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I have a friend who is good with money. Now, by “good with money” I don’t simply mean that he saves, he invests. Currently his way to make his money be like bunnies is to throw it at property, by rehabbing destroyed houses and selling them. This is also known as “flipping a house,” which always makes me think of Russian gymnastics coaches masquerading as realtors.

I started thinking about what I’d do if I weren’t more broke than a Milli Vanilli lip-synching record. If I had money, I would want to start a business where I would work for myself, and be surrounded by things that I love and am interested in. Granted, I’m blessed (and poor) enough to basically do this already, as writing for a living with someone I respect and want to lick chocolate soy pudding off of is essentially what I just described. But I’d ideally want to invest in something more tangible than text. Something profitable that would still give back to the community. I’d like to own a strip joint.

Now, before you get all fundamentalist on me, hear me out. This wouldn’t be an ordinary strip club, this would be my strip club. It would be referred to as “your neighborhood unthreatening strip club,” and it’s name would be The Lonely Unicorn. Open every night, except your mother’s birthday.

Inside the space, which would probably be an old warehouse or bakery, there would be two catwalk-esque stages, one on each side of the main room. One would have boy dancers, and the other would have girl dancers.

Male dancer criteria for The Lonely Unicorn would include that they must be tattooed, skinny (sorry, this is a strip club, not a billiard club, boys. Go burn some bras out front if it makes you miffed,) and be able to convey an aura of being aloof while wearing American Apparel briefs. Bonus points if you can include props, such as a skateboard, fixed gear bicycle, or a Kindle. If you do not have a vision impairment, please provide fake glasses. You do not need to know how to dance. Your job will be to apathetically bob your head, mingle with the masses, and solicit patrons into the ever-profitable “V.I.P. Room” by asking, “Hey, wanna come in the back with me and read my blog?”

Female dancer criteria wouldn’t be so specific. Basically if a girl can just look pissed off and wear leg warmers, she can work at The Lonely Unicorn. No makeup permitted except for mascara. The double-standard here is that while boys were allowed to wear thunderpants to cover up their bolt, girls have gotta bare their raincloud.

The dressing rooms would have bookshelves and Boggle. And the champagne rooms would actually just serve Reed’s Ginger Beer and Kombucha, with a bottle of vodka I guess, if you require a buzz to enjoy a lady or gent awkwardly tapping their foot to New Order.

Each stage would have stairs that descended to the dance floor in the middle. DJs would spin what I like, so it would probably have to alternate every hour, from Neil Diamond, to 50’s rock and roll, to new wave, to rap, and then entire hour-long blocks dedicated to Joy Division. Every third Wednesday of the month would be Trent Rezonor Appreciation Night. Free dollar Downward Spiral shots (vodka with a black jellybean at the bottom of the glass) and ladies who scream or brandish a rusty screwdriver at the door get in free.

Every good club knows that dress code is key. You don’t want one douche in a turquoise sweatsuit to put a damper on your prurient parade. The Lonely Unicorn would prohibit UGG boots, Ed Hardy tee-shirts, or keffiyehs, unless the person wearing one knew what it actually was. Oh, and no fur either, duh.

Apathetic staring would be discouraged, crazy and awkward dancing encouraged, and the doors to the bathroom stalls would have clear paneling except for a black bar over where the toilet seat meets the rump. This is only ’cause the rampant bathroom drug use that I’ve encountered in every major city I’ve lived in has led to near renal failure on several occasions. But, then again, I’ve been guilty of taking a new friend into the commode and causing a line to form for reasons more salacious than skiing, so maybe standard doors would be more practical.

Along with the dual-stage, there would be two bars, one for alcohol and another for alcoholics and designated drivers. The first bar would be your standard booze buffet, while the other would be a combination coffee shop and juice bar for teetotalers such as myself. Bar fare would include Pirate’s Booty, dried Calimyrna figs, pecans, and hummus with rice cakes. Maybe some bratwurst, only because the majority of my friends and potential supporters are avid carnivores. Gross, but nobody’s perfect. After all, I’m peddling flesh, I shouldn’t judge those who use their quadrate molars for evil instead of good.

The issue I run into during this fantasy is the “no-touching” rule. I know that having a “buffer zone” between clubgoers and the entertainment is required if my performers were to prance around in their skin tuxedos. I also know that there’s a restriction on alcohol sales for all-nude clubs, so perhaps we’d have to have a pack-your-poison policy.  I’m not quite sure what lucky town would be the home for The Lonely Unicorn, but I’m aware that laws regarding the pornographic polka vary across the country. Also, in places like Florida, I’ve heard that the laws are basically ignored. Kinda scary.

I’m not very good at managing small tasks, I have a tendency to turn a quick jaunt to the store for Band-Aids and a cantaloupe into an all-day expedition resulting in six bags of dried goods and a canister of paint. But perhaps taking on a huge business venture such as a nude revue would work out better. After all, I’ll just be providing the public with what I wish I could find in my town. Now all I need are some investors…

Completely unrelated to hipster strippers and work fantasies, I want to thank everyone for your support during this time as I take care of my mom while she struggles with pancreatic cancer. The support, warmth, and humor that I’ve received from strangers has helped me not to go batshit and eat an arsenic hors d’oeuvre. I never put much faith in the kindness of strangers or the do-gooding based on technology, but writing a fairly standard, self-aggrandizing blog has helped me to discover that there are really amazing people out there that I otherwise wouldn’t have met. Thank you.

Drop me a line, AinsleyDrew at the gmail one. And thank you for your donations, they’re like singles in my garter.

Do your words have no rhythm? We’re like a Carmen Electra strip-tease DVD for your text. Hire us.

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One Comment

  1. The beginning of this post read like a slam poem, which reminded me of good times and your bear hugs.
    Anytime you think you’re ready to open this club, I’ll be one of your humble advisors.
    Oh and does being cute exempt me from being a gross carnivore?

    You are wonderful, and the whole world knows it.


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