One not to see

Woody Allen.

Skinny. Weird. Fucking his daughter. Goddammned ugly. Famous for... what? I never figured it out. Everyone who likes his films chortles to themselves and casts their eyes to the ceiling, shaking their head in a patronising fashion before saying, "It's a Jewish thing. It's Jewish humor." That's humor? 'Seinfeld' is humor. Woody Allen's talent rather seems to lie in that nebulous field, that tierra de nadie of pretention, The Arts. Comprising that bizarre group of A-listers who aren't famous for being pretty, stupid, rich or fucking someone pretty, stupid and rich, The Arts is home to those who have, against all odds, risen to supreme and eclectic fame. Those who ride above and beyond the laws dictating normal human convention, so that fucking one's small Vietnamese adopted daughter is perfectly normal, even applauded.

Because - it's Art.


There seems to be several prerequisites as entry to the elite world of 'The Arts'. One must be old. Talentless. One must prolong the periods between productivity so that each complete Work can be released upon the unsuspecting public in a blaze of sycophantic publicity. Judaism, in New York, is a plus, although not essential. And being weird, preferably devoid of personality, helps.

What annoys me is the hype accompanying certain films by members of 'The Arts'. Remember 'Lost in Translation'? "Oh you'll love it!" friends of mine declared. "It's all about the emptiness and isolation of being in transition, of travelling."

I should have known as soon as they used a clause in a sentence it was a bad idea.

But regardless, I figured Match Point was a safe bet. Hot actors. London. No Jewish jokes. 'His best film ever!' said Gawker. Those Jews are all in league.

The plot is entirely uninspired. Poor little Irish boy becomes a tennis coach, meets a rich boy, is adopted into the family, marries rich boy's sister and then fucks rich boy's ex girlfriend. He knocks her up, decides to shoot her before she tells rich boy's sister, and - doesn't get caught.

You see, Woody was really clever with this plot, because poor little Irish boy - doesn't get caught. Jonathan Rhys Meyers gets off scot free. Therefore Woody Allen has ingeniously twisted the normal conventions of Greek Tragedy and Divine Retribution and in a postmodern ironic twist, subverted it to disprove the existence of God, leaving the viewer with a somewhat bleak and yet sublimely humorous look at the very nature, the very futility of existence. Wow.

This is probably what he tells people - one needs to say pretentious crap like that in order to maintain one's position in the elite. What is evident is that this script is abysmal. Jonathan Rhys Meyers smoulders on screen with a strained look of constipation on his face, and the eyes of someone high on crack, never really providing us with any evidence of why, precisely, this incredibly rich upper class family would ever take a liking to such a boring and pathetic character. Emily Mortimer simpers around vacuously, while Scarlett Johansson pouts like the teenage brat she is on and off screen. At first I was convinced this was a farce. You know, one of this films so bad, it's ironically bad, in a really subversive clever parody. But no. As audience member number 12 left after ten minutes, it struck me that Woody Allen - was being serious. He really was the author of such abjectly horrendous lines as "Your lips are so sensual" and "I can sense you enjoy competition", precipitously leading up to the soft porn moment of animal lust between forbidden lovers Johanssen and Meyers as they roll around in the rain, conveniently locating a wheat field with long, golden sheafs which could be crushed beneath their painfully choreographed passion. Oh it's soooo Thomas Hardy.

Every aspect of this film was testimony to ill thought out and amateur execution. Uninspired cinematography. Cliched script. Patently wooden acting by all concerned. Complete lack of character development. Plot so old and tired it could be sharing a bed with Soon-Yi. I fail, entirely, to see how such a generic piece of crap could be given so much hype and universally applauded. Is the world of commercial cinema so devoid of talent that when we want to market something as 'Art', we have to rely on the ever finite stores of predictable crap provided by Woody Allen or Sofia Coppola? 'Art' to my mind, should not be a label to excuse a complete lack of talent.

I guess I've now increased the probability of my assassination by a 600 pound Jewish filmmaker, but on the upside, I did see Harry Potter yesterday, which I wholly recommend.

Does this make me a pleb? Probably. But as you can tell, I really don't give a fuck.

Humorless

It's official.

My comments box from the post entitled 'Fat' amply demonstrates what I have long suspected.

The majority of my blog readers are overweight, whining, humorless Americans.

I find it amazing that my flippant and sardonic comments on one 600 pound butterball of a women has provoked a round of McCarthyism. Hunt out the skinny bitch! Insult her for she hath spoken out against gastric bypass surgery and suggested we exercise!

I stand by what I said in the below post. Obesity is a difficult topic in my household as most of my family, excluding my brother and twin, has suffered from obesity at some point. But there's no denying anything I wrote. I fail to see how every form of exercise would be off-limits for those claiming exemption. When my Mother went in for knee replacement surgery she used to swim regularly with a life jacket which would release the pressure off her joints. Even if you suffer the famed gland problems it's not actually the glands which are surrounding yor body in loose folds of rippling flab, it's the food you put in your mouth sweetheart!.

Take responsibility. The attitude demonstrated by people here is pathetic, condemning me for having an opinion about 'something which I have no idea', as if you are all dieticians and personal trainers. Well, the fact is I have a pretty good idea growing up in a medical household of a doctor, two nurses and a dentist, and having studied exercise and nutrition through my yoga training for several years. What's your excuse?

If I've alienated you, it's probably because you're devoid of humor, overweight and prior to this post existed in a comfortable bubble of placing the blame for your weight on society, the fact your insurance won't fork out for GB and the gland problem which has never been diagnosed, but all clinically obese people possess, right?

There are no apologies from me for what I said. Anyone who suggests diet and exercise are wrong needs their head examining. Anyone who sees a 600 pound woman as a prime candidate for GB surgery before a trip to the shrink and the nutritionist is amply misguided.

But thanks for your ridiculous comments, this will make a great article for an English newspaper. Now go back to the Krispi-Kremes in front of the TV.

FAT

Condemned to the apartment by no money, unemployment and a fever, I have spent my time industriously watching my roommates' cable channels whilst they are at work. No doubt when they discover this fact they will discreetly slip an extra charge on top of the $1150 I currently pay for a room in a two-bedroom-formerly-one-bedroom-convert in midtown. My tab grows increasingly larger as they sneak more and more bizarre items to the list. Hand Soap? 50 cents. Kitchen Paper? $3.50. 1 egg? 29 cents. 2 potato chips? 10 cents.

Do not, I implore you, ever share an apartment with Asian accountants.

I have consequently become intimately acquainted with such choice reality shows as Dr 90210, Made, True Life, Extreme Makeover et al. All these shows seem united by a common theme: huge, obese ugly people. I watched in fascination today as 27 year old Jane was wheeled into a consulting room to talk to various doctors about the possibility of gaining gastric bypass surgery. Jane was unable to simply walk into the consultant's office because she weighed nearly 600 pounds and her legs were unable to support her. The consultant eyed her with disdain.

"You do realise that this procedure is potentially life-threatening because of your size?"

Jane wibbled anxiously in her wheelchair, which creaked ominously underneath her bulk.

"Uh - yessir"

"But similarly, you have to realise that the life expectancy of someone of your size is approximately 32 years of age. That means you only have 5 more years, probably less, to live."

"Oh."

Jane and her husband Danny (also fat, but at 400 pounds, dwarfed by the rippling folds of his wife) cried together in their SUV and praised the Lord a few times, before Jane turned to the camera and declared emotively that "fat people are people too, we still have feelin's". Jane was, she wept, "tired of bein' considered a freak. I ain't a freak". Her health insurance company were footing the bill for the surgery.

Pause for a second.

I'm all for curvy, busty woman with a little cellulite crushing society's obsession with skinny wenches, but 600 POUNDS? How does somebody increase their body mass to 600 pounds 'by acccident'? 600 pounds entails industrious and committed eating. It's eating as a career. It involves the consumption, python-like, of about 6 whole rotisserie chickens a day washed down with 16 pints of Double Cream, half a cow and probably the entire produce of Ireland's potato farms, deep fried and with a coating of beer batter. 600 pounds is, by itself, evidence of amazing willpower. To have pushed one's body to the extremes of existence by diligently ignoring the little switch in the mind which triggers the 'full' button after a hefty meal, and to have done this so impressively as to have assumed the epic proportions of a killer whale, is a feat one surely must applaud. I cannot help but argue with Jane's poignant claim that she "ain't a freak". Jane, my dear. You have honed to perfection a new form of athleticism - Olympic eating. You are certainly not what one would consider 'normal'. When the cameras showed Jane in surgery, the doctor's face contorted with effort as he punched through her layers of flab. "There must be like, 8-10 inches of fat to get through before we reach the intestines," he murmured in awe to the cameras.

Jane, I beg to differ. You are a freak.

I was later introduced to 400 pound high school student Bubba and 16 year old spoilt Beverly Hills brat Emily (now 160 pounds, reduced from 300) all the recipients of gastric bypass surgery. All, like Jane, phenomenal achievers in the field of indiscriminate eating. I was appalled - forced to switch off the TV and retreat to my yoga class and the sanctity of skinny, taut bodies. What is wrong with these people? To channel all their energy into the consumption of as many bumper packs of Cheetoes as possible? Why is it so impossible for them to simply cut down on food? Walk around the block a few times? And where do they get the money to feed what equates to a small African village every day? Their monthly food bill would probably pay my rent for a year. How do they have the time to sit back and chomp their way through 12,000 calories a day? Do they get up early to fit in a few Dominoes Stuffed Crust Spectaculars before breakfast? And if they can't walk - how do they get to the fridge?

Surely instead of bypass surgery it would be more productive to lock them into a room for forty days, push a few salads through a hatch and after they've slimmed down enough to regain mobility, ship them off to India and put them to work in Mother Teresa's home where a good bout of amoebic dysentery, hard manual labor and all those emaciated, dying people would soon melt the weight off and probably cost the insurance company less.

No wonder I don't leave New York. It seems to be the last bastion of the skinnies in this god-forsaken country.

---------------

There'll be some more dancing stories after I've purchased some fake hair in Oregon and returned to New York blonde and stripper-like. In the meantime, you'll have to put up with my 'editorials'... although if any of you have suggestions for posts, send 'em in.

Audition

You have not truly experienced humiliation until you've waited for 30 minutes, naked bar a g-string, in a crummy dressing room stinking of Victoria's Secret perfume, only to be glanced at perfunctorily and dismissed by a short, greasy man sporting the belly of a woman about to give birth. Next!

Auditions for dancers differ from club to club, so for those of you wishing to make it in the skin industry, or for the simply curious, here's a guide to Manhattan titty-bars.

In every club you need to bring your own shoes and dress - requirements vary from club to club, although if your boobs pop out, you flash your pussy when you bend over and it increases your height by six inches, you're onto a pretty sure thing. Genital area - rip that pubic hair off girl! Make like you're eight years old! No one wants superfluous bum fluff protruding from the g-string, which, by most Manhattan standards, should be a non-transparent t-shape. All excess hair - shave, wax, depilate. Manicures and pedicures a must - preferably French. And hair - the longer, the blonder, the better. No roots showing, if it's above the shoulders make sure it's girly and styled well. Hair pieces, wigs, weaves, extensions are perfectly acceptable. And when it comes to makeup - exaggerate. Ply it on as if you're trying to block out the features of Jocelyn Wildenstein. And then ply it on some more. If you're pale, even out the skin tone with mystic tan. A little baby lotion to give that shiny effect - no shimmery powder, guys will avoid you like the plague if you have anything on your body which may betray their night's activities. And finally, if you're over a size 6, have stretch marks or visible scars, or are simply plain ugly - don't despair! They'll be a club out there who'll still take you! You thought all strippers were hot? Think again baby!

Although it definitely helps.

Now you're about ready to enter the club. Don't bother calling beforehand, just turn up between the hours of 8 and midnight, preferably wearing your makeup so you don't have to wrestle with the working girls for the mirror, and with three shots of tequila already working its way around your system.

1. FlashDancers - 53rd and Broadway

Ah, Pimping Pussies, how I miss thee. Flash has the friendliest bouncers, most evil bar tenders and sweetest waitresses of any club. The management are harsh but fair, the House Mom an absolute doll. They make money all year round and so are a great club to work for - but be warned, the night girls are hustlers and competition is fierce. Should you be a pole expert you'll clean the floor with these bitches: there are only a few girls who can actually work the pole here. For the audition, definitely apply makeup beforehand - the dressing room is the size of a toilet cubicle. You'll be required to wear a long gown (no short dresses except on Saturdays), platforms are allowed, and you'll get on stage and dance for three songs. 1 - dress on 2 - dress half off 3 - dress fully removed, leaving the g-string in place. The Champagne Room is 375 in the day, about 575 at night, of which the dancer gets 150 in the day, 250 at night. House fees are 75 for a day shift, 150 at night, with tip outs to the DJ and House Mom. Don't ever be late for these guys should you be lucky enough to get a job. They'll fine you 50 bucks, and a no-show, even with a doctor's note, will cost you 200 bucks. Unlike most clubs, you need to commit to a two week schedule and keep to it.

Private Eyes and New York Dolls are owned by the same guy, and the managers and employees, including the dancers, get moved around all three. If you can avoid these places, do. They're about as fun as a naked lesbian pyjama party with Stephanie (Bingo Arms) Klein. Although sadly, I can imagine there are some of you out there who find this a turn-on.

2. Lace - 50th and 7th Avenue

Repulsive little place. I don't know why, but this club grossed me out. Full of acne-ridden, bitchy little Russians who just look like they have HPV. It's actually pretty nice inside, newer decor than Flash, about half the size, but for a snob like me, I just didn't like it. The house fee varies between 60 - 100 dollars, plus DJ and House Mom tip-outs. No house fees on a Sunday. Should you get a guy in the Viper Room, you'll earn some big bucks plus a free house fee (exact numbers escape me). The Champagne Room earns a girl more money than Flash, but it doesn't get as busy, and the clients can be.... scuzzy at best. There are two mini stages as opposed to one main stage. You can wear both short and long dresses, and the audition is again, three songs on one of the stages. The management seem pleasant. The girls are thick as pigshit. The little japanese chick who works during the day will grind you to dust. This is because she can't speak English and looks like crap, but hey. If that's what you're after.

3. Hustler - 51st and 12th Avenue

Uh oh. If you're not Pammy Anderson with a huge fucking rack and hair eradicated of pigment round about 1990, then you're treated like Andrea Dworkin. This club has a reputation for falsies and blondies. As a 'real' blondie I didn't cut it, and I was pretty glad about that. Any club whose audition process consists of telling you to strip down to a g-string and heels in the dressing room and bases a decision on staring at your tits and ass for 30 seconds isn't worth the time in my opinion. Stripping is 50% looks and 50% attitude. You have to dance, you have to hustle, you have to converse, you have to tease. How Hustler can assess this from having the House Mom gaze at you steelily under harsh striplights is beyond me. Should you wish to take the chance on this club, go ahead - but again, wear makeup and do your hair beforehand. They won't give the chance to fix either at this joint prior to giving you the glance. Apparently house fees are between 100-150, plus the usual tipouts. The interior's nice. Maybe I'll go back when I have 32F's, instead of my paltry 32C's and hair like Pippi Longstocking. Hey, Bouncer - when's that check coming through? I need tits!

4. Penthouse - 45th and 11th

Nice club, good steak, pleasant management, no scandals, upmarket - sweet! One problem. Huge house fees. Between 120-160 depending on the night, plus tip outs. They treat the girls very well, but it's not so busy, stuck way out on 11th Avenue and facing competition from the ubiquitous Scores. You need to have worked here a while to make cash. That goes for most clubs. This myth of 'the new girl' the butt of male attention is crap apart from the clubs, like Flash, who have their faithful regulars who are always on the lookout for uncorrupted virgin(ish) flesh. Penthouse will make you dance on a side stage for two songs during the audition, and they only allow long gowns, no short dresses. No pole here, you have to dance on the main stage alone when working. That sucks. What does one do without a pole to play on? Slither that's what. Slither and play with your tits a bit. If your boobs are big enough put 'em in your mouth. Try a 'floor show' at your risk - they're illegal in Manhattan clubs. So you stand and... slither. Fucking pointless. The girls are friendly and very pretty. No fat bitches here. The House Mom can be mean - but hey, putting up with 20 strippers a night can do that to you. Lady, you have my sympathy.

5. Scores East - East 60th and 1st. Scores West - 28th between 10th and 11th.

Oh where do I begin?
Scores East is the classic Scores, renowned for screwing CEO's out of thousands of dollars and hosting Howard Stern and his crew. Scores West is its sister club, open for only two years. Both clubs boast some serious money, and some serious hubris. Expect to have the managers as your clients (see comments - I particularly enjoyed LetMeKnow's comment on black women who 'smell funny and have huge butts'. Oh America... ) Expect to suck cock. Expect to see a lot of coke flying around. Expect to be intimidated and bullied, unless you're the favorite. Expect to meet a lot of celebrities and a lot of rich men. Expect several marriage proposals per night. Don't expect to make money though, because like most clubs, it's hit and miss. Scores East is busier than Scores West - both clubs are usually dead until midnight. Money making time is between 12-5am. The audition process is simple - dance on a side stage for anything between 30 seconds and ten minutes depending on the peculiar brand of sadism harbored by the management. If you get offered a job there, do give the House Mom, Margaret, a message from me: Fuck You Bitch. I hope you're destined for off-Broadway flops for the rest of your talentless, poisonous existence.
No short dresses, aside from the weekends. No platforms, just regular stilettoes. Expect to have some bizarre costume night thrust upon you without warning at which point you'll be expected to fork out more money to buy a piece of outrageously priced tat for the occasion. Good restaurant, and should you get a guy in the CR, you'll be laughing all the way to the bank. What confuses me about these clubs are the hot girls... and then suddenly the one big blonde who wears thick glasses. Why? Just take them off bitch. I don't care if you can masturbate at the same time as performing a complicated yogic manoeuver onstage, you look fucking stupid.

6. Rick's Cabaret - 33rd and 7th

Home to my Fan Club. The girls all knew me here, and treated me to veritable cheers of hatred and threats. The managers here are excellent, one of the cleanest, most efficient clubs I've ever been in. It's definitely a mid-range club though - the girls range from the stunning, to the retarded ghetto bitch drooling out of a mouth arrested by lockjaw after too many blow jobs. Large, spacious dressing rooms, dreadful stage lights. Low house fees, pleasant employers, and an increasing number of customers as its reputation spreads... the audition will take place on the mainstage, again no pole, and no short dresses. Pretty champagne room area and a restaurant with simple but tasty food. Absolutely zero-tolerance of girls who give 'extras' - though surprisingly some sluts managed to slip past. Yeah, I saw you Russian bitch with a big nose. I recognized those droopy tits and spotty back.

7. VIP - 20th between 5th and 6th

Same policy as Hustler: strip down to a g-string and heels and stand in the middle of the dressing room while some coked up bitch regales you with stories about her new pug puppy Alfred and her boyfriend who has a schlong so big he has to wrap it around his waist. Twice. They like long hair in VIP. A friendly enough club, good little earner, not as high end as Scores and Penthouse, but pleasant. The management are a little guido though. Is guido an adjective? It is now. Been hanging out with that white trash bloke of mine too much.

8. Privilege - 23rd and 11th

Don't bother unless you're willing to suck cock and share the herpes.

Continued....

In the meantime... my options are running low. I've worked the majority of Manhattan clubs and been recognized at most of them. I need to get some hair extensions as well as I fried my hair with a bad home dye job several days ago. I'm starting to make money from writing, but as we all know, freelancing is not the most reliable form of income, so any suggestions for money-earners very welcome. Get married to the Bouncer or become a prostitute? Hmm, let's weigh the options up...

I'm too tired to edit, so excuse any typos.

Care of your Mimi-Doll

With fully functioning orifices and washable surfaces, the Mimi-Doll is not currently available to the public, yet with increasing demand and a huge number of pre-sales, we thought it prudent to release an instruction manual prior to the Mimi-Doll's release.

Care must be taken with the Mimi-Doll. She must be fed, clothed and entertained at frequent intervals, and all whines taken entirely seriously. Yet the Mimi-Doll's perfect owner is a kind and considerate male who treats her just a tad mean. No little boys should ever take it upon themselves to purchase a high maintenance commodity which demands the utmost respect, and free reign of the wallet. No going Dutch for this valuable toy. The Mimi-Doll is programmed with a wide range of conversational skills, and once a month the owner is treated to four days of pre-menstrual rages - just like a real girlfriend!* Using the highest technology, the Mimi-Doll has built-in factors which identify when the owner is mistreating said doll with unwarranted sexual advances. Finger-banging, ramming, un-lubricated thrusts to the anal region, porn involving animals, dwarves or small children will be met with a sharp reprimand of 'Fuck off'. Grinding, masturbation, identification of the g-spot, cunnilingus, foreplay, Jenna Jameson and well-planned anal activity combined with tasteful sex toys will result in a spectacular show from this superb example of modern technology and woman, all rolled into one affordable, realistic, vacuum-sealed plaything. Female-friendly, the Mimi-Doll is perfect for taming Autistic Males, Commitment Phobes, and sexually inadequate men of all types. Wind her up and watch her strip! Turn her on and watch her come! Find that g-strip and be ready for the ultimate in deep-throat action!** The best thing about the Mimi-Doll is her sweet, yet innocuous appearance. No one will ever know you're courting a top-of-the-range battery operated female who turns into a raging porn-star in the sack.

Like a puppy, The Mimi-Doll is not just for Christmas.

A Mimi is for life.

The Mimi Doll Copyright 2005 Potential owners will be vetted and tested for suitability. Warning: Not for Minors. Current Price: Two bedroom apartment in the West Village and salary of min. 200k p.a.

*Menstruation is optional, controlled by a switch at the back.
**Saliva glands activated by a button at the rear of the throat.

Memoirs of a Ho

There are a number of 'Memoirs of a Ho' currently on the literary circuit that kind and concerned readers frequently draw to my attention, perhaps to incite me into contributing to this noble body of commercial literature. Having spent the last eight months in a strip club, in my free time I find the prospect of reading about what I do for money hardly a turn-on, a titillating page turner. Particularly as the majority of these Ho-Memoirs are a pile of steaming, freshly expelled crap.

I have been intrigued of late by a new addition to the genre, with the crisp and enticing title of 'Candy Girl'.

Full of insight and wit, Candy Girl is the seductive memoir of a young woman who dared to bare it all as a stripper.

Already I'm amazed at the rather stale marketing approach to this Ho-Memoir. A young girl deciding to bare it all? As opposed to what, precisely? A ninety year old grandmother with pasties and highly-trained kegel muscles? What are the majority of strippers, if not young girls daring to bare it all for the alluring prospect of a large tax-free income and a chance to party three or four nights a week? Good god Penguin, if you think this has provided us with a unique selling point, I suggest you sack your Red-State raised Editor, remove them from the Mid-West and enforce upon them a vacation in Vegas in order to become more fully acquainted with the sex industry and its minions. But it gets worse.

Diablo Cody was twenty-four years old when she decided there had to be more to life than typing copy at an ad agency. On a whim, she signed up for amateur night at Minneapolis’s seedy Skyway Lounge. She didn’t win a prize that night, but she discovered that stripping delivered a rush she had never experienced before, and too many experiences to not write about it.

Ah yes, that natural progression from dull office environment, to donning the clear-plastic heels. If only one were to encourage more sexual expression within the hours of 9-5, America's females would not be running in swathes to the pole. Already Diablo Cody has been established as a heroine worthy of the utmost pathos. How tragic, a life copy-editing. How we all feel compelled to cheer her on as she indulges her naughty girl side, repressed in the stifling metropolis of corporate Minneapolis, now able to soar like a caged bird set mercifully free into the titty-bar.

While she didn’t fit the ordinary profile of a stripper — she had a supportive boyfriend, was equal parts brainpower and beauty, was from a good family, and was out to do a little soul searching — she soon immersed herself in this enticing life full-time.

The 'ordinary profile' of a stripper. That crack-smoking, meth-taking, skag-injecting slut with ten mewling children at home crying out for baby formula, while dear hubby Hank spends all her hard-earned wages shootin' pool with Bubba down the beer hall and cracking open the Bushmills. Yes, thank God for Diablo Cody, the stripper savior, single-handedly dispelling every myth we all harbor within our prejudiced souls. For all other strippers are obviously not para-legals, hard working mothers, students, PR assistants, wannabe actresses, journalists.... for this would not, it is implied, fit into the 'ordinary profile'.

In Candy Girl, Diablo tells the captivating fish-out-of-water story of her yearlong walk on the wild side.

One assumes Diablo's foray into the crazed sex secene of Minneapolis precluded the mundanity of eight hour shifts, discussing 'Lost' with bored businessmen, sitting in the dressing room analyzing one's stool sample with the other dancers. No, her experience was, we are assured, a 'walk on the wild side'. It's odd how a little grinding and some bare titties can give this impression.

In witty prose she gives readers a behind-the-scenes look at this industry through a writer’s keen eye, from quiet gentlemen’s clubs to multi-level sex palaces, with all of her wry observations along the way. Some of her discoveries? Blondes make more money; it takes a pro to master The Pole; and while the girls wield much sway over the customers, in reality the power is totally out of their hands.

Obviously a profound economic and sociological study concealed beneath the scathing wit of 'equal parts brain power and beauty' Diablo's prose. Blondes earn more money - NO! Surely this cannot be true in a country where the term 'nigga' is still socially acceptable in some parts of the South? 'It takes a pro to master the pole' - rather, it takes practise and a little time which a history of copy-editing in Minneapolis perhaps did not provide. And then the ultimate in captivating sentences; 'in reality the power is totally out of (the girls') hands'. Absolutely. Many a time I have found myself confronted by a customer intent on sticking his penis into various orifices, and as a prostrate female, one has always complied. No matter that there are usually five or six 250 pound bouncers there to ensure our safety and the rigid enforcement of anti-prostitution legislation. We are powerless, sex-trafficked to the stage by our own antipathy to copy-editing, once there held in the magnetic thrall of the grind, sapped of our abilities to say 'No', 'Fuck off' and 'Screw you I'm leaving' by our continued exposure to male pheromones and alcohol, our innate subordination as women.

I've heard through the reassurances of many people I trust, that Miss Cody's book is altogether superior to the page or so advertising her work. Which begs the question: Penguin, who the fuck is on your marketing team? Poor girl. And we always thought getting a book deal was a good career move.

Now do excuse me - I must go shoot up some heroine before sucking cock for five dollars a pop in the backroom of 'Pimping Pussies'. Anything to avoid that copy-editing.

The Door

It happened some weeks ago, and it's not even my grief, but the sharp, acid taste of it is, even now, enough to make me inhale, catch my breath, blink rapidly while the world kaleidoscopes, then settles into precise, intimate focus once again. The clarity of this new sight is horrific, every detail searing your retinas - the frayed edge of the carpet, the brown stains on the peeling wallpaper, the slight murmur of voices in the elevator humming and creaking gently past. Something inside me scrabbled frantically for meaning, even as the adrenalin shot through my body and I shook uncontrollably. The tears? I'm not sure who they were for. For those who had lost and those who had been lost. For an existence which had meaning only for me, as I was subsumed with the problems of me, the trifles of me. Now this self-absorption was nothing, shrunk into perspective by the new hole ripped inside, aching to take away the pain of someone you love.

If I'm melancholy, it's because of this new realization slicing through the general blur and slur of a sloppy existence, living from day to day. It slows so that you're able to discern the edges with startling sharpness. Sometimes you forget because even as you partake in the grief it's not really yours. And other times you sit and it settles around you like a cape, yet it offers no warmth, only the chill of isolation, that sad, lonely and dignified word which conceals the depth of the jagged, consuming wound inside - bereavement. When I walked down Broadway it suddenly hit me he wasn't alone, I wasn't alone, privileged with this awful knowledge, this life truth. It was everywhere, etched onto the faces of those with sad, quiet eyes and a storm of grief inside. I'd just never noticed it before.

It's peculiar how something so entirely natural, the only certainty we know about our existence - that it will end - is still so disturbing, so sensational when it asserts its truth. It rudely slams shut the heavy iron door, turns the key, locked tight. We know that it will happen, but we are so young, unprepared for the transience of our fragile lives.

I watched someone die once, year by year. She was too young to go. I shrank from her as if it was catching, this disease of death. The unexpected allows us no such luxury. It takes without excuse or explanation.

It feels wrong to dance with this behind me, holding the hand of someone's grief as they embrace it with reluctant horror. It's as if I've been sneaked into a select club of which I'm not a member - invited along as a reluctant voyeur.

I wish, more than anything, I could just make it alright again. But I've already intruded too far by writing this, and it's time for me to be silent again, a mute, useless spectator, until it's my turn to stare the heavy door in the face as it (inevitably) slams shut.

Walk Away

"Blah blah... no sex... blah blah... if you're not comfortable lettin' them touch you let us know... blah blah... we respect our girls here... blah blah... one big happy family...blah blah.... we know you're a writer blah blah..."

Did I hear right? Are my nerves getting to me? I shake my head, peer into the manager's eyes, smile, confused, then he's gone, off on his radio, leaving me alone in a tiny booth lit with tea lights, draped in red curtains. Walk downstairs, the girls are swarming like locusts. Tiffany beckons to me from the bar.

"Got you a drink hon. Look like you needed it. Stick with me, OK? I'll make sure your first night's OK."

Down the drink, get a grip - don't be so quick to - nervous for some reason. Feel like it's the first time all over again, my legs aren't adjusted to the height, my body feels bare and exposed - walk away - a girl walks by, slim, long blonde hair, big nose. Glances at me, eyes slide away with barely a glimmer of acknowledgment. Familiar. Turn around, catch her pointing at me and laughing - wanna rock your body - maybe it's an illusion, because she's gone now, thronging through the tiny tables, the churning bodies, disappeared. Fuck. I know her. I don't know her, just imagination. Grab cigarette, coat, stand outside. Long brown woollen jacket, clear plastic heels. The tourists giggle and point, first flakes of snow settle on my hair, straightened, glossy. Where do I know her from? Just my head. Just nerves. First night, new club. Don't know the girls, don't feel the confidence of having them watch my back, coming into new territory now, and the game's different - dance with me - faster, harder, more ruthless. Back inside. Tiffany waves from the bar, beckons me over. Club filling up and the girls are swarming like locusts - talk to me boy -

Girl walks past, turns and stares into my eyes, cold and hard. Gulp. Try and talk to some guys - I came to dance with you - my throat's so dry can't get the words out. Smile doesn't reach my eyes. Go downstairs, calm down, calm down. Another cigarette, gotta get outside. Coat back on again, snowing more heavily. Three dancers huddle in the doorway to the club, thick jackets draped over skimpy dresses, ridiculous heels. Quiet outside, peaceful - rock your body -

Girl turns around, sways.

"So why'd you do it?"

I think she's looking at me, but it could be someone behind me, cause her eyes don't seem to be focusing right. Just don't look up.

"I'm talkin' to you. Why da fuck you write dat shit about us?"

Pause, and the bouncers are silent. The girls are silent.

"You don't recognise me, but we know yo' face, we all know yo' face. So I'm askin' you a question, why you write dat shit about da girls?"

"I didn't write anything about the girls..."

"Yeah, you did. Don't lie. We see it in da paper. You writin' stuff every day about us on da fuckin' internet. Yeah, da management. So dey suck. But why you write about us? Why da fuck I talkin' to you? You gonna write dis down too?"

She stops, sucks on a Newport, throws it into the street, staggers to the door, grabs me and pulls me into a deep hug. I feel her ribs jutting against me, the alcohol on her breath.

"We sisters. We jus' here to make money. You respect us? Den you don' write shit about us. Or it ain't a good place to be workin'. For you. You get what I sayin'?"

There's deathly silence now, a chill which isn't the wind, the snow, the thickness of December creeping around us like death. Go back inside. A girl looks over, smiles sweetly. "Don't let her give you shit. It don't mean nothing to us, OK?"

- don't be so quick to -

I walk down to the dressing room, open my locker quietly, and gather the clothes I folded carefully two hours previously - walk away - I take off my stripper clothes, replace them with jeans, a kid's t-shirt, thick sweater. I leave without saying goodbye to anyone.

- came to dance with you -

I step onto Sixth, walk slowly back to the subway.

Where I'm At....

The club is more of a nightclub than a stripjoint. The girls are, in essence, superfluous fixtures designed to somehow enhance one's quiet perusal of The Giants game on the flat screen directly behind the gyrating fat chick in the canary-yellow dress. A large entrance fee deters the usual anoraked perverts, attracting instead impotent IB's with larger egos than peni, or that insidious brand of 'happily married mid-thirties jerk-off' who will inevitably produce his member at some point in the evening as if it were a small child which should not be left unattended. Celebrities turn up unexpectedly like yeast infections. Sports Stars are often adorning the floor of the private rooms in pools of their own excretions, wearing fat chicks like unfortunate accessories.

Stevie Wonder was there once, a private celeb party. I often wonder how much enjoyment he gained from a strip joint with an enforced 'six-inch' dance policy. Strangely, I was the only dancer who seemed to think his presence odd. That worries me more than the fat chick in the canary-yellow dress with no breasts.

The House Mom and the make-up artists never liked me."Mimi, you're not wearing enough makeup. Your hair is just not what we expect from a ------ girl." And yet fat chick wearing shade of puss slips under the radar? Ah, it's all about sucking up, sucking up. I'm 'different', they could see that. Too much pride, and not the ghetto pride. No 'You talkin' to me girlfriend?'. 'I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that tone of voice' perhaps confused them too much.

It confuses me, being the over-educated waif stuck in a world of immorality, no clear route out. Why don't I write a book? Oh yes. That old chestnut.

I keep dancing to gather more material, so that I can eat more than my usual one-meal a day, so that I can keep plodding on in Manhattan, so that I can finish this damned book, get some money for doing what I want to do. I'll keep detailing it all on the blog, stealing the best bits for the novel.

But in all honesty I have no fucking idea how I've gotten this far without chugging some Benadryl and vodka, and jumping off the ninth floor.

Hallelujah

The irrational hatred I harbor for her probably stems from her bad sartorial choice of canary yellow polyester rag, coupled with clip-on pony-tail (mouse-brown) and inane grin. I hope to God she was blessed with giving good head, for God unfortunately had not so far drawn her attention to; 1. The Gym 2. The Atkins Diet, to the detriment of all those in the audience watching her enthusiastic gyrations to 'Sweet Child of Mine'.

"She looks," I declare in fascination, "Like a fuckin' hockey player at the prom."

Five heads swivel around, stunned.

Oh Uh OH OHUHOOOO child of MY-i-Yi-Yiiiiinne

"You know what Princess - you're right."

Impromptu comedy performances often work better than slippery hands, and soon Justin (Software Analyst, 37, balding, recently divorced, lifelong paranoia about size of member) is forking out the requisite 1700 bucks for entry to the Champagne Room for more close up observations of life with Mimi. 4.30am, but I'm in no hurry to get home. Not when there's an extra 600 snaking its way into your garter, a wink from the manager ('Get him to buy a bottle'), some extra brownie points to be earned from these sick keyholders of our chastity belts. Ever wondered whether stripclub employees respect the dancers? They don't fuckin' respect us. No more than pimps. They'd sew up their daughters' fuckin' hymens if it got them a bigger tip.

But Justin's pretty thrilled to be here. "Ah Mimi, you crack me up Princess. There's really something between us."

Right now it's a full bladder. All those vodka-redbulls. Do excuse me while I go powder my .... you get the idea. He nods happily, drunkenly slurps a glass of Dom Perignon. "You take your time Princess."

Seems like this one's gonna be easy. Already given him the rundown on 'the idiots who think we're hookers', so maybe he'll keep his hands to himself, and I'll keep the comedy ball rolling.

You have to knock on the door to get back in. It's eerily dead in the back rooms at this time in the morning, 5am. Justin opens the door cautiously, sees my face and leaps back in excitement. "Ta Da!" His small, flaccid penis dangles pathetically between skinny, hairy legs. He still has his shoes on, I note curiously. Terry-cloth sports socks and loafers.

"I asked the waiter for a condom, but they didn't have any..."

His arms are raised in spectacular display, for what purpose I am unaware. Praising God seems a little hypocritical in this place of sin, but it's all I can think of as he stands there naked, looking like the crucifixion, a misplaced member of a gospel congregation, bottle of Dom Perignon waved aloft like a blessing, stupified grin plastered across his drunken features. His penis twitches oddly as if it were making a heroic yet doomed effort to stand to attention. There's very little I can think of to say to this bizarre and wholly unexpected early-morning entertainment.

"Top-up of Dom, Princess?"

Oh dear fuckin' God.