Monday, October 21, 2013

Hot Wing Challenge

At work again. Monday night. Hot Wing Challenge night at The Harem, a gentleman's club on North Dixie Drive in Dayton, Ohio. It's 12:21am, early Tuesday morning 10/22/2013 as I type these lines. I have 29 entertainers -- that's "strippers" to you -- in my rotation, with about 8 or so others who aren't going on stage. I'll call last call in less than two hours, and be home and in bed at 4am.

My son has to be dropped off at kindergarten at 8:30am. I'll wake him up at 8, get some breakfast into him, get him dressed and pack his lunch and drive him to school. Then my 2 year old daughter will wake up not long after I return home, and I'll get her up, change her, and fix us both some breakfast. When my wife gets up, I'll take a nap.

The Hot Wing Challenge is the highlight of our Monday nights here at work. Twice every Monday night, at 11:30pm and then again at 1:30am, I bring two volunteers up out of the audience and we put them onstage next to each other. Then we place two steaming platters of hot wings in front of them and put three minutes on the clock. Whoever finishes first, or eats the most in the allotted time, wins. The wings, of course, are practically inedible -- the sauce the cooks use is specially prepared and beyond hot. But every week, people get up there and try it, to some pretty humorous results.

I'm tired, but not overly so. Tonight I'm going to go home and plug in my laptop before I go to bed and try to knock out two pages of the current writing project I'm working on right now. 

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Back From the Dead

I'm at work, DJ'ing at The Harem. It's 5pm and I have ten entertainers in the rotation, which is a fairly typical number for this time on a Sunday afternoon. A small amount of guys, sipping their beer, watching NFL games on the big screens and occasionally tipping one of the girls. 

This has been, as they say, one of those days. Not a bad one, mind you. Just a little frustrating.

Last night, a good friend hosted a party at her place in honor of my wife, who just passed her state boards and is now a nurse. Good friends came, much laughter ensued, and bodacious amounts of alcohol were consumed. By me. And by our hostess.

I became a bit intoxicated. I didn't get crazy or take off my clothes or get into a fight or try to drive home, mind you -- I just wound up passed out in a chair near the fire, and another friend of ours drove me home. My wife is a bit upset with me, and now I'm in the doghouse.

But she did put her anger at me aside long enough so that we could take the kids to the local school's homecoming parade this afternoon, which was nice. The kids got lots of candy and really enjoyed themselves.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Eoster Can Kiss My White Ass

Eoster Can Kiss My White Ass

by Tim Case Walker

Spending Easter Sunday working inside the cozy confines of a strip
club may not sound like the most socially redeeming proposition to the
bulk of you reading this website. And you’d be right, of course.
However, since my scheduled shift condemns me to the DJ booth every
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, that’s where I spent Easter from 4pm till
3:30 the following day.

Easter is, of course, the holiest day in the Christian calendar,
celebrating as it does the Resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.
There are those who say the holiday actually predates Christianity,
and is related to an ancient festival which celebrated the pagan
fertility goddess of Eoster, or Ostara. So, if you look at it in that
light, perhaps spending the holiday playing bump and grind music for
the fertility goddesses at the Harem, all skilled at making things
rise from the dead, makes sense after all.

“Bunny” is one of the Harem’s lovely entertainers -- a very nice girl,
who likes to drink Grey Goose and unfortunately chose a stage name
which lends itself to lame DJ jokes like “Okay gentlemen, put your
hands together for the lovely Bunny, hopping her way up to the main
stage right now.” She flips me the bird from the stage on a nightly
basis. She told me that early on Easter morning, her phone was already
filled with texts from fellow entertainers wishing her a “Happy
Easter, Bunny!”. Not long after clocking in, she ordered her first
shot of many shots of vodka after our manager hunted her down and
demanded to know where his basket was.

“Kat” is another lovely young lady who plies her trade at the Harem. A
newbie who just started dancing last week, Kat hails from Centerville,
Indiana and spent the last several years travelling with a carnival
and working the various games and rides found therein. A very nice
young lady, but a little green, Kat spent the day dancing in furry
white shoe covers, a faux tux outfit complete with cuffs, and big
white ears which lit up onstage and made it appear that UFOs were
hovering just above her head.

Don’t get me wrong...I like Kat. She always tips me at the end of her
shift, she’s friendly and pleasant and she’ll dance to anything I
play. But last night, when my friends Bear and Little John stopped in
to the booth to say hello, she may have damaged our working
relationship when she offered to show my friends how adept she was at
the old carnival game of “I Can Guess Your Age!”.

Bear went first. Kat studied his face for a minute, and skillfully
guessed his age as 32. Bear is actually 31 -- not a bad guess.

Little John is a bit older than Bear and closer to my own age... she
guessed him at 41. John is 42 years old.

Then she looked at me. Even with my grey hair and beard, people
usually think I’m a bit younger than my actual age, which is 47.

She studied my face for a long minute, smiled and said “You’re 58!”.

Fuck Easter.

I charged her double tip out.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Mike South: An Addendum

“Mike South: An Addendum”

by Tim Case Walker

The answer is no, he does not have a rebel flag bumper sticker on the
back of his truck. He does, however, sport a sticker that says “Guns
Cause Crime Like Spoons Cause Rosie To Be Fat and Stupid”.

He likes to read, and he’s insufferably smart... Smarter than 90% of
the people you’ll ever meet, except when he’s in the company of a
beautiful young lady, at which time his considerable intellect fails
him completely. He does like to fish, and conveniently, he also likes
to eat sushi. He likes to ride his scooter. He likes to piss people
off, to stir up the soup, to be, as Gunter Eich once wrote, “Sand, not
oil, in the machinery of the world”.

Porn gadfly Mike South, my best friend, was 42 years old when I met
him in Tampa, Florida. I’d talked to him on the phone once, briefly --
being from West Virginia myself, his good ole boy drawl put me at ease
immediately. “Sure,” I said to the aspiring porn actress who would
eventually become my wife. “Let’s go meet this Mike South character.
Let’s find out what he’s all about.”

(It’s 13 years later, and I’m still working on that one).

Later that night, after we’d spent the evening together and he’d shot
a XXX scene with the aspiring porn actress who would eventually become
my wife, it occurred to me that “good ole boy” didn’t quite describe
the whole of this person who had suddenly entered my wife. Er, life.

We have had adventures together -- lord, the stories we could regale
you with over a Mason jar of Jager bombs or two. The time we were
shooting a nude layout out in a protected area of desert outside of
Las Vegas and were accosted (and subsequently ticketed) by a Federal
Park Ranger. The time he was slapped at the Tampa Show by an
overweight woman who then nearly got her ass kicked by my wife. The
time he ordered room service, having it delivered to our table at the
AVN Awards Show because he was pissed off that they didn’t feed us,
then charged it all to Farrell Timlake’s room. Endless bukkake
stories. The Georgia Limo. The kitchen at Flamingo. Gidget. Kayden.
A-dell and the iced tea. Finberg. Jolie. Flower. Fifi. Maynard.

He snores. He insists that he doesn’t, but he does. Trust me on this.

He was the best man at my wedding. His “best man toast”, which should
go down in history, is on YouTube and you owe it to yourself to check
it out.

He is a trusting soul, and this has gotten him into a spot of trouble
from time to time. My wife says he’s gotten meaner as he’s gotten
older, but I don’t necessarily agree with that -- what I see is that
the years have distilled him, like a mean shot of whiskey. Every
battle, every injury or surgery, every time a person he trusted or
helped has fucked him over has stripped a piece of his hide away, and
left us with what we have now: a leaner, honest, angry, more brutal
version of the Mike South that I met all those years ago.

There are people who we say do not suffer fools gladly.

These days, Mike does not suffer fools at all.

We talk on the phone as much as we can. He’ll complain to you, if you
ever bring it up, that I never answer the phone, but that’s bullshit.
I know that if I ever needed him, he would be there in a heartbeat. He
knows that if he ever needs me, I’ll get back to him eventually.

He has asked me to write for him again. To take an occasional turn
stirring up the soup.

“It’ll be fun,” he told me. I wrote for his website years ago, when
it was better, before he was famous, when I was much more involved in
XXX than I am now, in my current role as a DJ in a Dayton, Ohio strip
club. I still have things to say, however... and perhaps you’ll enjoy
hearing about them on from time to time.

If you don’t, blame me, not him. God knows he has enough trouble.

Talk to you soon.