30 September 2002
In Search of Inspiration
"Writing is making choices, and the choices we make can be generic, which will cost us our reader's faith, or specific, which will gain our reader's trust.... The reader trusts us because we give enough detail for oiur eyes-- which they are using-- to be trusted."
After this weekend I am in search of inspiration. Sitting in bed, looking up at the ceiling; staring at books looking for the urge to read; staring at dinner, waiting for the urge to eat. Watching my favorite football teams lose very badly. Trying to sleep. Attempting to organize. Waiting for a spark.
This weekend was the bachelor party, as previously mentioned. I am not as sprightly as I used to be, I realize. One would think that after an evening of drinking and games and titty I would be such a happy young man. I was tired, that's what I was. It was kind of poor. I enjopyed chilling with the guys, meeting the other male members of the wedding party. I liked the games-- my hockey slap shot kept going in. I might have to play blacktop street hockey after all.
But by the time the flagrant nudity and lap dances came up, I was all tired out.
In truth I think the nature of the strip club doesn't do it for me. There you are, crisp dollar bills in hand, in a place that looks like strip clubs in b-movies. With the exception of the hard nosed cop who has fallen out of grace, it was all there. Lots of mirrors to make the dimly lit area look even bigger. Large neon sign to the champagne room. Some fella who couldn't cut it as a wedding DJ or a local Opie & Anthony knockoff is playing the hits of the 80's and hip hop from today. Skinny girls with heavy accents keep massaging your neck or grasping your hand and asking how you are and if you want a dance. Especially to your little friend.
There is a lot of reaching, and a lot of fellas staring at some thangs they can't touch. It's tiresome, in a way. Personally, I like to touch. And it is good to see your friend get a dance from the good looking stripper. But not all of them are that hot. I expected fake boobs all over the place. And there weren't too many. I thought I'd get the "Jenny Jones Show" and instead I got slatternly high school girls. At least the one I got a dance from was FUNNY. Ah, well.
Mr. Conroy, good to run into you. Outside the strip club, of course.
Now, I am off to find inspiration. And a paying part-time job, because I have no income, and no money. Sigh.