A little too much Chardonnay has Tony Spunk’s head thinking a Mexican drug lord is living in it. It’s the fault of the clubs I’m thinking. My whole working life revolves around piano bars where ladies take their clothes off and seedy lounges on the strip. Most of them have seen better days, frankly, with threadbare velvet benches and that kind of corny old-style decor that’s a cross between bordello and an Elvis impersonator’s arm pit. A guy can only stroke so much fantasy out of his organ you dig? I can take those slightly over-the-hill patrons away from their every day monotony with a tune and a tinkle, maybe a wink here and there at a well-endowed older lady who dresses like it’s still the seventies. It makes the old dears’ night quite honestly and if their portly husbands demand an explanation with their fists afterwards I can always claim a twitch from too many Mojitos.
The tips are ok for the most part. The more of a sob story you can spin, the better people tip. I guess feeling sorry for the poor guy in the polyester suit and suave mustache makes them feel better about themselves or something. Not everyone who comes to Vegas can afford Celine Dion. Those people get Tony Spunk. And what a fuckin’ fantastic show they get too.
Case in point: Last November Pedro and I gave an infrequent show down in the asshole of all border towns, Brownsville, Texas (don’t ask, it’s best left alone). At least I think it was November – my brain’s a little fried by the amount of Martinis consumed that night and the smoking of something I acquired from a shifty, little, sombrero-sporting motherfucker known only as “El Tipo” that I wasn’t altogether convinced wasn’t that stuff you get in those toilet bowl hangers, that turn your piss blue. Anyway, whatever that shit was, it rocked the bollocks, as our English compadres say. I was tripping so hard I thought my organ was Jane Fonda. From her “Barbarella” days, you dig, not now or anything. That’d be like fantasizing over your granny. Although I don’t know, is your granny hot? Have her call me. Heh, I used to call that chick “Jane Fondle” so you can get the idea of what I thought of her in her Barbarella gear.
All I know is we rocked so hard and so long and so excellently that I have no idea what happened after our closing Bacharach medley, but we woke up in some chick’s front parlor on the floor, stinking of cigars and piss. Pedro’s head was in the kitty litter tray. He woke up and thought he’d been shipped back to Juarez. Dude almost had a panic attack till he figured out he only had a cat turd in his ear, and he was still in the U.S. of A.
I’m not getting the point of this entry, but welcome to my world.