Tales From the DJ Booth: Strip Club Customer Depreciation Month Revisited



Although I appreciate the people who spend they money that allows me to make an income, the realm of customer service is still partially inhabited by individuals who would not make it six feet out of their front door if murder with was legalized for just one hour. Here are a few examples of the people who never, ever support the dancers, bartenders, DJs or even that punching bag machine by the door.

The Guys Who Play That Punching Machine Game by the Door

Okay, I lied. There is something painfully ironic (and, from a feminist perspective, horrifyingly poetic) about watching Todd and Chad shove dollar after dollar into a slot while trying to one up each other on the masculinity scale, all while standing a few feet away from an attractive woman who is willing to get naked and pay attention to assholes for the same price. For those readers unfamiliar with the machine, it’s basically a punching bag that drops down from a lever. The player inserts a dollar, hits the bag and then they a numerical score appears on a screen.

End scene.

How does one "win" the game? I’m glad you asked. Winning is achieved by punching the bag harder than the last person to play. Or, if you’re alpha level badass two-energy-drinks-an-hour Godsmack type of Affliction shirt tribal in your tattoo choice, you can try to beat the high score.

Guys who come into strip clubs to beat up anything other than hipsters, while simultaneously ignoring the big red blinking light of stripper that is screaming "give me a dollar and I’ll make you look like a real man," are among society’s most replaceable specimens.

Girl Who Was Dragged to Strip Club by Friends

"Why is she doing that to herself? Doesn’t she know she can get a real job?" This question is often asked by smug, sweater-stacked, horn-rim-glasses-laden girls who often approach the DJ booth to ask how often the club lets strippers dance to the Smiths.

Killing time while her friends enjoy themselves, this woman works part-time at a food cart for minimum wage, selling hot grease to people who tip in change, and she honestly wonders why a woman would bring herself to get naked on stage for hundreds of non-taxable dollars an hour with the protection of a bouncer and a pseudonym.

What’s funny is that if you get GWWDTSCBF’s phone number, she will mistake desperation for flattery and go out with you for six to eight weeks, before accusing you of "sleeping with all your stripper friends" and moving to Prague for art school.

Drink Special Warriors

"What nights do you guys do dollar PBR?"
"We haven’t done that in years. It’s a buck fifty now, all the time."
"Man, that sucks! I am never coming here again."

Good. The fact that you know the price of Pabst makes you a bad person, end of story. A strip club is a place where someone can roll in with twenty bucks and make a naked woman at least happy enough to pretend she’s never seen her tits while doing that Betty Boop face and pretending she likes you. If you’re considering this an opportunity to haggle, then it’s time to put the high-fructose fluoride down and drink something that comes from a tap.

Drink specials are the just that: specials. I know that everyone in Portland under the age of 50 was raised to believe that they are a unique snowflake capable of rainbows and explosions, but that doesn’t mean that you are "special" at all hours of the day.

The Guy From Everclear (or Any Other Local Band)

A cousin of the Drink Special Warrior is the "don’t you know who I am?" local celebrity. While working in S.E. Portland, the guy from Everyclear came in and implied that the bouncer did not need to card him, because he’s the guy from Everclear. The bouncer, against all wishes of 1996, opted to card the dude anyhow. This led to further reminders that dude was the guy from Everclear.

After eventually being humbled into taking the five seconds to show our bouncer his identification, guy from Everclear proceeded to take up three of the eight barstools by spreading his nautical-star-and-tribal-flash covered arms while leaning back against the bar, watching strippers dance for free. If you can guess what beer he was drinking from a can, you may have won a blue ribbon a hundred and fifty years ago at a state fair.

Anyhow, one of the reasons I really miss working at that club is that their DJ computer is completely free of garbage, full of decent-to-awesome selections. One of the highlights of my career there was getting on the mic that night, announcing a "very warm welcome to a Portland celebrity," then playing three songs by Everlast (well, technically, the third song was House of Pain).

Sapphire’s Boyfriend

...or any guy who dates a dancer and hangs around the club like an insecure assassin. I’ve just known no less than five Sapphires who attract them.

It’s not technically within the realm of most club’s rules to allow boyfriends (or, in stricter circumstances, rides) to be inside the club while their lady gets naked for truckers. Why? Well, aside from the fact that most guys who see their girlfriend naked on top of another man for the first time are, analogously, experiencing that Southern Oracle scene from Neverending Story where homeboy has to see his true self or else the statues with the giant tits will kill him (...in fact, it’s exactly like that), but in addition, you’ve gotta deal with micromanagement from a would-be half-rate pimp.

"Ayo man, can you like, let my girl off a little early because it’s our six and a half week anniversary at midnight."
"No, ’brah’, I cannot."
"Well, like, what if you, like, moved her to that other stage and then like played her a short song. I’ve got my demo CD if you need some sick beats."

Fuck this guy and the Dutch Bros. coffee cart he got fired from.

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