Monday, September 18, 2006

The Power of the Pole...

Wassup, Y'all!

Ahhh, it's good to be back in the basement! I'm feeling refreshed and my pockets are a bit lighter due to a quick trip out to Vegas (despite that misleading glossy I posted on Friday...). I hit the clizzub on Friday night and I have to admit, the Vegas nightclubs are 1) off the heezy and 2) environments for some of the best people watching this side of the Greyhound bus station.

As my girl was quick to point out it's also skewed toward the male demographic as the eye candy primping in that joint was, in a word, simply ridiculous (oh snap - my bad. That was two words...). We fell through Jet at the Mirage and what did my wandering eyes see as soon as we got up in there? A platform in the center of the dance floor with four poles encouraging every woman in the joint to drop her inhibitions and work it like the pros four blocks over who are all too skilled at separating homeboys from their cheddar. Did the pole ploy work in Jet? Hmmm - is the Pope in trouble with the Muslim homeys? Read on cousin...

Getting in was straight old school. My boy Cat Daddy hipped me to the crowds that hit these clubs when his butt got left on the curb after trying to get into Pure. Despite his warning, we showed up late like we knew someone and promptly got pointed to the 'General Admission' line to mingle with the common people. So after hearing it would take at least 90 minutes to get in via that route, I asked one of the bouncers how to 'expedite' things and he directed me to a suit wearing brother who was passing out comp tickets for the ladies. I snagged one of those bad boys, took a detour to get a comp ticket for the homeboys (he told me where to go), went to the front of the line and asked the gatekeeper how much it would cost to get to the top of the list. I was expecting to break off a Grant ($50) but he just asked for a Jackson ($20), we shook hands, the rope came up and next thing you know, ol Ty's easing his a$$ into Jet, with a foine shorty, for a single Jackson (get those comp tickets... ). Gotta love capitalism, y'all. I expect Gatekeeper cleared about a cool Grand of tax free cheddar. Not bad for a night's work latching and unlatching a velvet rope.

Like all clubs, women are the attraction and Gatekeeper was letting them in in packs of 10 and 12. No lie - the ratio of women to men in that joint had to be 4:1. Which brings us back to the poles. I've heard it said that when fathers have kids all they hope for is to keep their sons off the crack pipe and their daughters off the stripper pole. Both noteworthy goals but there seems to be something about those poles, free flowing alcohol, raised platforms and girlfriend accomplices that attract women to those poles like gravity.

The center platform featured no fewer than 12 women (normal, everyday shortys) jostling, working the poles and playing to the crowd all night long. They had girlfriends boost them up the pole so they could slide down, they worked the pole in pairs - it was all very entertaining (for my girl - not so much...). Did I mention that Jet also had four single poles in each corner of the room manned by a professional pole worker (all tastefully clothed in lingerie so don't get too excited, homeys...). What's not to like?

Naturally afterward we had to compare notes. That went a little something like this: Me: Wow - that was hot! Her: Wow - those were some stupid women. Me: Stop hatin' - they were just having a good time. Her: Wow - those were some stupid women. Clearly a Mars and Venus thing was going on.

So homeboys - Jet might be a good 'boys weekend' venue. That way you'll satisfy your eye candy sweet tooth *and* avoid those intellectually stimulating conversations with your girl afterward (you know I love you Boo :-) ). Just be sure to have Mr. Jackson with you to smooth out the entry process cuz you're not as important as you think you are.



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