After the excitement of Saturday faded in a Miller Lite haze, neither my wife nor I had any trouble falling asleep. Staying asleep, however, proved to be much more difficult. I was laying on my back, staring at the ceiling when she got up to use the bathroom. It was 5 a.m., and neither of us was going to try to go back to sleep.
Breakfast
I brewed a pot of coffee, and we sat in the living room and watched the remaining 90 or so minutes of the 120 we began watching before bedtime. It was a bit of a disappointment after our expectations were raised with vintage They Might Be Giants, Smiths, Clash and Cure videos in the first half-hour.
“I bet B.E.’s open,” she said. (“B.E.” = Bob Evans)
“You want pancakes,” I guessed.
“I want strawberry pancakes and sausage,” she corrected.
I braced myself for the Sunday morning B.E. crowd, waiting for a table and began looking forward to picking up an actual newspaper and reading the Sunday Sports section over my coffee.
Here’s a hint:
If you must go to Bob Evans on a Sunday morning, go before 7 a.m. No waiting!
She had her pancakes and sausage. I had my coffee. Didn’t get to the newspaper, but was satisfied that I didn’t have to stand in line for a table. It was an even trade.
On the way back from B.E., her cell phone rang. It was my engaged cousin’s homosexual ex-husband, who was planning a (literally) last-minute “Gentlemen’s Evening” for the soon-to-be-groom, his homosexual brother and any other male family members adventurous enough to participate.
“Will you go?” she asked.
“After the Browns game,” I said. “It’ll be over around four-thirty.”
“Six-thirty at Brasa,” she said.
“OK.”
The Browns
Watched the Browns lose to Cincinnati on TV.
I should let that stand, but I want to add something:
I have an old, trusted friend who is very close to the team. He told me about a month before the season started that Derek Anderson might be the dumbest player on the roster — maybe even the dumbest player in the entire NFL.
He was not kidding.
The Gentlemen’s Evening
Let me be completely honest about something. I’ve been wanting to try Brasa since it opened. $35 for all you can eat of 16 different grilled meats, served by well-dressed skewer and machete wielding meat-couriers (6 beef cuts and an assortment of chicken, turkey, pork, sausage, lamb and ribs).
A real carnivore’s dream.
My nutshell review: Go once, just so you can witness the parade of servers who I think try to overwhelm diners with the dizzying pace at which they deliver their fleshy cargo. The actual taste is not that good, but what do you expect for $35?
As far as the crowd goes, it’s just me, the aforementioned three and a friend of the groom’s named Alan. None of my other “regular guy” cousins showed up. They were all invited as well.
Now, I wasn’t expecting a trip to an actual gentleman’s club, given the crowd I was with on this particular evening. And since I was the only person drinking alcohol at dinner, I assumed that the rest of the fellas were just planning to head home when the meat orgy at Brasa ended.
As Charlie Murphy might say …
“WRONG!”
On the way into the parking lot, it became clear that this group intended to see naked women dance. Live and in-person, on a Sunday night at 8:30.
“You’re coming with us aren’t you?”
“You need a token hetero guy to do this, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m in. No problem. I brought cash.”
The first club we walked to was closed. Somebody made the decision to head to Christie’s Cabaret, formerly Tiffany’s. Something clicked in my head. Flats. West Bank. I can get there, and more importantly, I can get home from there.
It took us a few minutes to get situated, five guys around two tables with a clear view of the stage. The cocktail waitress came, my chance for salvation in an amber bottle with a blue label.
“A Miller Lite please.”
The rest were still drinking soda. Diet soda. I don’t know about anybody else, but I’ve always held pretty fast to the general rule that I don’t go into strip clubs sober. It’s something that started a dozen or so years ago, even before I started hanging out with a dancer.
I made sure to tip the chubby waitress especially well to ensure the supply kept coming. It worked.
The club itself seemed pretty clean in the dark. I inspected my chair before I laid my overcoat over its back, let alone sat down. The stage was large, at the bottom of an impressive staircase, which the dancers would descend when the house DJ announced their names.
There must be some house rule about race when it comes to the two dancers who share the stage at any given time, as it seemed like there was always one white and one black dancer on stage — from the time we arrived until the end.
Shortly after my first beer arrived, a tall, short-haired blond with a running start vaulted into my lap.
“Ummphh. Whoaa!”
“I’m Jessica.”
“Hi,” I said, and introduced myself. “You could’ve hurt me there, you know.”
“I’d like to hurt you,” she purred. “You wanna dance?”
She was, of course, a knockout. I would describe her body and the schoolgirl getup she was barely wearing, but it just wouldn’t further the story at this point.
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “This guy sitting next to me is getting married tomorrow–”
“On Christmas Eve?” she asked, nonplussed.
“He’s Jewish. It’s cool. Dance for him. I’ll buy.”
“I’ll just sit here with you until the next song starts,” she said.
“You mean on me, right?”
My leg was asleep. She was gorgeous, and she made good on her promise to hurt me. Mercifully, she jumped onto the groom as discussed shortly thereafter.
Another beer arrived, as did another beautiful girl.
This one daintily seated her elfish-costumed self on one of my knees and immediately looked straight into my eyes. She was tiny, clearly Italian with big brown eyes and thick black hair, curled and styled exquisitely.
“There’s nothing to you,” I said. “You’re tiny.”
“I’m almost 100 pounds,” she protested. “I’m Lilly.”
“Hello, Lilly. I’m Tony.”
I felt a little too much like a stereotypical drunken, lecherous Santa Claus with this bit of a girl on my knee.
“Would you like a dance?”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I said. “I’m not taking dances tonight, but my friend here is getting married tomorrow–”
“On Christmas Eve?” she asked, incredulous.
“For real. He’s Jewish. It’s cool. How about you dance for him after Jessica over there finishes punishing him? I’ll pay for it.”
“I like you,” she said. “Can I wait here?”
“No problem.”
We chatted until the groom’s lap cleared. When she left, I barely noticed. She was very, very small.
Another beer arrived, so I took the opportunity to look around to see what the rest of my crew was up to. The groom was busy with Lilly. The two gays were taking turns getting lapdances from a very big African-American girl. Think Mo’Nique. The groom’s quiet friend was still being quiet, but had Jessica, who had moved on to dish out more pain, in his lap.
I finished the beer and ordered another. Before it arrived, a tall, stacked brown-haired girl-next-door-type planted herself in my lap. I fully intended to pass this one off to the groom as well. After all, giving beats receiving all the time, right?
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing?”
“I’ll play. How you doin’?”
She leans in very close to my ear.
“I’m OK, but I’d be doing a whole lot better if I was topless right now and grinding on you.”
Winner. I’d bought a couple dances for the groom. Now was my turn. This girl’s shtick was good. She sold me.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Britney.”
“Whatcha got, Britney?”
Cue the music: “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry
It took just over three minutes for Britney to rub most of her body glitter and perfume onto my cashmere sweater, impressive in that my chair kept sliding backwards (damn casters). My last beer arrived sometime during that span.
When I finished it, I bid the rest of the guys a good night, and ended up dropping off the ex-husband/best man at his car.
When I arrived home, still pretty early (before 11 p.m.), I crawled into bed with my wife.
“You smell like beer and cheap stripper perfume,” she said. “How was dinner?”
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