Juliette Miranda

I opened the sunroof on the car the other day. It was one of those perfect pre-Spring moments, when the sun feels as it should, breathing the air is inviting rather than painful, and winter anguish has melted away to reveal potential.

That was, of course, before this Midwestern pit of despair reared its desperate little head and dumped several gallons of chilly rain on us. No matter, though. The thaw lasted long enough to prompt my guy and I to head out for our first margaritas of the season and spend the remainder of the night hillbilly-style, camped out in lawn chairs on our driveway.

I’ve even gone so far as to break out the open-toed heels to welcome the new season. Perhaps it’s a bit premature, but frigid pools of icy run-off be damned! I’ll break these suckers in before the book tour hits Las Vegas (27 days and counting!) if it kills me, or hypothermia sets in, whichever comes first.

It’s safe to say that the impending change of season has allowed giddiness to usurp my usual stabbiness for the time, and all I can say is – it’s about damn time. When I find myself Googling phrases like, “alternative uses for piano wire” and “what does lime do to a corpse” I know winter has gone on too long.

Fortunately, there are enough diversions and amusements during the days now to keep my wacky, “All work and no play make Juliette a dull girl” self at bay.

For example, three things that made me happy this weekend:

1. Stringing my guy’s bass unsupervised.
The key word being, of course, “unsupervised.” Deep down I know there are space chimps that could likely string a bass as well as I do, but I still get a thrill from being entrusted with the responsibility. I’ve even gotten good enough at it that my guy can hand me a pack of strings, walk away, and return to a perfectly strung bass. Of course, I might have downloaded a gig-worth of “bass teching for idiots” iphone aps, just to confirm I don’t break anything in the process, but my guy never needs to know about that.

2. Belting out backing vocals for my guy’s band in the studio.
When I accompanied my guy to the recording studio to watch his band record a track for the NHRA, the last thing I expected was to be tossed in the vocal aquarium. My tinny little voice is just one on many, many layers of phrases like “hot rod, hot,” but for a few minutes, I got to pretend I was a musician. There’s a “Yoko” warning light flashing somewhere, but I’m choosing to ignore it.

3. Free wine.
The only way to top off a nightcap of truffles and chocolate covered strawberries? A free bottle of wine from a friendly bartender at the best local winery in Illinois.

It’s good to have the alcohol on hand, actually, seeing as how I still need to prepare my talk for my next book reading/signing. I’m breaking with tradition and NOT actually reading from my book, but instead sharing stories from rock n’ roll past. Shameless plug: Don’t miss it! March 20, 2pm at Borders in Oak Brook.

After that, it’s on to Barnes & Noble in Vegas in April, movies at the drive-in, betting on horses at Arlington, and whatever else Spring may bring.

Dear Jon, Ritchie, David and Tico:

I’m curious: Have any of you seen the movie Almost Famous? I only ask because there’s a line in the film that reminded me of you today. Perhaps you know it: As I recall, the Lester Bangs character says to the naïve William Miller, “…They will ruin rock n’ roll and strangle everything we love about it.”

Even out of context the line has resonance. But don’t worry, I’m not about to accuse you of ruining rock n’ roll – though I’m sure there are those who would, particularly after listening to your new album.

It’s just that quote was the only thing I could think of when I read the announcement of your Livin on a Prayer contest today.

Now, you know, of course, that I consider myself to be a fan of the band. I said as much to you back when you were on the These Days tour, and you graciously allowed a small-time writer to interview you. (Side note to Tico: you’re a dick.)

Your music has been such a significant component of my life that I’ve incorporated stories about it into my book tour. (Speaking of which, would it kill you to buy a copy of my book? I mention you in it, and for all the cash I’ve dropped over the past 22 years on your music and shows, I don’t think throwing a girl fifteen bucks in support is too much to ask.)

My guy even purchased the “Livin on a Prayer” gold record single as a Christmas present for me; that’s how much I love that song.

Obviously, I’m not alone in my appreciation of it. Which I suppose is why you’ve made it the cornerstone of this little contest you have running. I guess if I were still 12 years-old I’d think it was a cute idea, encouraging fans to record themselves performing “Livin on a Prayer” for the chance to be shown on a jumbotron during the hometown show you play.

Really guys, I’m not 12 anymore. I don’t need to see my face looking back at me while you play a song; hearing my inner thoughts come through your lyrics was what drew me to the band in the first place.

But that’s not what bothers me in all this; it’s the fact that your machine is churning out such poor music now that you have to blatantly whore out material written in 1986 to get people interested in the new tour.

Sure, your corporate entity could argue that this contest is a chance for your fans to connect with you, but I don’t buy it. If you really wanted this to be an opportunity to connect with your fans, you wouldn’t be showing the winning video clips on the jumbotron while you play; you’d invite the winning fans to join you on stage.

And that might have actually been enough to get me interested in your contest, were I interested in your music now.

Your pretty hairdo and white teeth (seriously Jon, layoff the whitener – your freaking teeth glow in the dark ) combined with rigid overproduction and lazy hooks does not add up to an album worth listening to.

I remain your fan, Bon Jovi, but do not expect me to sing along unconditionally. I demand more from the music I love. I’m hoping you will, too.

Hoping to see you on the rebound,
Juliette

Hey all…

Check out my latest press clipping with Sun-Times media. I’m particularly amused by the full glass of whiskey at my side.

http://www.suburbanchicagonews.com/beaconnews/lifestyles/2034835,AU08_AUTHOR2_P1.fullimage

Time Magazine has released a 25 Best Blogs of 2009 list.

I, of course, am not on it. It’s my own fault really; I’ve steadfastly refused to play nice in the proverbial sandbox since my start as a blogger years ago. And that’s fine, especially considering that I appear to lack every single aspect from the blogosphere’s top elements for relevance.

Case in point: in 2009, I:

1) Did not get pregnant, give birth, or become a parent. It seems as though every chick who has gotten knocked up fancies herself a writer these days. Belching out children is amusing enough I suppose, and yay them for that whole launching a new life thing and all, I’m just not convinced all these blathering “momversations” make for anything other than weathered cautionary tales. A chick like me can only read so many botched episiotomy stories, excruciating toilet training soliloquies, and “vaccinations equal retardation” arguments before she logs off permanently and schedules an emergency appointment to double her birth control.

2) Could not name a single prime time network TV show. Oh, I’m not so pretentious as to claim I didn’t watch any television – I caught episodes of Entourage and Curb Your Enthusiasm whenever I could, I just (wrongly) assumed that they mean nothing. Silly me. If Time believes that recounting the plotlines of television shows (written by someone other than the blogger) makes for a stellar blog, who am I to fight it? Perhaps in the new year I will begin documenting every single episode of Man Vs. Food until I see the one I crave, where what’s-his-name finally succumbs to the ultimate competitor: his heart.

3) Failed to appropriately comment on the economy, politics, and celebrities. Name dropping, be it celebrity, cultural event or news story, seems to be the biggest blog seller on the Internet. It’s always been my policy to opine only when I have an actual story to tell, and since the online world seems to think in 180 characters or less, I fear it may be time I rethink my writing. Instead of relating the story about how I was nearly run over when an overly self important musician darted into his awaiting limo and sped away, rather than saying hello to the only two people waiting in the backstage alley for him, I should instead just write, “Davy Jones is a gay, douche nozzle, ass monster.”

4) Refused to link to other blogs, articles and web sites. According to Time, to be a “best” blog, one need not have original content. All one needs to do is create a dumping ground of links to other sites. I can have shiny object mentality, too – and swear to soon create my own “Links Not Language” blog.

5) Avoided interaction in comment forums. The real content of a blog isn’t so much in its posts, but in the comments people leave about them. That’s where a blogger can really flex her writing muscles: nothing says “future Pulitzer winner” like a two-paragraph tirade that includes gems such as, “U R a donkey sucking hoze beast thats’ goin to hell. I don’t start shit on boards but ur too stupid to know it.” Sadly, my fondness for punctuation, grammar and not verbing letters or numerals would brand me a “noob” the second I poked my nose into any comment forum – I’m best leaving that to the professionals.

I suppose I’m coming off as a bitter writer throwing sour grapes, and I’ll admit it: I am. Half the blogs on Time’s list weren’t even blogs by the traditional “web journal” definition, but repositories of random links and jabber-inducing headlines by people who are too cheap to dish out the six bucks a month for a real website.

Therefore, my allegiance is officially being thrown in with all the real writers of the world, who also happen to maintain blogs – we may not post often, we may never be able to tell you all the nominees for Grammys or Oscars or Heismans, and we will only flame you for misusing an apostrophe, but you can always count on every word being crafted carefully and with complete dedication to our story, whatever it may be.

And just to ensure Time and all their “best blogs” get my point, I’ll just sum it up in 180 characters or less: suck it, ass monsters.

PS – New blog coming soon detailing my guy’s attempts to teach me a song on bass and my eventual debut on stage. This may not end well for anyone.

While accompanying my guy on a recent trip to Sam Ash, the salesman made the mistake of jokingly calling me a roadie. My guy quickly made the international “Don’t hit me!” gesture and I had to suck back the foam that was starting to bubble at my mouth.

I have enough trouble with the term groupie; roadie isn’t much of an improvement. I am neither. I am my guy’s girlfriend and bass tech. Admittedly, the distinctions are fuzzy at best: my own line involves a refusal to carry gear or work the merch table. And as much as I like to believe my ability to string and tune my guy’s bass at soundcheck makes me better than the rest, it doesn’t change the fact that I am still, at heart, a fan.

Still, I consider it a privilege to be a part of my guy’s musical career in all my capacities: girlfriend, partner, bass tech, fan, and even critic. It’s a complex balance that does indeed provide insight into the world of music that not everyone is granted access.

That’s why, as I watch my guy become a member of a new band, I thought it useful to create a primer of sorts – a checklist to ensure that we can both enjoy his next musical endeavor. I hereby present:

Top 10 Ways to Know Your Guy Has Joined a Good Band

10. He’s not replacing someone who a) got carted off for starting too many fires b) had a curfew or c) ran off to join the German production of Cats.

9. “Sweet Child of Mine”, “Iron Man” and “Jessie’s Girl” are NOT in the set list.

8. The band doesn’t have a street team … run by the singer.

7. The first photo shoot isn’t scheduled to take place in front of a brick wall or by railroad tracks.

6. The band’s website and press kit are not written and maintained by their fans or girlfriends.

5. Shows are not booked at clubs where a) the bartender is also the sound guy b) the drummer’s mother’s van is the backstage or c) a passport, concealed weapon and inoculations are needed to get there.

4. No member of the band currently owns and/or wears anything circa 1987, regardless of whether they can still zip it up.

3. Phrases like, “Yeah, we have connections,” and “We’ve got a label deal in the works,” are never uttered.

2. The merch table doesn’t include specialty items like cheap panties with the band’s photo on them.

1. When the guitarist calls to schedule rehearsal, he says, “We’re all bringing our girlfriends with us; you should invite yours, too.”

  There is evil in me. I know this to be true for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the giant, shining, plague-filled zit that has grown on my cheek.

It’s taken residence just close enough to the bottom of my eye that I see it every time I glance down, a swollen reminder of two things: one, that the baby jesus obviously hates me and two, that my birthday is fast approaching.

Involuntary impulses have me checking my reflection every 20 minutes or so, as if I will somehow catch the thing diminishing in size. It only seems to get redder and larger and more like a panic button on a nuclear warhead though, forcing me to consider alternative fashion accessories like paper bags and potato sacks.

It is fortunate that my driver’s license still has a year to go before requiring renewal, as I am still living with the picture that was taken right before my 30th birthday when I was, oddly, waging battle with a similar zit. 

I remember the DMV guy eying it when I confirmed my age; he was likely comparing me to his 17 year-old complexion-challenged daughter and wondering whether I was trying to pull a fast one in order to score beer.I find it slightly disturbing that this mark of the devil has blighted my skin again. Could there be such a thing as a birthday zit? It certainly has a repulsive sort of symbolism to it.

Maybe there is some mystic quack out there who could crack this fucker open and read the goo like tea leaves or entrails. Because I’d prefer to think that having this thing would offer me some other benefit than scaring young children from my path. If my zit can be an oracle of wisdom, so be it.

Still, considering the radius of facial territory it has usurped, I’m guessing my birthday zit would only confirm that I am indeed loaded with snark. My guy would likely agree, but he’s just mad because I threatened to kill his nonexistent ferret. 

I come from a family of hunters and mink coat wearers; what else am I supposed to think when I see a pile of furry vermin? Admittedly, the ferrets were in Petco, and not the wild, which may be why my guy was charmed by them.

They were cute enough, I suppose, but not so much that I wanted to take one home with us. We have enough to contend with between my own shedding and the random balls of fur our cat yaks up; a ferret would disturb our happy little ecosystem. 

“C’mon! What would you do if I came home one day with little Taco around my neck?” my guy asked.

(Oh yes, he’s even named his imaginary pet.) 

“I’d turn him into a cover for your favorite golf club,” I replied. If I felt a tingle in my cheek when I said that, I didn’t notice. I was too busy crafting a mental list of Ways to Use a Dead Ferret. By the time I’d hit number 47, I’m sure I secured not only this stupid zit, but a toasty room in hell, too.

Not that it stopped me from giggling, of course.

Who knows, maybe my body really did create the birthday zit as part of some pagan snark cleansing ritual. It’s also possible it’s punishment for all my evil doings of late. Or perhaps I just ate too much cheese last week.

Whatever the case, I’d really rather not start my new birthday year looking like a cautionary tale, so I hereby extend my apologies to all those I may have offended recently: Davy Jones… the baby jesus… and even little Taco the Ferret. Cut a chick some slack already, would ya? 

Random side note: My guy’s band recently open for Skid Row, and there is a 15 year-old me somewhere smacking the crap out of myself now for ducking out before Skid Row took the stage. (Sorry guys, but I lost interest right around the time you released an EP of cover songs.) Still, it was a fun night, and I always love to see my guy playing to a packed room. A few pics below, click thumbnails for larger images. 

Dear Davy Jones,

My apologies for the amount of time that has passed since I last wrote to you. It’s been what, 27 years?

I don’t expect you to remember me specifically, of course, you being the star that you are and all. But one of the happiest days of my childhood was when I discovered a fan club address on the back of your first album. What was that one called? Meet the Monkees?

My mother had been nice enough to dredge it from her collection and hand it down to me when I shunned the standard kid music in your favor. I’d play the LP, grab my box of crayons, and draw pictures of us holding hands and going for rides in the red car you used to drive on your TV show.

I’m afraid the concept of a rerun was a bit too abstract for my seven year-old brain to grasp, so I must admit that I assumed your show happened in real time. Would you believe, Davy, that I spent one summer writing you a letter every week? You were my first crush and nothing was more important to me than connecting with you.

I eventually came to realize that I had been born just a tad too late, and that my letters (much like my dreams) had likely wound up in the same place as my letters to Santa. You were never going to ask me to play tambourine for you, you would never sing at my school dances, and the likelihood of ever seeing you in person was slim.

Of course, that was before reunion albums and nostalgia tours made it okay for bands to foist themselves on the public past their prime. When 1986 rolled around and I started hearing you on radio stations that played more than oldies, I was shocked and elated. Sure, Jon Bon Jovi was the new king of my fantasies (he never approved an album cover featuring him and his bandmates stuffed into inner tubes in a pool, that’s for damn sure), but as a fan, I’ve always been loyal to a fault. Just ask Huey Lewis.

And it certainly isn’t easy to be a Monkees fan, Davy, as I’m sure you can imagine. The ridicule I’ve endured from people starting with my mother (she’s a Stones fan) and ending with musicians who feel superior just because they always play their own instruments has been endless.

Don’t think that I didn’t fight their criticisms for you, though! It took a bit of digging, since there was no way I could ever claim that “Daydream Believer” is a good song, and god knows no one, not even you, can explain the movie Head. But I take my role as a fan very serious, and was thrilled to discover truly wonderful material on the Missing Links albums that I was proud to share with my friends.

Tell me Davy, why on earth wasn’t more done with songs like “Of You”, “Hollywood” and “St. Matthew”? They truly captured the feel of the era and can even be considered lovely frontrunners, much like Gram Parsons’ material, to the whole alt-country genre. Did you bury them because they were all written and sung by Michael Nesmith?

You’ll have to forgive my snark here, Davy. It’s just that after having been such a supporter of the band for so long, I can’t help but feel a small sense of entitlement.

Which is why I’m writing you this letter. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to reimburse me for buying the Justus album.) Do you remember the show you played at the Paramount Theatre in Aurora, Illinois? It wasn’t that long ago, really.

I was about to turn 30, and you and Mickey Dolenz were still touring as “The Monkees” even without Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork in the lineup.  It didn’t really matter, you didn’t play their songs anyway, and I was just happy to finally be in your audience.

Despite the general campiness of it all, I had a great time singing along to songs that had been a part of my life for many years. Even the girlfriend who accompanied me had a great time, though whether that was a result of the liquor I plied her with or your performance is somewhat debatable (she’s really more of a Partridge Family fan).

Still, she was indulgent enough to follow me to the alley behind the theatre after your show in an attempt to get your autograph. I had correctly reasoned that the midwestern housewives in attendance weren’t as well-versed in backstage crashing as I was, and my girlfriend and I were the only two people to camp out by the exit.

Like most alleys, it wasn’t the most pleasant of locations. My friend and I tried to get as comfortable as possible by leaning against the least steaming of the dumpsters, while still keeping a respectful distance from your waiting limo. We didn’t want to freak you out by seeming overly stalker-like or fanatical, you see.

So there we were, two pretty girls, smiling and hopeful and anxious to shake your hand. We waited at least an hour, and had in that time gotten to know Barry Williams, your opener, quite well. If you ever encounter him, do pass on my thanks for his graciousness in that dank alley.

As a fan, I can’t say the chilly night air, suspicious rustling in the dumpster and odd looks from the wait staff at the restaurant next door really bothered me. Excitement typically overrides discomfort and common sense.

You eventually emerged, with Mickey on your heels, another 20 minutes later. My girlfriend and I called out your name and smiled. Do you remember what happened next, Davy? Because I sure do.

For the reams of paper I spent writing you letters, the albums I sought out, songs I memorized, and breath I used in your defense, all I received to show for it that night was a wave. No smile, no hello, just a fucking wave. Were this an episode of your tv show, your getaway car would have kicked up filthy water and debris in my face as you sped into the sunset.

Anyway Davy, I’m not writing this to make you feel bad; believe me, I’ve heard worse horror stories about David Cassidy. I really just wanted to ask you for one thing: the autograph I never got.

I’d consider it a personal favor, and a better conclusion to The Monkees musical portion of my life than the one you, I’d like to believe unwittingly, gave me. If you need my address, try contacting the Michael Nesmith Fan Club. I’m sure they’ll be happy to supply it.

Regards,

Juliette Miranda

mirth

    I have a secret. More people than I’d care to admit are probably in on it already, which is unfortunate, seeing as how I generally prefer to not come off as an idiot. But the truth is, I wear my stupidity proudly. On my ankle.

Phrases like, “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” dance through my skull from time to time, but all the rationalization in the world won’t soothe the fact that a combination of alcohol and ignorance have lead to a constant source of ridicule. It’s especially bruising for me, the chick who claims to inherently know all things music. Sadly, my inherent knowledge has a few gaps.

All I wanted was a simple tattoo. My life in Los Angeles at the time was hovering somewhere just short of destitute. I had gone to LA looking for music and for life, and all I had to show for it after five years was my cat and the pity dollar a beggar onVentura Boulevard gave me. My return to Chicago was imminent, and I was crushed.But despite all the grief and turmoil I’d experienced in that town, I still wanted to take a part of it back with me. I needed something distinctly my own to carry, something to show for the time I’d spent in tireless pursuit of a dream. I needed a tattoo.

But LA has a funny way of taking even the most pure and heartfelt aspirations and twisting them into something else entirely, and in hindsight, considering just how bad my luck ran in that town, I really should have seen this coming. Because only in LA would I happen to down enough vodka to float a whale. And only in LA would I grab a completely non-musically inclined girlfriend to accompany me to the only tattoo parlor in the city where a non-musician would be available to tattoo a music note onto my ankle.

To his credit, he was a sweet guy and a talented tattoo artist. He was extremely reassuring to a tattoo virgin and showed a great deal of concern about placing the tattoo I’d selected in the most artistically appropriate place. “I think you’ll be most happy with it if we place it like this,” he said, transferring the note outline to a new place on my ankle. He was right: the note seemed to curve around my ankle and flowed better with my skin.

My no-music-knowledge friend clapped her hands and agreed. I smiled, gave him the go-ahead, and let him drive a permanent memento of Los Angeles into my skin. Too bad the music note was backwards.

It wasn’t long before this charming, for-the-rest-of-my-life error was pointed out to me by a helpful musician who had to choke himself to reign in his laughter. I did the only thing I could: I laughed, too.

To this day, some six-plus years later, I frequently lie and tell people that the tattoo is of a 16th note. It’s a load of crap of course, no music note in the history of music looks anything like what I’ve got on my ankle, but most people don’t know that. And those who do just point and laugh. I’m used to it by now.

That silly backwards music note serves as a constant reminder of the silly, backwards life I lived in LA. Neither is perfect, but I’m starting to accept that both are a part of me.

Post script: I’ve since successfully gotten two more tattoos. A treble clef, and, as of last night, a bass clef. My thanks go to Dil, for his hand: to hold, and in ensuring that the bass clef without a doubt faces in the right direction.

“Come on, it’s just two notes. Sing them!”

Had I not an audience of one staring at me intently, I might have been more inclined to belt out the requested notes. I’ve certainly sung the backing “whoa oahs” to Bon Jovi’s “Livin on a Prayer” so many times that the notes are burned into my ear drums.

Of course, the majority of my singing is done in the shower, where my optimistically off-pitch renditions offend only my own better senses. If I was going to summon the courage to sing solo for a friend, and a musician no less, it was going to take a whole lot more encouragement. And whiskey.

Fortunately, I’ve had plenty of both recently.

Having just come home from my own personal Almost Famous tour of sorts, I’m finding that my long-overdue return to the music scene has more benefits that I would have thought. It’s a surprising revelation for a girl who, nine months ago, essentially swore off people in general and refused to leave her living room.

But recovery comes in unusual places. My own just happened to be the result of a thoughtful suggestion from a girlfriend who is likely wishing she’d never opened her mouth in the first place. Part of me can’t blame her: rock and roll is not for everyone.

However, had she not encouraged me to venture outside the odd little world I’d built for myself, you’d likely be seeing my picture on police station bulletin boards right now. Much as I love my seclusion, I know it’s getting to be too much when I’ve alphabetized my CDs by producer and can have a conversation with my cat and think I understand what she squawks out in reply.

It is a relief to see the similarities between myself and David Berkowitz dissipating. A few may argue that my subsequent renewed passion for the music scene is potentially as dangerous, but the truth is, few things mean more to me or feel more like home than music.

I admit that despite my best efforts I tend to take my interest to Yoko-like levels. It’s an impulse I just can’t control: if I can’t actually be in the band, I want to be as with it as possible. Maybe it’s the geek in me, or maybe I really am a groupie who tries way too hard to mask her musical adoration with technical know-how, but I find I am happiest when I am allowed access to music beyond just listening.

This does make me the ultimate nuisance to bands, seeing as how they practically have to rip their gear from my helpful little fingers. The day is not far off I’m sure when I will be sent way out into left field during sound check with the stated purpose of “checking the low end by the beer tent” when what I’m really being sent on is a pointless errand to get me as far from the stage as possible.

My own ridiculousness is not lost on me. Still, my biggest thrill this past weekend came from being entrusted to string a bass guitar before a show. Pulling those strings into place gave me more satisfaction that that band will ever know, not just for the small part it gave me in their music, but for the way it brought me back to myself.

I was reminded of this as I sat with my friend Dil recently. His request for an impromptu vocal demonstration had thrown me off balance because it came with a genuine suggestion that I join the band on stage to do backing vocals for a song one night.

The blood rushed to my face as he sat waiting for me to produce two stupid notes. You’d think a chick who knows more about music than many of the bands she runs with would have no hesitation in demonstrating her skills.

Dil smiled warmly. He’s been more supportive of my talents and interests than I could ever have asked; that he would give me the ultimate opportunity to step into a new role for a few minutes had my head reeling.

I saw the stage I could stand on, the lights that might happen to fall close enough to me that I wouldn’t be completely in the dark, and realized that I was finally moving out of my living room and into a place where I feel like the person I know I am.

And so I sang.

It may take a bit of warming up, but I will always hit my notes.

You know you’ve had a good night when you can walk out of a strip club with two phone numbers and more dollars than you had when you came in. It’s a bit like leaving Las Vegas really: I felt like a very lucky lady, but glad to have escaped with my shirt. Only in this case, my shirt happened to be on inside out.

It’s surprising I managed to have my shirt on at all, really. The dancers at the local gentleman’s club are rather friendly, particularly when you happen to be a pretty girl who is celebrating her birthday.

“I’m a very spiritual person,” said the Angelina Jolie look-a-like on my lap. Not the words you want to hear from a girl who is pulling your top off, and I would have laughed if she had told me next that she was only stripping to pay her way through nursing school. Fortunately, she instead leaned over to kiss my neck and purr, “I’ll bet your pussy tastes like cotton candy.”

Of all my strip club exploits, this one ranks at the top, trumped only by the “I got a stripper fired” legend that I doubt I’ll ever be able to live down (or up to, depending on your perspective). Girls really do get away with a great deal more action than guys at a strip club. Every time I welcomed a long kiss, every time I participated in play that you really only see in the beginning of flicks like “Where the Boys Aren’t”, I would look over the shoulder of my temporary new best friends and expect to see a bouncer lunging forward to break us up.

But they never did intervene, and I woke up this morning to a hickey, two phone numbers scrawled on a napkin, a faint red welt on my ass (don’t ask), and a pile of dollar bills stuffed in my bra.

Happy birthday to me.

Mind you, I certainly don’t take any of it serious. The attraction strip clubs hold for me is the complete lack of commitment I need to express. Though it probably makes me no better than the average guy, I view the women there only as a limited outlet for my sexual energy.

I suppose it’s a bit of a fuzzy distinction. But for a girl who is still broken hearted and grieving, fantasy is about the only thing I can handle. Actual conversation and full-out sex would add a level of intimate reality I’m just not ready for or interested in. My logic may be a bit faulty, but playing with strippers for a night lets me indulge my impulses in a controlled environment and keeps me from doing something really stupid, like calling any of my ex boyfriends for a one night stand.

Of course, the first thing I did when I stumbled back into my home that night was to drunk email my former guy. My feelings about the relationship haven’t changed, and I’m not okay yet, but I’m working on it.

Even if I have no intention of ever calling them, getting two strippers’ phone numbers isn’t such a bad way to start recovering.

(Note: a pic from the night is posted below. I took it before the festivities started, and since I’d hate to incriminate my two wonderful friends who took me out –or any of the new “friends” I made- it’ll be the only pic of the night I post. Sorry all!)