BK Says, "Yeah, Baby"

Take a look at this new Burger King ad--we've clearly moved into new dimensions with mainstream food advertising. Now, seven inches really does mean seven inches.

More on Farrah, Less on Jackson

Nice piece: http://www.forbes.com/2009/06/26/farrah-fawcett-michael-jackson-poster-opinions-columnists-tunku-varadarajan.html. I read where her funeral is Tuesday in a Los Angeles cathedral. Fortunately, it won't be the freak show that will be the Jackson service.

Oh, like the author, I had the Farrah poster proudly displayed at 149 Kokernot Hall in a galaxy far away and long ago. It spoke to me pretty much the same way it did for him.

RIP, FF.

Have a Nice Weekend

Go fishing. You might catch something.

Pole Dancing, Part Deux

After reading Mr. Bulba's brilliant and heartwarming stroll - actually more of a dance with some girl named Desiree, fresh off the main stage - down memory lane (which in reality is a sordid little boulevard populated by horny businessmen and besotted frat boys), I couldn't help but think of the business trip I made to New Orleans last week.

It was my first trip back to the Big Sleazy since Hurricane Katrina did her best to wipe clean that cesspool of fun and frivolity. Now, don't get me wrong - I've always loved the place. I mean, great food, good local music, and a continuous live-action guide to the Seven Deadly Sins. What more can you ask for? I couldn't wait to see how things had changed.

Had they changed? Yes and no. The French Quarter still has that godawful smell that thankfully just can't be described. Food was as good, if not better, and I chose some of the newer restaurants. The music was still smokin' - I stumbled into some nondescript bar, paid no cover, and listened to one of the best blues guitarists I had ever seen or heard. The SDS? Oh yeah, and in full view. Hell, I saw more breasts than Russ Meyer. I bumped into more drunks than a German farmboy at his first Oktoberfest. I heard language that made me blush, and that was just the stuff coming from a senior citizens tour bus.

The difference? Strip joints. The French Quarter used to be one of the most decadent places on earth, and did it without the help of "Gentleman's Clubs". Sure, there were a few places to see women prancing about half-nekkid, and some of them were even indoors, but they weren't your garden variety titty-bars. Not like the ones that clog up the quarter now. Seems like every few steps brings you within earshot of another hawker pushing yet another room full of naked girls. What a shame. Fewer blues/jazz clubs, few restaurants, fewer bars, and more places that want to charge you for what you can see on the streets for free.

And for the record, that look them dancers give you? Well, they really mean it when they look at me...

Weekly Standard Parody

Hilarious paroday of Joe Klein of Time Magazine:

http://www.weeklystandard.com/Content/Public/Articles/000/000/016/660zfdhs.asp

Pole Tales

A professor at NYU discusses common themes found in stripper confessionals: http://www.doublex.com/section/arts/my-life-g-string-round-stripper-memoirs. Essentially, these works pretty much fall into a similar format: smart, articulate, educated woman enters the stripping world and sets herself apart from the others while at the same time offering up some lame feminist stuff to stress her kinship in the struggle.

Most folks who have exposure to stripping (either customers or strippers, themselves) will tell you it isn't really that complicated. Women get into stripping for various reasons (money, maybe?) and men derive a sense of enjoyment out of watching them move around with little or no clothes on. Highly technical, I know, but there you have it. The funniest thing about stripping and strip joints is how the customers and the strippers see each other. For the guy, he thinks the chick staring seductively straight at him and thrusting her pelvis in his direction may really, really actually want him--wow, there's a chance that I've still got it working after all, he's thinking. For her, he looks like a giant $20 bill with wandering hands. Nothing more, unless she's doing a little whoring on the side and sees potential in the size of his--wallet.

I haven't been to a strip joint in years. Not that I'm above going, but I do have an irrational fear of being shot and killed in a strip joint and having people say, "Well, old Taras was a pretty good guy and all but he did wind up getting shot in a strip joint. His wife had him buried in Ozona." Maybe I can work on that. Anyway, the last one I was in was outside of Corpus Christi on a fishing trip. Rough crowd in there: mostly roustabouts and other oilfield trash and I thought I might get my ass kicked a few times during the stay. The girls themselves looked terrified and were not highly attractive. During a lull in the action, one indicated her interest in becoming a border patrol agent of all things. Hope she made it.

Wives are typically not fond of their husbands visiting gentleman's clubs. I think most of them probably understand that the dog they married has gone to them before or still goes to them but they don't really want to know about it. The fact is that in most cases, it's probably one of the safest options--he won't really stand any chance of picking up someone like if he was at a bar somewhere. He'll just throw away some money and come home smelling strange and wanting to rub on her. She'll of course throttle the crude advance and everyone will nod off. Maybe he'll be later able to explain that whopping American Express charge to "Executive Enterprises, LLC."

Farrah, 1947-2009

Goodbye, good looking. Wish it would have turned out better for you. But, man, you were something.