Strip Club Sadness: Midnight Ramblings from the Rust Belt

11:32 p.m. on the outskirts of Syracuse, the edge of oblivion. Mid-spring but it feels like November, with cold crisp air and light mist in the streets. Passing abandoned factories, weed-filled parking lots and rusted train tracks to nowhere.

Seeing lonely neon lights in the distance. Five cars parked in front.

Inside, I’m getting lost in pinot grigio, puffing a honey cigarillo, hypnotized by the pulsating lights and music. An oasis or a mirage? The lovely Sky says hello with a smile. I light her cigarette and lock onto her blue-green eyes. Wish it was always this easy. It helps to have a secret weapon: a hundred dollar bill in your wallet — a little kryptonite for the ladies.

Show me a nice girl, and I’ll head for the hinterlands. Show me a stripper, and I’ll fall in love forever. Sky floats away, melting into the psychedelic haze, like a phantasm. The one I love from last year married a rapper and gave up dancing.

Alone, sitting in an empty corner, staring at the stage, I’m reflecting on the past. Even a guy going to a brothel is looking for god, they say. This strip club is my second home. But what am I looking for? A little anesthesia for troubled times? It was a different world. Not long ago I was playing weddings, parties, dive bars, six nights a week. Only a handful of gigs now all summer.

What’s the future? My next move? Being a writer? A doomed, impossible dream. A nineteenth century thing to do in the age of Twitter, Tik Tok and the smartphone. Guaranteed life of failure and ignominy.

Thinking about the champions: Bukowski, Breslin, Hunter S. T. It’s never been easy. Don’t try, Buke says. Wait for it — as long as it takes, till it comes to you. Be fearless, bold. Don’t be afraid to write gibberish — atonal prose. Be the Igor Stravinsky of Gonzo journalism.

Health insurance, security, retirement — not for me. Only an appendicitis away from skid row. Should have bought Bitcoin while I had the chance. Dogecoin? My friend Matt and I are leery.

Inflation’s heating up. The price of lumber has risen 375 percent in the last twelve months. Steel is also up sharply. Taco Bell is starting at $15.50 an hour.  It’s tempting.

Fifteen minutes in the VIP room will run you $100. I might be coming here with a wheelbarrow of cash for the next lap dance, like a strip club in Weimar Germany or Zimbabwe. The Germans are kinky fuckers; they make the best porn.

Take a deep breath. Drink it all in. Quiet the mind. I fire up a Backwoods and order another pinot. My eyes linger on the sheen of Sky’s hair — long and flowing, lush and luxurious. Problems? No more problems. Not for now, at least.