| rev:text
| - On name alone we HAD to check this place out, just for kicks.
Ouch!
Bandaids indeed; this place hurts and not in a good way. And you might want to spritz that with some iodine for good measure.
I've got no qualms with talent, don't get me wrong; the female form is a beautiful thing to behold in all of its varied curve-tastic shape and form. A woman is a woman is a beautiful woman, and I'm a sucker. By default, naked womanhood warrants an automatic 3-star baseline from me, but the slummy and desperate atmosphere in this dive is a soulsuck for all that dare enter.
The squat brick building sits all by its lonesome under a tacky illuminated "Bandaids Show Lounge" sign, the surrounding parking lot emanating with "damn, I'mma get mugged out here" uncertainty and darkness.
Once inside (yes, you go in through a sketchy looking front door that looks as welcoming as the sketchy looking service door), you're met by security and carded; the girls headed for the bar while another friend and myself were subjected to a [sub-standard*] pat down - *sub-standard: the folding knife clipped and visible in my front pocket (CA law) went unnoticed. A printed "no sideways caps, no baggy/saggy jeans, no long tees" dress code posted by the door should have been a red flag. Classy!
After getting a few beers from the pretty bartender (she was actually really, really good-looking - hottest girl on staff, setting false precedent for what the stage talent would look like), we made our way past shady regulars at the bar with their necks crook'd to the lounge, finding a couple of tables near, but not next to, the center stage.
Most of us sat talking and laughing with each other, occasionally glancing at the stage just to see what's up and watching the depraved humanity of the other patrons in the place, mostly empty on a Friday night...
... the out-of-towner business man in the dark corner, getting dances from any girl that would come his way.
... the mouth-breather waiting with stalker-ish anticipation for a dance with one of the, er, more amply-bossomed strippers.
... the table of youngins, dressed exactly how the posted dress code prohibited.
Girl after girl (a couple of "a'ight" girls, most "everyday" girls, and at least one "is that a girl?" girls) came to the stage, gyrated to cliche strip club music - some exhibiting-gymnast calibre pole skills and limberness - then cruised the showroom floor, peddling their wares with a repeated-to-monotone-perfection "...would you like a dance? ...would you like a dance?" propositioning. Sales Basics 101: Always Be Closing, right?
None of us partook in the festivities, but two friends in an adjoining party did. One, quite simply because he was bored and someone paid for it. The other, a recent migrant from war-torn and fundamentalist Afghanistan, got one of the [few] Barbie-esque dancers who would keep him entranced and occupied for 4-5 songs... and about $100.
After a quick 30 minutes, we'd thought we'd seen the whole rotation of "meh" talent and skeevy behavior. And that's when we saw it...
...the epitome of tacky divey strip club attire...
...the summation of the Bandaids experience...
...that's when we saw it...
...The HOOD-KINI*!
It was time to leave... quickly. As we braved the parking lot, it was joke after FirstAid-alluding and Infectious-disease related joke. Automatic hilarity at the mere mention during the rest of our trip.
"Band-Aids", because correlating "possibility of infection" and adult entertainment is savvy business sense.
____________________
Yes, yes. A hooded bikini.
In black and neon. A hood to obscure her face, while thin straps and patches of material covered her naughty bits. A. Hooded. Bikini. If she were gonna take your money, she might as well look the part.
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