Postaday for May 31st: 180 Degrees. Tell us about a time you did a 180 — changed your views on something, reversed a decision, or acted in a way you ordinarily don’t.
Dale here. Nice try though. Getting Jason (that’s Bukkhead, ya twerps) to write up a whole post about online privacy yesterday, and then next day ask him about changing his views. He’s screwed either way, right? Either he used to be a neo-nazi and now he volunteers at the puppy orphanage, or, when he was a kid he gave money to the church but now he’s a god-less atheist hell-bent on the destruction of the American family.
Yeah, I don’t think so. That’s why I got this one. Look, Jason’s a nice kid, shoots his mouth off too much sometimes (who blogs three times a day? Jeebus) but his heart’s in the right place. Me, on the other hand, I got no heart. So I’ll take over here. Besides, as I’m a total figment of his imagination, this will be a good character-building exercise.
So let’s see, let’s see, total 180… I’ve mentioned before about how when my wife goes to visit her sister, I might attend a gentleman’s club or two. Strictly legit, strictly legal, sit on my hands, emphasis on the gentleman. Okay fine, so Loretta never hears about it. That’s not lying so much as, what would Jason say, “contextualizing the facts to create truth.” He’s a brainy little fart, ain’t he?
And just so’s we’re clear, a reminder: it’s not like Loretta goes to her sisters all that often, so it’s not like The Dancing Bare’s got a chair with my name on it. And I don’t even go everytime. Sometimes I do the cheetos and baseball on TV thing. Ya know, now that I think about, come Sunday morning, I’m either covered in orange dust, or glitter. Either way, that long hot shower is like a new baptism isn’t it?
But Digress ain’t just what you get when a Donkey and Tiger make love. Where was I. Oh yeah. Back, I don’t five years ago, six maybe, Loretta’s sister’s lumbago’s acting up. What the heck even is lumbago. Maybe I made that word up. Anyway, she’s out of town, and the boys of summer are still wintering in Arizona, so what am I gonna do? Watch hockey? I step over the The Bare. Kendo, guy behind the bar, make a martini that’d give James Bond a reason to finally quit espionage. I head over.
Carla’s on the stage, doing that thing she does with the feather’s and the straps on her heels. Up on the pole and dropping down, some kinda Icarus thing, I don’t know, I wasn’t all that sober for most of college (until I met Loretta; another story). I get my martian and grabbed a chair a little ways back from the stage. Carla will come by for her tip, she knows I’m good for it.
Three, four girls later, about that many martians, the music changes to something from one of those country’s where it’s dark half the year so all the do is play guitar and commit suicide. Growly and mean and, well, let’s face it, dirty. Here we go. Some tattooed gal in a white bikini and Betty Page bangs. Not my cup of tea.
Except, you know. After a few minutes, I’m thinking, tea’s not so bad. The British drink tea. They conquered half the globe, didn’t they? Maybe I should give tea a chance. The way that Betty moved up there. It was sexual, there’s no lying. But it was something else, too. Powerful. Like she owned it. Like it belonged to her. Like dancing for sad old middle-aged dudes like me was something noble. I was turned on, of course, but I was also, like, inspired. I sat up straight in my chair. I found my self not checking out her gams so much as her eyes. That sleepy gaze that seemed to say angels come in gossamer and they also wield swords. I got both. Gimme twenty bucks.
And I did too. And ever since then, I see some snot-nose on the sidewalk with his tattoos and his piercings, I think, well, maybe he ain’t such a ne’er-do-well afterall. Maybe folks scarring their skin with ink is their own business, and sometimes business is about owning yourself.
So, does that count? Is that a proper 180 on the subject of kids these days and their so-called body art? Don’t worry, don’t worry, I still think their music is crap and the few who do vote are putting pigeons before people, so I ain’t changed all that much. Most of ‘em got no respect, and the feeling’s mutual, I can assure you.
Maybe she was an angel, that Betty, afterall— I never saw her there again. I ain’t saying I’m much of a God guy, but, you know, they do say he works in mysterious ways. And why not send a messenger to the Dancing Bare to get old Dale to ease up in the judgmental attitude. I gave up on the big picture a long time ago, so all’s left is small stuff.