The Night I Don’t Remember

 

As we know, I do my best to share the stories of my readers. This one really has no direct category to be placed in, but I will add it to the collection of great stripper and strip bar stories. The reader who submitted this story asked to remain unidentified for professional reasons. No, I don’t know what is meant by that, but I always abide by requests and people see it when they read stuff here. I have seen this happen in real life more than once, like every day. One would be amazed what people leave at a strip bar. One would be surprised the efforts people go through to get their stuff back. And, yes, unfortunately it is kinda like talking with a giggly five year old when you call a strip bar, its always been that way because she is never hired for her people skills on the phone, she is hired to be the first thing you see when you walk thru the doors so you go DAMN! let me in. When one enters a strip bar it is like walking through the portal to an alternate universe, often one needs to pinch themselves because the world is cruel outside the doors. So, allot of weird shit happens in a strip bar, but then again a strippers job is to separate a visitor from as much of his/her money in the shortest amount of time, every time. With that being said, read the email.

Begin email———————

I went to the strip club the other night…allegedly.  I’m not sure it counts though because I don’t remember being there, much less remember driving home.  “Oh the humanity Grayson, the humanity,” I hear the voices saying.  “How dare you drive home black-out drunk; you could have killed someone!”  Shut thefuck up right now and let me finish you interrupting ass-hag!  I didn’t quite drive home drunk and I do specifically remember one incident from the night…being woken at 3:30am by a security guard(?) while passed out in my truck in some establishment’s parking lot.  Whose parking lot it was…I was totally and completely unsure of.  After that, I am wholly unaware of the events except for the fact that I slept for the next 26 hours straight, missing work and occasionally waking up from some pretty twisted dreams of disembodied heads, parallel universes and ex-girlfriends wanting to “give it another shot”…again; then dumping me and shitting – both figuratively and literally – on me and my life.  I mean, this heartless cheating cunt had the audacity to…wait, what the fuck was I talking about?  Oh yeah, right…blacking out at a strip club and not remembering; I’m the good guy.  Anyway, it was like the movie The Hangover, minus the ‘wolf-pack’ and a whole lot more depressing.  Like our lovable characters from the film, I was (possibly) drugged with GHB and had to follow vague clues I’d unknowingly left myself in order to find, not a lost friend and groom for an imminent wedding the following morning, but my debit card and driver’s license.  So yeah, a completely sad version of the now classic comedy.

The entire night started with an innocent trip to a bar, not to drink, but to sit way back in a corner booth with my notebook (actual paper-type book you write in with pens; not a computer…I ain’t fuckin’ rich folks).  Yes, I said that shit with my nose in the air like some pretentious hipster at Star Bucks; feel free to punch me if you ever see me.  Anyway, how I got from said bar to, what I later found out to be Cabaret East, I have no fucking idea; but I figured my notebook might have a clue, since I’m always leaving myself notes.  I had 20 pages of some seriously fucked up and twisted shit written in there that I am proud to say I loved, and don’t actually know when I wrote it that night.  When I got done high-fiving myself and making mental notes to write shit-faced drunk (or drugged) more often, I noticed 2 phone numbers on the last page of writing.  One had the name of a tattoo parlor and the other was for a person named Corrin.  Intrigued, I picked up my cell phone ready to dial her(?) number until I came to the sudden realization that I had to have used my GPS since I surely had no idea how to get where I went or how to get home.  Sure enough, my GPS was the last app I used that night.  I searched the ‘recent addresses’, plugged that shit into Google Search and voila, Cabaret East.  I got the phone number, called that bitch up and what follows is the conversation, verbatim, I had with the receptionist…as much as I can recall days later anyway:

Girl – Cabaret East

Me – Yeah, hi.  I believe I visited your fine establishment Sunday night, and whether I left by my own accord or was forcibly removed, I’m not sure, but I believe ya’ll might be in possession of my ID and debit card.

Girl – Um…what?

Me – I think I walked my tab.  Do you have my debit card?

Girl – Uh…I dunno.

(Silence for ten seconds)

Me – (irritated at this point) Can you…I dunno…look?!

Girl – Oh yeah (giggles), sure, one sec.

Me – Wait wait wait!

Girl – What?

Me – Don’t you need my name?!

Girl – (giggles again) Oh yeah…of course!

After talking to this brick wall of human intelligence for what felt like an eternity, I was finally able to extract from her that, yes, they did indeed have possession of my shit.  I hung up the phone, triumphant that I CSI’d the shit out of my situation,  while also ashamed-beyond-words at the same time because I still don’t know how my shit got there in the first place. I will be fucked until my literal day of recollection.

Later Tuesday evening, I went up to the titty club to retrieve my shit and was met by a big, burly, black mother fucker who looked like he’d choke me with my own intestines; who also happened to remember both, helping me to my truck as I vomited along the way AND waking me up at 3:30 in the AM to send my hobo-ass packing.  I thanked him for telling me about such obviously proud moments in my life, then  I swore to him that I’d been drugged; in return he handed me a bill with a smile…for just under $350.  I fought back maniacal fits of laughter, tears and the intense urge to vomit.

I wasn’t sure if I was playing out my fantasy of a poor man’s Hank Moody from Californication or if I was literally just fucked up enough to get myself into such shenanigans; because I don’t generally share much about my actual personal life other than the intense anger that I feel in general towards society, but I’m pretty sure some people at this point would consider a negative bank account due to a – for all intents-and-purposes – fake night of debauchery, as rock bottom; for me…it’s just another Sunday night.

As for Corrin…she is a stripper, who had as much recollection of me as I had for her; we will not be in touch.

End email————————–

I like this man’s references to movies and life in general. I have the answer he seeks. It wasn’t drugs, it’s deeper than that, its more mental than that, it was out his normal element if you ask me. Plus, writers are fucking out there in their own world anyway, no offense to y’all writers, but it’s true. People often overthink shit too, which is death to our brains, then add in strippers, titties, alcohol, a strip bar, blacking out, and one can see where the imagination just goes ape shit. Not to mention the movie reference, because those were some pretty fucked up movies. Neither here nor there, he solved his dilemma. Too bad he doesn’t remember what went down. Or does he? Maybe its his mind blocking shit that isn’t in his norm or his mind knows that if he recalls anything that he will be in mental disarray. Who knows.

I Wonder How That All Worked Out

Man, I Hate It When This Happens

This Is One Fucking Beautiful Idea!

Help Me Find My Lost Wormhole

I Hope She Can Help Him Find It!

One Of My Unfortunate Truths

A Ghost From Easter’s Past

I have often wondered what happens to things one hides in their yard for a variety of reasons over the years that never get found. Specifically, Easter comes to mind, not only because Easter just happened but also because while hiding Easter eggs for my 3 and 5 y/o nieces I found a little piece of yard history. Many moon ago I can remember hiding a certain tractor for my son when he was quite a bit younger. There is no doubt that he had found it because from that day forward he would ride it evverywhere, including inside the house when nobody was looking. Then, as years pass, interests change, and he used it less and less. Then, it disappears but nobody really cares or misses it. This weekend all of that changed.

After loading and counting the 347 plastic eggs of various shapes and colors, my son and I set off into the yard to hide them for my nieces. Now that my own children are “too old” to hunt eggs, they typically help hide the eggs and escort the young ones around helping them in their search. As we moved around the yard placing eggs here and there we made a strange discovery where the grass hits the woods. Indeed, we had found the long lost tractor which I never knew was lost in the first place. Oddly, it was like finding an old friend. Who knows how long its been out there but both of my nieces claim they never saw it before and my son didn’t even remember leaving it out there.

How did the hunt go? It was fantastic. My two nieces tear-assing through the yard in their matching white dresses did not disappoint, they found both of the muddy spots where they stopped off to make pies. This didn’t bother me at all but their mother was a different story. Did you know I single handedly ruined their dresses that they had year to take one picture in for memories sake. Boo hoo, its just mud. After the hunt we made a grave discovery, 6 of the plastic eggs are missing in action. After a quick survey before the sun began to set we were only able to locate 2 of them. Oh well, I will probably come across them when I now or clean up the yard, and if not I might find them next year. I must have found a few real sweet spots in the yard or they are so damn obvious that they are actually in plain sight somewhere. Who knows. Better yet, who cares. In the end, my nieces used the old dirty tractor to tote their cache around the yard until their mother decided fun time was over. All in all I consider the day a success, we ate well, had fun, and there were no trips to the emergency room. Makes me wonder when little girls were expected not to play in the mud. Different strokes for different folks I guess.

Learn It. Live It. Love It. The End.

Time To Take A Look In The Mirror

It truly is time for the people of the world to look in the mirror and see that there is only one “race” that will ever matter. Every single human being here on planet dirt share one bond that, no matter what, can never be changed, we all belong to the human race. With that statement I could actually close this post and consider it complete. But, I’m not done yet because there are so many boneheads out there that just don’t get it. Why? Is it too simple in the complexity of our society? Have human beings not evolved enough to recognize that it isn’t our color that makes us different, it’s our DNA. Even with that being said, DNA isn’t even enough to separate one person from every other person on the planet. I have read plenty over the years about how “race” divides our societies and just recently I read a very interesting article at “Classic Ruby: Unadulterated” which sparked up a conversation between myself and the author. She has a way of delivering a message that made me sit back and take a moment to give it all some thought.

Before we actually get into my personal thoughts on “race” I want to point out, especially for new readers, that I am color blind in real life. I don’t use the term metaphorically to make a point but to illustrate how there might be a perspective that y’all haven’t thought about before when thinking about the races on our planet. Sure, I see some color, but I don’t see color the same way as others. In reality, it’s not color blindness but more like seeing with a color deficiency. Overall, it is hard for me to explain, but that’s not the point of this post either. I will make it simple, because it is simple, we need to look at the person next to us as a fellow human. One’s color has little to do with who that person really is. We should spend less time worrying about what race someone is and spend more time just being human to one another.

But its complicated isn’t it. We can’t look at another human being in black and white. Why not? In my opinion, based on my experiences in life, I find it is because we get programmed through our learning early in life to judge another person because of their color. Why? because they are different than what we see in the mirror. How does that end? I have had people tell me I have it easy in life because I’m white and they are handicapped because they are not white. That being bullshit is putting it mildly. We all take a different course in life, we all make different choices, and we all make different decisions. No, we definitely are not all the same but we all definitely bleed the same color, red. Perhaps it is everything we have in common with each other that drives us to notice the obviously distinctive differences. We need the other person to be different because we don’t want them to be like us. All races are no different in the fact that they like to point out and clarify the differences between the races. But then we sub-divide within the race we belong to as well, further dividing us from our neighbor.

So, I’m white. Does that make me wrong? Does it make me less aware of what the difference amongst the races are? I have been told before, in fact today being the latest time that I’m white therefore I can’t possibly understand anything beyond being white. Why not? Here’s my opinion why not. Look around you, listen to some different music, drive into a different neighborhood, talk with some new people, and y’all will see that different races thrive on being different. They say it makes us a stronger race to recognize ourselves. No, it makes you stupid because you choose to continue with false propaganda witch harms the different races. Have a culture, have a way of life, but don’t use those as excuses to not allow everyone else to do the exact things you want to have freedoms to do. So we are different, so the fuck what.

In closing, I would like to mention that I don’t judge you by your race or your skin color. I will judge you by the words you speak and the actions you take. Too damn bad that every single person on this planet can’t do the same. Racism, at least in the United States, is kept alive by the very people who claim it is holding them back. Again, why? I have found that some people need to be mad at something, anything, right or wrong. People prey on “race” because there is money to be made and 9 times out of 10 it is the same race preying on their own, admit it to yourselves, every race does it. Why? I think this might be a good place to sew up this corpse I have been kicking so I can bury it once again. Race, racism, and the people who proliferate it’s existence really piss me off. I look forward to hearing your thoughts. Feel free to comment openly. Maybe this time I will get to read something new.