Jason Rodriguez - The Moose in the Closet: In Too Deep

Couple of comic things before I talk about strip clubs.

I’m editing JJ Khars’ very first graphic novel. Honestly? One of the best concepts I’ve heard recently. Seriously, the kind of pitch you hear and you go ape-shit insane because it’s so perfectly simple yet full of potential. We’re working on the execution of the plot now but I promise you all – when this is molded and ready to go, you’re going to want to get your hands on it badly.

Neil Kleid’s serializing his novel THE COFFIN. Trapped on a NYC train after a suicide bomb and how the passenger’s cope and survive – sounds like some good suspense and drama right there. I’ll be following along; I suggest you do as well.

And finally, I wanted to drop another hint about the secret project:

There’s a website in the works.

But you can’t see it yet.

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The weekend of the Super Bowl my dad came up, excited to watch the game on my new 42-inch Plasma HDTV. Robin and I threw a little party, about eight people – can’t fit a lot of people around the TV – and we all had a good time, plenty of sopressata and mozzarella was washed down with tasty beer.

The Saturday before the game, we dragged my dad out with a group of friends – probably about 15 people – and played pool all night and, you know, drank a lot of beer. Towards the end of the night my friends were going out to a strip club and I really couldn’t go with my dad AND Robin, if it was one or the other we’d tag along but all parties agreed that going to a strip club with my girlfriend and my father was just weird. So the three of us hopped in a cab and went home.

Anyway, got me thinking about strippers and how much I love them. It’s probably the one “masculine” trait I still cling to. I mean, I leave tags on my clothes in case they don’t provide me enough “impact” the first time I wear them, I buy skin care products, I occasionally take baths and god dammit I love me some good candles now and again. I’m 80% chick, honestly. But man, that all goes away at a strip club.

When I decide to restart the Moose story telling there will be plenty of strip club stories. In the past six years I’ve been on around 30 or so business trips – I can remember two trips where I did not visit a strip club at least one night (and on one of those trips my coworker and I drove around San Antonio looking for one only to end up at some sketchy joint where this guy outside told us, “Parking is free but if you pay me a couple of bucks I’ll make sure no-one breaks your windshield.” We left, obviously).

And that’s just business trips – there are strip clubs in DC and trips home to New York were almost always partnered with at least one 3AM cab ride to The Wild West over on second avenue and 39th street in Brooklyn (if the girl with the bar code on the back of her neck is reading this I want you to know I still love you and my drunken promise to take care of you forever still stands – just look me up, baby).

The problem with strip clubs is, sometimes you get a little too into it. And I’m not talking about the times when you blow two hundred bucks or get tricked into the VIP room – that shit just happens and is directly proportional to the amount of alcohol you’ve drank. I’m talking about when you get a little too caught up in the “stripper lifestyle”.

My first year out of college my job was sending me to work out on Long Island two weeks out of every month – there wasn’t much to do during the week except visit the closest strip club. Eventually, my coworker started traveling out there with me and we’d hit a club together. This one time, G hopped on the Long Island Rail Road and met us at our hotel – we all went to a new place together to see what it has to offer on a Wednesday night.

For the most part we were the only guys there. We sat by the stage and one girl at a time got up and danced only for us. One of the girls got really friendly with us, sat down next to us (naked, of course), and actually bought us drinks which, if you’ve ever been to a strip club, you’d know is not just rare – it’s fucking unheard of.

Anyway, she was cool shit and she kept inviting other strippers over. As the night progressed the three of us were sitting amongst a group of naked chicks – having beers and chain smoking cigarettes. The original girl was the ring leader – she’d occasionally declare boredom, point to one of the other girls, and tell her to go dance for us.

I shit you not – it was like having our own harem of women – even if it was only for an hour.

We were talking about real shit too, you know? Asking them about life outside of stripping, talking about some of the most mundane shit – it’s amazing how much the nudity becomes wallpaper when you just sit there with a bunch of naked women and shoot the shit.

We were getting along fine until the ringleader stripper asked us if we wanted to go into the back with her and do some blow. The three of us just sort of freeze – we’re not fans of the llallo – and realize that we went too deep into the stripper world. We politely decline, she goes into the back and comes back high as a kite, the other strippers aren’t sitting with us anymore and the night ends rather abruptly.

That was my last time really engaging strippers on that level – I realize I would just be setting myself (and them) up for disappointment. No – I’ll just throw some dollars in the g-string, get my lap dance(s) – smell that sweet stripper smell that only they have, feel that soft stripper skin lightly rub against my arm, get that perfect stripper leg placed firmly against my crotch – and walk out with as much dignity as I can muster. I can’t party with them. Offer to “take them away from it all”, sure, I did that once (bar code girl, I’m looking at you, my love).

But I can never truly “hang”.

In Too Deep

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

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