been a violent week in my downtown
strip club world. I was in a fight,
I witnessed a scratch match in the
dressing room and I had to cancel
band practice when some psychotic
drunk tried to murder my bass player
but murdered her car instead.
What the fuck was going on? Were
current economic woes turning men
into monsters? Was it the moon?
Or Mars, careening so close to our
planet? Maybe just coincidence?
Nope. It was Johnny Cash, stirring
things up from beyond the grave.
I got decked onstage at Mary's last
month. It was my second set of the
night. The place was packed. I was
in maniacally high spirits, giggling
through a babydoll set in a white
nightie that barely covered my fluffy
bunny-tail g-string. I danced to
"Sunday Girl" by Blondie. Danced
to "The Kids Are Alright." Then
started a pissing match with a buttoned-down
mid-fifties businessman from North
He was sitting at the rack, which
was full of tippers. But he wasn't
tipping, wasn't gonna. He was "waiting."
And saying extremely rude and retarded
things. I asked him sweetly to move.
"No." I asked the staff sweetly
to move him. "You can't make me."
Johnny Cash came on the jukebox,
singing Dylan's "It Ain't Me Babe"
with his wife June. Go away from
my window. Leave at your own chosen
speed. I picked my nightie up
off the floor and danced around
with it like it was an imaginary
boyfriend. Then I put it back on.
Asshole pipes up again, more rude,
more retarded. So I drop the babydoll
act, roll my eyes and relax onstage.
"Sir, you are a real asshole." He
says, "Shut up and take off your
That was it. I got on my knees and
crawled over the rack so I could
be at eye level with him and snarled,
"Get the FUCK off my rack NOW."
I was pointing at him sternly, Uncle-Sam
style, when he slapped my hand away,
So.... I hauled off and hit him.
His little round businessman glasses
went flying across the room and
broke. Then he hit me right back.
In an instant, the entire bar was
up, chaos and chivalry mixing for
a very sexy effect. The guy was
escorted out in a headlock by some
musician friends of mine and Mary's
Me, I'm still onstage. Johnny Cash
is still singing the Dylan song.
My eyes welled with tears so I swallowed
hard and realized that my mouth
was filled with blood. What a dick!
I forced some giggles and pulled
it together and finished the set.
Every guy in the house came up with
a one, a five, a twenty. Someone
even tipped a hundred dollar bill.
Everybody bought a Mary's Club t-shirt.
The bartender complained about it,
saying, "I feel like I'm working
at the fucking Gap!"
The stupid fuck came back in later
looking for his glasses. The cocktail
waitress yelled, "If I find them,
I'll break them AGAIN." Vicki the
boss gave me one of the lenses as
a souvenir. My mouth kept bleeding
all night and my tongue swelled
up for a week. Now the boys call
me Slugger, Bruiser, etc. They suggest
that I stage fights more often.
And why not? The take was pretty
good, after all. And I gotta say
I kinda liked it. It was a great
show, and I've always said you should
get decked once a year, just to
remind you you're alive.