Tales From The Strip Club
We're now a week into the Great Rap Ban of 2007. Surprisingly, most of the dancers, while not being too happy with their favorite music being for the most part 86'd (hey, how would you like to be told you couldn't listen to your music of choice whilst at work?), are cool with it. Responses have ranged from shrugs to "Oh, that's OK, just play me some R&B", to alternate requests for the Pussycat Dolls, Jennifer Lopez, etc. Even the one girl who was a major Lil' Kim fan was cool with it, telling me, "That's all right, I don't want you to get in trouble," when I told her I could no longer play her beloved artist.
As per usual, there has to be one exception. Care to guess the racial makeup of said exception? If you said as white as the paper in your printer, give yourself a cookie.
She comes up to me around 11pm Friday night. "Do you think you could sneak that new 50 Cent for me?"
I tell her no, that while I'm doing what I can to sneak in some of the more top 40-style rap, 50 Cent is still too extreme for now. She pouts. She's supposed to be on stage. "Look, I'll find something you'll like, but you're up now." She goes. I forget what I played for her, but she was unhappy with it. I think it was Paula DeAnda.
Before her next set, she comes up to my booth. "Could you play this for me? It's not really rap. It's the Notorious B.I.G.--"
Right, because Biggie was always best known for his soulful crooning. "No."
"You know," she whines, "(Saturday Night DJ) was playing rap for us last Saturday night."
"Well, that might have been because M.B. wasn't here and Gestapo Tony wasn't paying any attention," I reply. "I'm not putting my job on the line because you insist on hearing rap." That much gets through to her. I go over her list with her to find an acceptable substitution. "Look, how about Kelly Rowland?"
More whining. "I hate Kelly Rowland." Yeah, she's not ghetto enough for your lily white trailer park ass, I know. She tells me she's going to rat out the Saturday Night DJ because he did play rap when we're not supposed to be playing it. You do that, sugar, and let me know what fireworks result, but I'm still not putting my ass on the line for you; you don't tip me enough.
So I played Omarion and Tweet and that shut her up for the time being. I wonder if she ratted out that other DJ.
*****
Hey Gestapo Tony:
Thank you for reminding me why I should never ever do a favour for you ever again. Really, setting me up with six girls (actually, five, since one quit), then threatening to fire me because I didn't want to come in? It never mattered before if I didn't want to come in on a Monday night, so why does it matter now? Especially when you damn well know that's when I have roller derby practice, and an important one too. Oh that's right--you just want to count your money, you don't want to actually work. That's OK though; next time you need someone to fill in on a Monday because that other DJ calls in sick, I'm telling you to stick it, and if you want to fire me, then that's the way it goes. Nice working with you.
(Incidentally, when I went to practice on Wednesday night, first thing I did was anxiously ask several of the girls what I missed. The reply: "Nothing. We just did drills." So I suffered that whole brouhaha for nothing. Figures.)
*****
Every so often, we'll get a rehire. This particular one came in a little before 9 on Friday night. "Do you remember me?" she said, "I'm (dancer), I was here a little over a year ago before I got a job in the real world." She hands me a book of her CDs; I cringe, as this really can screw me up when I set up music. Still, she doesn't see, and I take the book, welcoming her back and I'll let her know when to put her up.
Yeah, I remember this girl. Drove me nuts. She had wicked cool music (one of her favourite bands is Hole), which was likely the only reason I didn't submit to my temptation to drop-kick her. Of course, a quick check of my database showed that she wasn't much more than a minimum tipper. Why am I not surprised?
So before her next time around, I check with Couch Dance Guy if he has her. He says he doesn't.
"She's gonna drive me nuts," I said to him.
"Tell me about it. (Wife) and I used to date her."
I don't know why these things come as a shock to me--hello, I work in a strip club!--but this needed to be absorbed. Meanwhile, I tell Couch Dance Guy that I will now head back to my booth and pretend we didn't have this conversation.
But of course we did, and so at the end of the night, I tell him, "I believe you and (wife) are fairly intelligent people. Why in the world would you date a girl as crazy as her? Besides, you shouldn't date a dancer."
CDG: (Wife) is a dancer.
Me: Yeah, but that's different. She's the exception. Most dancers are insane. You need to get better taste in women.
CDG: It was her idea. (Note: Couch Dance Guy's Wife is sitting by us, staring at the Phillies game recap, ignoring our exchange.)
Me: (to Couch Dance Guy's wife) Then you need to get better taste in women.
Funny how she didn't deny it.
As per usual, there has to be one exception. Care to guess the racial makeup of said exception? If you said as white as the paper in your printer, give yourself a cookie.
She comes up to me around 11pm Friday night. "Do you think you could sneak that new 50 Cent for me?"
I tell her no, that while I'm doing what I can to sneak in some of the more top 40-style rap, 50 Cent is still too extreme for now. She pouts. She's supposed to be on stage. "Look, I'll find something you'll like, but you're up now." She goes. I forget what I played for her, but she was unhappy with it. I think it was Paula DeAnda.
Before her next set, she comes up to my booth. "Could you play this for me? It's not really rap. It's the Notorious B.I.G.--"
Right, because Biggie was always best known for his soulful crooning. "No."
"You know," she whines, "(Saturday Night DJ) was playing rap for us last Saturday night."
"Well, that might have been because M.B. wasn't here and Gestapo Tony wasn't paying any attention," I reply. "I'm not putting my job on the line because you insist on hearing rap." That much gets through to her. I go over her list with her to find an acceptable substitution. "Look, how about Kelly Rowland?"
More whining. "I hate Kelly Rowland." Yeah, she's not ghetto enough for your lily white trailer park ass, I know. She tells me she's going to rat out the Saturday Night DJ because he did play rap when we're not supposed to be playing it. You do that, sugar, and let me know what fireworks result, but I'm still not putting my ass on the line for you; you don't tip me enough.
So I played Omarion and Tweet and that shut her up for the time being. I wonder if she ratted out that other DJ.
*****
Hey Gestapo Tony:
Thank you for reminding me why I should never ever do a favour for you ever again. Really, setting me up with six girls (actually, five, since one quit), then threatening to fire me because I didn't want to come in? It never mattered before if I didn't want to come in on a Monday night, so why does it matter now? Especially when you damn well know that's when I have roller derby practice, and an important one too. Oh that's right--you just want to count your money, you don't want to actually work. That's OK though; next time you need someone to fill in on a Monday because that other DJ calls in sick, I'm telling you to stick it, and if you want to fire me, then that's the way it goes. Nice working with you.
(Incidentally, when I went to practice on Wednesday night, first thing I did was anxiously ask several of the girls what I missed. The reply: "Nothing. We just did drills." So I suffered that whole brouhaha for nothing. Figures.)
*****
Every so often, we'll get a rehire. This particular one came in a little before 9 on Friday night. "Do you remember me?" she said, "I'm (dancer), I was here a little over a year ago before I got a job in the real world." She hands me a book of her CDs; I cringe, as this really can screw me up when I set up music. Still, she doesn't see, and I take the book, welcoming her back and I'll let her know when to put her up.
Yeah, I remember this girl. Drove me nuts. She had wicked cool music (one of her favourite bands is Hole), which was likely the only reason I didn't submit to my temptation to drop-kick her. Of course, a quick check of my database showed that she wasn't much more than a minimum tipper. Why am I not surprised?
So before her next time around, I check with Couch Dance Guy if he has her. He says he doesn't.
"She's gonna drive me nuts," I said to him.
"Tell me about it. (Wife) and I used to date her."
I don't know why these things come as a shock to me--hello, I work in a strip club!--but this needed to be absorbed. Meanwhile, I tell Couch Dance Guy that I will now head back to my booth and pretend we didn't have this conversation.
But of course we did, and so at the end of the night, I tell him, "I believe you and (wife) are fairly intelligent people. Why in the world would you date a girl as crazy as her? Besides, you shouldn't date a dancer."
CDG: (Wife) is a dancer.
Me: Yeah, but that's different. She's the exception. Most dancers are insane. You need to get better taste in women.
CDG: It was her idea. (Note: Couch Dance Guy's Wife is sitting by us, staring at the Phillies game recap, ignoring our exchange.)
Me: (to Couch Dance Guy's wife) Then you need to get better taste in women.
Funny how she didn't deny it.