Stripping, drinking, and profundity.

The Divine is not seperate from the Beast. -Lenore Kendell

I don’t normally drink at all (tho there was a time when I regularly knocked down 20+ drinks every night at work). So last night when it was slow at the begining of the night and I drank two glasses of whine with a sweet alcoholic regular I was totally drunk. Really. I could hardly walk a straight line. Luckily, my body’s really smart. There have been times I was falling down drunk or hit my head on the pole so hard I couldn’t see, and the minute I touch the stage my toes stay pointed and I pose and dance all pretty. I’ve been dancing so long that the knowledge of how to move has soaked into my lymbic system and cerebral cognition is no longer necessary.

In my drunkenness I was totally unable, and rather unmotivated, to create instant rapport and meaningful anonymous intimacy with every guy that came in. Also, there was rather a shortage of guys coming in. The guys that did come in, tho, weren’t feeling my magnetic attraction. I think the alcohol fucked my mojo.

So I ended up talking to this drunk guy from the village. He recognized me because I look like my mom. Even though he hasn’t seen me since I was a little kid, he remembered how I used to be able to talk in sign language. “Remember? Remember we would all sign POOP together? Haha, poop.”

“Lissen,” he slurred, “you gotta find a better job. Thish ain’t no good.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.” I nodded seriously, looking for the next customer.

“Thish ishn’t a good place for you. Things happen. Crazy shings.”

I nodded. This is the kind of bullshit I just let fly by me. If I listened, it would drive me crazy.

“You should be on the river. You should lissen to the elders an lissen to your spirit. If you lissen you can live a hundred years, you know, lissen.”

I nod. He’s right.

“Lissen. Do ya know what I mean? You hafta lissen to yourself an lissen to the elders but don’t juss lissen to people, lissen to the snow and the sun too. Lissen and you’ll live a hundred years.”

I know exactly what he means. It’s a good reminder. He’s wise, and I feel that urge to sit at his feet and ask him what the hell I’m supposed to be doing with my life, but I just nod.

“Your so soft,” he says, his hand on my leg, “yous gotsta stay that way. You gotta protect that,” he says, reaching for my thong.

I intercept his hand, gracefully. “Don’t worry honey, I do.”

“Good, cuz that’s all I care about. Hey… hey… will you come to my room later?”

I’m used to this now, the wisdom, inspiration, and asshattery that comes from random fucked up drunks. It took me a good part of my life to understand that people could be assholes and still be wise.

I used to find the wisest medicine men in strip clubs, and they would tell me all about myself and the world and how to live. I would be so excited, and I would just set down to learn everything I could from them. Then they’d offer me ten bucks for a blow job, or try to grab my pussy when I wasn’t looking. Suddenly they were evil, and if they were evil than they couldn’t really be these wise medicine men, right? It really drove me crazy for a long time. I couldn’t trust my judgement, and because I couldn’t see people as whole wise fucked up divine drunken assholes all at once I really couldn’t see them at all.

Now my concept of people is so much more fluid. Nobody gets to be all wise and guru-ish without having some hard, fucked up times. Those times leave scars, but those scars don’t invalidate the good parts. It’s all mixed up together, and I just take it moment by moment.