homeowner tells her his last maid did it and he doesn’t understand why she won’t as well. The maid isn’t sure if he’s lying or not, but regardless she still refuses. The homeowner seems disappointed, even frustrated. The maid tries to return to her work but he taps her again and suggests she redecorate his living room while she cleans it. The maid politely explains she is not a landscaper or decorator and that she’d very much like to finish the job she was hired for, get paid, and go home.

The homeowner grudgingly offers a little extra cash for the landscaping and/or decorating service. The maid refuses, visibly offended at his attitude of entitlement. The homeowner wonders only if he shouldn’t have hired a more desperate maid.

Gentlemen, if what you really want is someone to mow your lawn, polish your floors, or stroke your stupid cock, hire the appropriate professional. DO NOT go to a strip club, request a lap dance (i.e., hire a lap dancer) and then halfway through the service assume she should start polishing your chandelier.

If you must cross that line, if you really feel the need to sink to that level, if you absolutely insist on catapulting from the artistic, sensual realm of her erotic dance performance and into the arena of performing actual sex acts then, at the very least, ask her beforehand AND lessen the egregious offense by offering her more money for the extra service. (I will still refuse of course but will be less compelled to choke you with a feather duster when I do it.)

I am all for the legalization of prostitution, I really am. What consenting adults do in private is their own business but what they do in MY workplace becomes MY business and sex acts such as handjobs are not in the implied contract between a dancer and her customer, no matter how many desperate or just plain idiot dancers somehow got convinced otherwise (or - even worse - managed to convince you otherwise).

If you’re somehow incapable of grasping the value in that extra service and unable for some reason to just get a fucking room (literally), at least take your laughable $20 sex acts and your cheaper-than-a-streetwalker whore to an alley or a backseat somewhere other than the Gentlemen’s Club where the rest of us are trying to fulfill our job description as Exotic Dancers and live happily ever after.

So this morning I was pleasantly surprised by two fabulous compliments in regard to my blog, especially significant, I think, in that they were both from non-stripper females. The first was a comment on my “obvious intelligence and ethics,” which was simply great timing since I did just quit Exposé last week in order to keep from being associated with the typical “stupid, sleazy” stripper stereotypes. I always get such *warm fuzzies* whenever I sense I’ve changed even one mind in the general public’s misperceptions about exotic entertainers.

Then later, at yoga, a new reader (a funny, intelligent woman herself) told me my writing is quite witty. She had no way of knowing how much that would mean to me or that years ago, when I first starting revising my novel and churning out dozens of poems and short stories, that they were possibly some of the most humorless pieces penned since The Book of Revelations. I write about the pitiful, incomprehensible, demoralization of addiction, the darker side of the sex industry and the tragic unraveling of twisted, tortured relationships. David Sedaris I am not.

I will say that my 2nd published poem, “Housekeeping” is a somewhat humorous look at suicide, if you happen to have a somewhat sick sense of humor that is, and thank god the From The Asylum online lit journal does. Still, as far as witty prose goes it was a very conscious effort for a very long time to express humor in my drama. I relied heavily on inspiration from other, better writers who could simultaneously break my heart with their depravity and crack me up with their levity. I’m in awe of any writer who punches me in the gut and tickles it at the same time.

Sarah Katherine Lewis is one such writer who peppers her achingly insightful blog and books with that kind of intelligent, dry wit that helps keep me from taking myself and my own dark topics too seriously. She’s also a sex industry veteran brilliantly shattering stereotypes and inspiring vigilance in my own efforts. Check out her recent interview on Pop Matters: The Magazine of Global Culture. Even if you don’t read the article (and you will, because it’s brilliant and you are not a stupid stereotype), check out the amazingly hot pic of Sarah – it’ll almost make you wish she was still stripping instead of writing (almost).

As for my continued stripping, I’m now, officially, happily working Fridays at Palazio in south/central Austin. However, due to some traveling in June, my usual routine gets pretty erratic for the next 6 weeks or so. Here's MY SCHEDULE as I know it so far:

This week and next week I’m working Thurs at Pefect 10 and Fri at Palazio (not working Wed).

I'll also be working Thurs, June 11, at Perfect 10.

After that I’ll probably not work again until the first week of July, but if I do I’ll post about it ASAP.

If you have never been to Palazio, you’re seriously missing out and in fact I’m kicking myself for not having investigated it sooner. The first thing I noticed when I entered to apply last week was the complete lack of odor. Not just Exposé's occasional 'Eau de decomposing rodent' mind you, but a total lack of cigarette smoke, mold, dust, food, spilled booze, sweat and whatever else it is that permeates almost every single strip club I’ve ever entered with that strange, sickly sweet scent. The lights were still on so I could even see how clean it was, not to mention luxurious, lush and sexy in that red velvet + colored lights kinda way.

The manager was as polite and professional as could be and even seemed uncomfortable about asking to see my body – a discomfort immediately dispelled once I whisked off my tank top so he could see that, while my complexion my show subtle signs of my 41 years on the planet, the *girls* (@)(@) are eternally age 18 (god luv ‘em). He proceeded to show me around the club, impressing upon me the various ways he tries to maintain an upscale vibe and therefore attract upscale customers. I liked him immediately. The DJ too was top notch with decades of experience and in fact we probably worked together my last year at Sugar’s in 1991 (though we don’t remember each other we were on the same shift).

The other dancers were not only polite and friendly but not once during my 8 hour shift did I witness any drama, drunken displays, sloppy behavior or sleazy dancing. Out of 15-18 dancers, there was exactly ONE I might not have hired myself (for various reasons) while the others were all equally talented, sexy, professional entertainers with fantastic bodies and a shockingly high ratio of beautifully natural and perky breasts. And all this time I thought my girls were so special…hmph (heh).

The crowd was small, yes – they’re small everywhere right now – but the customers were mostly businessmen, some blue collar types and one table of three fabulous lesbians who, not surprisingly, knew how to make a performer feel appreciated on stage. There are no wingback chairs on the main floor so I did have to adjust my lap dancing style to accommodate the built in couches. That said, they’re the most comfortable, workable strip club couches I’ve ever danced on.

I had the best, most profitable day I've had all month, probably sitting idle for no more than a total of 30 - 40 minutes. My only complaint is they apparently allow smoking in the dressing room but given the choice between a tiny room full of drunken, drugged up, screeching strippers and a more spacious room with a little second-hand smoke, well… let’s just say, hello Palazio.

A week ago I took a yoga class from a teacher I’d never had before, and while she definitely knew her postures, her knowledge of some of the finer points of the practice was seriously lacking – specifically, the best approach to take when injured. Knowing I’m dealing with a back injury, she still chose to admonish me for not doing the last couple forward extensions – postures which another, much more experienced teacher specifically instructed me not to do because, as it turns out, they’ve been exacerbating my injury for months.

It just goes to show that knowing your business “in good health” does not necessarily mean you have a clue how to run things when there are other factors to consider. Knowing one aspect of any business does not mean you grasp the entire experience or perhaps even that you’re fully qualified to be in charge at all. I didn’t confront her about it since she’s not a regular teacher at my studio and I really couldn’t care less what she thinks about my yoga practice.

Plenty of people in charge of various things in this world barely know what the hell they’re doing half the time anyway. I just consider them great reminders to question authority and take responsibility for my own life. Instructors like her giving completely unqualified medical advice, which all but legitimizes the erroneous but prevalent medical opinion that yoga can be dangerous for the injured, actually has pretty widespread implications, but that’s the yoga community’s problem for now... I’ve got enough problems in my own industry.

Yesterday afternoon at Exposé, as I lazily twirled around the pole on Stage 2, I noticed one of the club owners setting up camp in the VIP area. When he looked up and invited me over, I was honored. In the past, this particular owner has praised my dancing, my intellect, and professionalism and even tried to fix me up with a friend of his (I declined but still, a nice compliment). So as I wrapped up my set on Stage 3, weighing my options between the sparse crowd of customers acting offish and irritated by the bombardment of way too many strippers, versus the owner’s more dignified set up in VIP, I decide to go ahead and join him, his friends and the 2 other dancers they’d invited.

As the men talked among themselves the ladies and I chatted about a high-caliber dancer who’d recently retired, a topic which quickly segued to the quality of our current dayshift crew, or rather the serious lack thereof. The 3 of us agreed that, back in the good old days, half the girls we currently work with would never have been hired at any of Austin’s better gentlemen’s clubs. At which point the owner looks up from his conversation and asks what we’re talking about. At which point both other girls instantly clam up. At which point, CaseyDancer takes a deep breath and channels Norma Fucking Rae.

“I said the current, absurdly low hiring standards would never have been tolerated in the 80s or 90s and that the club has become appallingly overrun with fat, flabby, stretched out, stretch-marked, drugged up trailer trash.”

The owner, an intelligent and thoughtful man, replies amiably that “It’s because the secret is out...” which I take to mean that the recent overexposure from the Internet, movies, books and media has effectively enticed swarms of these below-average female masses into the exotic entertainment field. As if the entire population of the 80s and 90s were completely ignorant of the great money to be made working as a stripper, which I assure you they were not. I started stripping at age 18 in 1986 for the very reason that I knew EXACTLY how much money they made – everyone knew because those kinds of facts cannot be kept secret, especially by tens of thousands of (god luv ‘em) flashy, egotistical, superior, 20-something party girls. The “secret” has been “out” my friend, from the very beginning.

But I don’t say this. I know I’m competing with a short attention span, a mild-at-best level of interest, and at least a couple recent rounds of cocktails (not to mention Exposé’s ungodly loud sound system). My wheels are turning as I think of the quickest way to make my most salient point. And as I’m sitting on the lap of one of the owner’s friends, already kinda towering over the rest of the table, I straighten my back, rising even higher and puffing out my chest (for effect and well, because hey – it just looks good) and essentially look down my nose on the slouched (not to mention short) owner of this club I’ve worked at for almost 2 years, and all but bellow, “Just because so many more girls are applying does NOT mean any of them should ever be hired.

Ungodly loud sound system notwithstanding, you could’ve heard a fucking pin drop in the VIP area then. I feel the hand of the man on whose lap I’m sitting, slowly start stroking my back. R is an absolute gem, one of my favorite club regulars of all time, an intelligent, savvy, sexy gentleman I truly like and respect, and who also truly likes and respects me, enough in fact to attempt to suggest in his wordless, subtle hand-stroking way, that I consider leaving it at that. I got the hint, relaxed against his chest and let someone else change the topic. I didn’t bring up the fact that Exposé was the only strip club in town to not advertise or offer deals during the SXSW Festival. I didn’t bring up my biggest complaint about how housefees are horseshit or how everything about the practice encourages unchecked greed, corrupt managers, impossible working conditions and disgruntled customers. It’s not rocket science, it’s just good business sense. And I kept my mouth shut about it.

Moments later, feeling just a twinge of regret for putting the owner on the spot like that in front of his friends and favorite strippers, I attempt to jump back into the conversation by making a (genuine) compliment about his toddler son. When the only reply I received was a thinly veiled scowl I excused myself from the table and went back to work. Sometimes the best way to make amends to the guy you just pissed off (justifiably or not) is to leave him in peace. I’m not sorry I said what I said. I guarantee his slightly bruised ego will heal faster than my badly bruised income of late, a dip I blame directly on his lack of proper marketing, oversight and good business sense, including his non-existent hiring standards.

I’m not sure how much to blame the managers, having been told they’re only following the owners’ instructions. I doubt I’ll ever get a straight answer as to who really holds the power to cap the number of girls every day or instill some kind of hiring standard. I tried to talk to one of them about it yesterday as he collected his tipout in the dressing room – you know, the money WE PAY THEM for the privilege of working in a club they’re overpopulating with trailer trash. Anyway, as I handed over the bare minimum tipout with an explanation of why I wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon, he expressed genuine regret that I was leaving but said he was powerless to change the situation. It was a sad moment because I like both Exposé managers, just not quite enough to tolerate the continued exploitation, inconsideration, and unprofessionalism.

They’re not unique for god’s sake, the problem is systemic. The entire industry is filled with similarly shortsighted, self-centered, greedy owners and managers exploiting weak women who are justifiably afraid of standing up to them. In this seemingly endless war between misogyny and empowerment it doesn’t take a genius to see who’s winning the battle of the strip club industry. Pretty soon any chance we ever had to legitimize erotic entertainment as valid artistic expression will be out the window of every sleazy, low class Flab ‘n’ Grind while the term “Gentlemen’s Club” is reduced to the punch line of a tasteless, tired joke.

I’ve got a few years left as a dancer if I want it, if it’s worth it to me as I continue to be the only person looking out for my best interests here. Yeah, there are other clubs but they’ve got their own problems too because while Exposé is hiring anything that crawls out of the gutter after a hard rain, other clubs refuse to fire or even discipline the girls giving handjobs and god-knows-what-else in the Champagne and VIP rooms.

Three fucking times in the past month I've lost lap dance sales for refusing to let customers suck, lick or kiss my breasts. One smelly old man desperately tried to convince me that other girls were French kissing him in the Champagne Room, something I never would’ve believed until recently but now I’m really not so sure – and this was in a club with 80-90% high-caliber dancers. At the same club another elderly, distinguished-looking man greeted me by taking my hand and instantly pressing it to the semi-hard bulge in his khaki shorts, something I'm quite sure he’s gotten away with at some point, otherwise he would never have done it so confidently (I politely informed him that if I was going to make a living stroking the cocks of total strangers that I’d go ahead post on Craigslist thank you very much [not that there's anything wrong with that] to which he replied by looking appropriately shamed and sending me on my way only to be sitting with another, more liberal [read: desperate] dancer, within the hour). Since managers & owners aren't held liable for lewd behavior they have no reason to keep it in check, especially since girls giving *extras* to customers are the same girls giving managers & owners $extra$ tipouts & housefees.

If my writing isn’t paying the bills by the time I quit dancing I’ll consider a job managing a club myself, though obviously the best way to run it right would be to own it. The first thing I’d do is put up a sign at the door reading:

"A strip club is a place of business where entertainers are working - if you're enjoying looking at them, you are expected to tip them."

Then I'd eliminate tipouts, housefees and every sub-par and sleazy stripper in the building. A select group of high-caliber strippers will bring in plenty of high-quality customers to buy enough high-priced drinks to make for damn good business, even in a tough economy. It’s not rocket science.

Please disregard my previously posted schedule. For now, all I know is I’ll be at Perfect 10 every Thursday until June 11. Wednesdays and Fridays I’ll be shopping around other clubs for a while and will post my new schedule here soon.

Last year I was lucky enough to meet the incomparable Sarah Katherine Lewis, sex industry veteran, author, uber-vixen extraordinaire. Shortly thereafter I was honored to be asked for an interview by her, at XtoysUSA, on The Art of The Striptease.

For more about Sarah and her brilliantly talented, hysterically funny, wickedly insightful books and writing, check out her blog, linked on my blogroll to the right, or here, Marked For Metal.

Next month I'm taking 2 weeks off work in order to attend Pitch Fest in L.A. as well as visit family in San Diego. Until then I'm working extra shifts to offset the cost of the trip and thought I'd post my new schedule here in case any customers/regulars want to come in and lend their $upport to my screenwriting career and/or contribute to a MUCH needed vacation (or just enjoy my stimulating companionship!).

This week I'm at Perfect 10 both Thursday and Friday (not at Exposé at all).

For the rest of this month and the first 2 weeks of June, I'll be at Perfect 10 on Wednesdays & Thursdays.

I'll be working every Friday but intend to alternate between Perfect 10 and Exposé (this Friday at Perfect 10, next Friday at Exposé, etc...).

I fly to CA on Friday, June 11, and will return to work 2 - 3 weeks later. I'll post my new schedule at that time.

Thanks!

A friend said recently that before reading my blog he assumed all strip club customers were insecure losers but based on my genuine regard for many of them, some must actually be confident, successful and even sexy. And he’s right – some of them are quite successful, creative, funny, charming, smart and sexy. They are lawyers who give free advice, doctors who ask about my health, massage therapists who give free back rubs and non-massage therapists who try their best. They are veterans who need to relax, retirees who dote on me, and wage-earning laborers who tip on every stage and buy me bracelets on Valentine’s Day.

They are filmmakers and writers, inventors and volunteers, intellectuals and academics who stimulate my mind while I stimulate their libidos. They are Drew Carey, Steve Carell, and George Clooney. They are fathers and grandfathers, athletes and techies, rock stars and grease monkeys. They are the men sitting next to you in a church pew, at a Bob Schneider gig or a U.T. football game. They are absolutely lovely, generous, appreciative gems, some of them.

And others, are absolute fucktards.

Last Thursday, on stage at Perfect 10, I’m summoned over by a frizzy-haired man in his 30s wearing a huge gold coin medallion around his hairy neck who seems to have just stepped out of the 1970s (and not in a good way). His table is at the edge of main stage, apparent justification to stay seated as he holds up (but not out) a $1 bill, forcing me to crawl on hands and knees and lean precariously off the stage’s edge to snap it in my thong strap. As I’m doing so, he uses his other hand to grab and squeeze my right breast.

I sit back, covering my breast protectively. “Uh, groping is actually NOT on the dollar menu, just so ya know...”

“Oh,” he replies brightly. “Okay then. Sorry.”

I resume dancing at center stage but two minutes later he’s holding up another $1 bill, still seated. As I do my standard mini-dance (for stage tips), he gets sidetracked by a waitress but then quickly turns back to me and hands me the dollar (because I’m not about to lean over for him this time). Suddenly a look of regret crosses his greasy, puffy, stubbly face. “Hey could you dance a little more? I kinda feel like I got shortchanged.”

Once again I sit back, pondering momentarily before replying “Hmmm… I just danced nearly naked 2 feet from your face in exchange for ONE dollar and YOU feel shortchanged???”

“Well, I didn’t mean… uh, er… to offend you.” He seems baffled.

“Honey, for the price of a PACK OF GUM, you actually want MORE than the great show I just gave you, and that’s NOT supposed to offend me?”

“I’m sorry, I’m from New York, okay? Give me a break… c’mon, high five me!” He beams and holds up his hand for a high five. I don’t know what else to do but take his hand in mine, look into his eyes and state calmly, “Please be a little more thoughtful to the next dancer, because seriously dude, neither of us give a shit where you’re from.”

I actually find it difficult lately to work up much anger over this stuff since most guys are more clueless than malicious. It’s the cumulative effect that eventually propels me to post about it I guess, since he was one of about 6 major fucktards I had the displeasure of catering to last week. Not to mention the previous day had been very slow, with the few customers we did get spending plenty of time but not much money. It was one of those days where a dozen girls wandered from VIP to Champagne Room to Main Floor every 20 minutes or so, all of us making the same rounds to the same guys, looking more and more dazed as each hour passed, till eventually we’re exchanging sympathetic looks and rolling our eyes, sighing in unison, then finally laughing together in that weird and unfunny way of frustrated camaraderie.

At one point I finally spent a few minutes with a well-dressed businessman, mid-40s, short, dark hair carefully combed back from his distinguished receding hairline perfectly trimmed to his crisp, white collar and snazzy tie in shades of brick, maroon, and burgundy. He works in insurance and “just needs a place to kill 2 hours in between appointments today.” He sits by the back stage and drinks a glass of ice tea for 2 hours, tipping no one and buying no lap dances for 2 hours.

Before I have time to guide the conversation toward a lap dance, he launches into a schpeel on every kind of health insurance policy I might be interested in (though I didn’t ask, because I’m not). I change the topic repeatedly trying to get him in a more fun, sexy frame of mind, the kind of mindset conducive to buying lap dances but it doesn’t work out very well and he flatly declines the opportunity, right before asking with a *wink-wink-nudge-nudge* if I “do any extra-curricular work?” I don’t know whether to laugh or sigh so I just shake my head ‘No’ and leave him to his watery tea. I’m due on stage anyway.

At the tail end of my seriously kickass set (Ian Moore’s song Harlem, check it out) I’m surprised to see The Insurance Man trekking from the far back of the room to tip me. He’s got that look of awe I just love, the one that says either, “I had no idea a woman your age could have such an amazing body!” or “Holy shit, you can really dance!” I’m guessing it’s the latter and it turns out I’m right because as he slips a dollar in my thong strap he states emphatically, “Wow, you are a true artiste!” which I appreciate – I really do, but which also makes me wonder exactly where in life a man who makes his living IN SALES comes to believe it’s fair to expect a dozen dancers to provide 2 hours of exceptional, uninterrupted, exotic entertainment, by paying 1 dancer 1 dollar + 1 compliment.

Ironically it was at Exposé 2 weeks ago when I met a different kind of customer. My first stage set is usually before noon so as usual I was dancing for about 4 – 5 customers, most of whom were eating lunch or still ordering it and barely paying attention to my performance. I didn’t mind really since they’d all just walked in and their eyes had barely adjusted much less their moods. So I’m up there just dancing for fun when I zero in on a 50-something year old man in dress pants and a golf shirt, sitting with excellent posture to the left of my stage. Every time I tried to catch his eye though, even smiling at him (which is not really my *thing*) he’d look away. I had to figure I either wasn’t his type or he just wasn’t in the mood yet – maybe he was too hungry to focus or maybe he liked younger girls, or girls with bubble butts or he had a *thing* for Latinas not blondes… who knows. I didn’t take it personally (much).

Still, once I finished my stage set and had nowhere else to go I realized I had nothing to lose by trying to win him over with personality and sales skills, if not my rockin’ body and dance moves. I plop down on his lap fully expecting to be barked at and run off immediately. Instead he launches into a lively conversation about everything he loves and hates about strip clubs – opinions which happen to mirror my own. We commiserate on the sad state of certain other clubs, too-loud or just plain bad music, sleazy dancers who ruin it for everyone or brain-dead girls incapable of interesting conversation. He tells me about dancers who tried to miscount dances and rip him off and he sympathizes over the preponderance of cheap customers who give his entire gender a bad name.

We talk for 5 minutes at which point he agrees to a string of 4 lap dances during which he behaves like a perfect gentleman and after which he pays me full price plus a 25% tip. He leaves me with a couple sincere compliments, a boost of confidence and a renewed appreciation for rock star customers like him.

I made a killing one night in Vegas off comedian Drew Carey and had an absolute blast doing so as he treated me like a princess the entire time – fair enough since I treated him like a prince, the same way I treat ALL my customers. Years ago I heard George Clooney went to Sugar’s (Perfect 10’s sister club) and took some of their dancers with him on a mini-vacation to Florida. When I was 20 years old I met my own rock star, not in the club but still, he did sweep me off my feet and eventually take me away from “all this” for about 6 years, most of which I didn’t have to work while we traveled the world in fabulous luxury.

I don’t care to travel these days and compliments don’t pay my rent or my yoga dues. When I’m at the club busting my ass every single minute, offering stimulating conversation, personalized attention, sensual affection, and skilled, artistic and erotic performances, I justifiably expect to be appreciated and respected. But even more than that I deserve to be paid a fair price for all that hard work. And if you’re going to spend more than 5 minutes ogling rotation after rotation of nearly naked, gorgeous women performing for you on 2 or 3 stages – pretty much everywhere you look – you need to compensate at least SOME of them for that entertainment.

The men who *get* this are our rock stars, those who don’t, well… now you know exactly what you are.

Two thousand years ago, Empress Wu Hu of the T’ang dynasty decreed all visiting male dignitaries must kneel before her and perform cunnilingus at their first meeting. She felt it was important to keep men humble.

I don’t know how far she took this policy, if these men were expected to continue to *completion* or how many of her royal staffers were in attendance to watch or just wait it out. Did she climax standing up or was this ritual really just a brief symbolic gesture, like toasting with wine at dinner is done with one sip instead of guzzling an entire glass? I wonder if anyone refused to comply or failed to perform to her satisfaction, and if so did she have them beheaded? Perhaps she sentenced them to something like our modern day Defensive Driving classes, with a stressful “pass or fail” oral (duh) exam. Seems more compassionate (not to mention more fun) than killing the poor saps, but I’m a bit of a softy I guess… plus, I just can’t be bothered with the drama.

I like all 3 dayshift managers with whom I work at my 2 clubs. At Perfect 10 my manager greets me every day by asking how I’m doing and if I need anything. He rented me a full-length locker at a bargain price for a year. He cracks my aching back without hesitation, every single time I ask.

At Exposé we recently got a few new chairs for the dressing room, new carpet (with padding) and new, slightly bigger lockers. The manager will usually turn down the A/C whenever I’m cornered for a string of lap dances at the receiving end of an arctic blast (before turning it right back on again 15 minutes later). I leave early when I need to, no questions asked. The bus boy mops the (reoccurring) slippery puddle of water from the bathroom tile almost as soon as I mention it (every single Friday) and last week he cleaned the oily residue and grime off a stage and pole as soon as I pointed it out. I’ve yet had any success getting a broken latch replaced on the bathroom door but I’m working on it. And my DJ not only plays exactly the set list I give him, he doesn’t always expect a big tip just for pushing me down the list when one of my best regulars needs my undivided attention (unlike at Perfect 10).

In the past, two other DJs and a manager (who has since quit) have all chased down customers who tried to stiff me. And one of my current managers, at my request, once scolded a waitress who tried to hustle my customer out of $20. Compared to some strippers I’m usually treated pretty well by the men I work with. After all, no one is going to buy a $5 Budweiser or $7 Voss water without someone like Casey and her stripper-sistahs to gaze upon while he drinks it. Owners and managers who haven't figured this out yet are inhaling too many fog machine fumes.

Earlier this week, to the great disappointment of his dancers, Exposé’s owner decreed that the outdoor smoking patio adjacent to our dressing room is to be kept closed and locked from now on, in order to keep out rodents who’ve made a bad habit of dying and decomposing somewhere in our ceiling. And while it’s true the stench is god-awful and centered right over the booth where our poor DJ is forced to light endless sticks of incense and breathe this shit for 8 hours straight, 5 days a week in his tiny 4’ x 4’ cage, I’m pretty sure the little critters are gettin' in through the roof. I mean c'mon, not even the dumbest squirrel in central Texas would voluntarily saunter into our dressing room since, as far as I know, they aren’t any bigger fans of mindless screeching, constant bitching and endless drama than I am.

I’ve so appreciated having access to a little fresh air during the day or a quiet moment on the patio just to decompress from the mind-blowing volume of the club’s speakers (not to mention the dressing room’s drunken dancers). Most jobs don’t entail 8+ hours at a time in a grimy, moldy, windowless, freezing club, but for strippers it’s just part of the job, which is why that dressing room patio was half the reason I chose to work at Exposé in the first place. If I decide to continue working there and this rule actually lasts longer than a week, I’ll see if I can talk some sense into someone about it.

I’m not asking for anyone to bow down and make-out with my labia here but it wouldn’t be out of line for certain men to recognize exactly who really is the heart and soul of this business. In fact here’s a hint – no strip club customer, from now until the end of time, will ever drop to his knees at the sight of what lies behind the robes of a manager or owner. That said, it also wouldn't hurt some of the aforementioned screeching drama queens to exhibit a slightly more regal demeanor, just sayin.

Regardless, without Empress Wu Hu and her 250,000 stripper-sisters, this whole fucking kingdom crumbles to a grimy pile of dust and fog. And those $5 beers and $7 waters will then be worth approximately as much as the lifeless body of a headless dignitary.

Okay, here's a clip with no fast forward required (gettin' more tech savvy every day).

I walked into work at Exposé a couple weeks ago to see 2 pretty young ladies setting up a video camera. They said they were doing a news story on our "recession proof business" to which I replied, "Really? How interesting, because I just wrote an article for Spread magazine about that very topic, and how strip clubs are actually not recession proof anymore.

To which they replied, excitedly and in unison, "Can we interview you???"

To which I replied, "Uh... (gulp), on camera???" before sucking it up and just doing it. I think I did well though... It aired last Thursday on Texas News Watch on Austin's public access channel 16.

Oh, and the reporter's comment that I worked in real estate for a "couple years" before getting back into stripping, is off by exactly 5 years. I was a realtor for 7 years, then juggled BOTH jobs for 2 years (making me a realtor for a total of 9 years before letting my license finally expire just 5 months ago).