Tales From The DJ Booth: Non-Customer Strip Club Patrons (A Field Guide)

Customers are the backbone of our industry, second only to the physical backbones inside strippers (particularly, Polerotica competitors and any dancer who can hold herself upside-down, while holding a stripper pole). Yet, not everyone who hangs around the strip club is considered a "customer," at least by the very definition of the word—a customer is someone who spends money. A patron, on the other hand, is any person that the fire department would acknowledge during a head-count for capacity violations. With the exception of staff, the average Portland-area strip club is usually about 50-75% customers, at least in my experience. Here is a semi-exhaustive list of those who fall under the "not a customer" umbrella. Some are good, some are bad and, well...some will never go away (just like cold sores).

Bob

Every club has a Bob. In fact, most Bobs are actually named "Bob," or some variety thereof (Robert, Bobby, Rob, etc.) and all of them are the exact same person, more or less—white, middle-aged, round-ish (not quite fat, but in no way fit) and monotone. Bob usually hangs around the smoking patio, at least when he’s not halfway nudged in between the waitress station and bar well. Even though he’s useless by all definitions of the word, a small harem of strippers usually flocks to Bob, for some unknown reason. You see, Bob is broke as fuck. Not only does the dude come into the club with empty pockets, but he always has a sob story to justify his lack of presence at the rack: dying mothers, sick uncles, runaway daughters and ex-wives all make an appearance in Bob’s seemingly endless, drab stories.

I have a theory, that at one point in time, Bob was a paying customer. See, Bob’s money was coming in from his boring-ass, overpaid state job, every week until (insert tragedy here). At this point, Bob’s life fell apart slowly, like the career of an upper-echelon Wayans. As his friends and family became more distant, Bob decided to turn to Cystale Diamond and Rosetta Stoner—a veteran mid-shifter and her baby stripper cousin—for emotional support (since financial support is off the table). None of the dancers have the heart to tell Bob that he’s really nothing more than a drain on their income, nor does the bar staff, simply because someone always ends up buying Bob a drink (which he will sip for three to four hours, in between sharing the world’s most bland anecdotes and asking random dancers if they can give him a ride home, even though said home is no longer in Bob’s name).

Sleazy Promoter Guy

Who the fuck keeps letting this dude in the club? And no, I’m not talking about genuine, strip club affiliates, such as DJ Dick Hennessy or Kenny Mack. Nah, I’m talking about White Boy Tyrone, with his pile of mixtapes, burned to a medium that no one under thirty has any ability to play in their car or home stereo system. Or, EDM Chester, whose stack of glossy flyers will undoubtedly be used to chop, rail and promote cocaine to any dancer who appears to have underage friends outside of the club. I mean, these assholes should know better. Even in movies, where strippers are openly giving blowjobs to coke-dealing mafia bosses, sleazy promoters are still portrayed as trash. If this were immigration-era Boston, promoters would be the Irish of the club scene.

The bigger question is, who goes to their events? I’m baffled as to why anyone would spend a few hours—let alone an entire weekend—at The Gorge, listening to under- produced and over-simplified dubstep remixes from DJs who bought their first mixer last December. But, if you are a mover and shaker in the spend-daddy’s-money-on- molly circuit, why wouldn’t you already know about the next dozen-teen events happening in the electronic music and date rape scene? Fuck, even when I was a DJ at the most uncool clubs in town, I was invited to at least eleven raves a week, by classy-ass strippers and people I’d actually trust to take care of me when the drugs took over. Why on God’s green, flat earth would you take a lead from some kid sporting a blinking visor, tank top and Monster Energy Drink tattoo?

Video Poker Tammy

"Can I get another Old Fashioned and some fries with ranch?" Tammy says as she thumbs through her purse for another stack of soon-to- be-lost Franklins. "What time do you guys close?" she asks. "Not for another twelve minutes," a tired and patient bartender is legally required to state. Tammy, who smells like cigarettes and perfume (even though she quit smoking a few years ago, shortly after Pat died), returns to a dark, sectioned-off portion of the club for another few rounds of Lucky Leprechaun. Meanwhile, the last dancer on shift sits, fully clothed, next to a pole, while texting her boyfriend, "I’ll be a few minutes late tonight." Within minutes, Tammy loses another month’s worth of rent. Well, that’s life. Time for another early shift at Shari’s...better ask the bartender to call the laggiest, cheapest taxi company from Vancouver, WA to pick her up. Tammy’s dinner is forgotten about shortly, before being consumed by the bouncer.

The Owner’s Wife

Okay, now this one definitely does not fall into the "shouldn’t be allowed in" crowd, but she is very much a factor when evaluating club attendees. If you’re thinking of hitting on the MILF who seems to be super-friendly with the bartender, don’t—she’s banging the owner (and, is likely living on his paycheck). The Owner’s Wife lurks around the club during shift transitions, to best observe the maximum number of staff, all of whom are twice as scared of her as they are the boss. By pissing off the owner’s wife, not only are you jeopardizing the club, its staff and other, paying patrons, but you are guaranteeing yourself an ass-kicking from the bouncer (who’s fucking her when hubby is out of town).

Another element of The Owner’s Wife is that she is constantly changing form. Much of the time, the owner of the club will be married to someone who replaced last year’s wife and is about five to ten years younger. This means, even if you met Carol From Albany at Club Name Obviously Omitted last year, you should not go running your mouth about her to Jenny Who Turned 21 On Tuesday, because the latter could easily be the owner’s new version of the former. Be warned, The Owner’s Wife often moonlights as a stripper. And, if she’s not the new, upgraded version of last year’s model, you might accidentally get up and walk away from the rack when she hits the stage on a weekend night, having confused her for a day girl. Again, this is another very, very dangerous move.

"Undercover" O.L.C.C. People

The Oregon Liquor Control Commission is an unnecessary, fascist Gestapo, run by child molesters, unapologetic racists and former cast members from Glee. Because they are hated by literally everyone in the industry, the O.L.C.C. is forced to send "undercover" agents into bars, strip clubs and weed shops, to ensure compliance, with the assumption that underage partying or over-intoxication is on par with child porn or terrorism, in terms of societal harm. Further, Oregon bars are required to have something like sixty-two items of hot food, ready to serve at all times, because everyone knows that cans of Pabst and shots of well whiskey are best served at 2am with prime rib and pasta (and, don’t forget, your bar can skirt this requirement with a microwave and an adequate variety of Doritos—technically speaking, lukewarm, cool-ranch-flavored nachos are a separate item from lukewarm, nacho-cheese-flavored nachos).

Now, I say "undercover" in quotes that are arguably way, way too small, because O.L.C.C. moles are more obvious than white, undercover cops in ‘80s films. On any given Friday night, go downtown Portland and visit one of our fine strip clubs. Look for the table of non-tipping, coat-wearing, sunglasses- sporting thirty-year-olds who are drinking water, soda and juice. Notice how fucking obvious they are? Well, here’s a fun trick: walk up to their table completely sober and vomit all over it, apologizing profusely before grabbing your car keys and running for the door. As long as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not posing a threat to the bar—but the O.L.C.C. assholes won’t know this and they will likely spend the next six weeks or so wasting their efforts on a bad lead. Of note, one of their former higher-ups was convicted of a D.U.I.I. a few years back.

Destiny’s Boyfriend

Technically, boyfriends of dancers aren’t supposed to be hanging around the club. But, for some reason (good blow), Destiny’s Boyfriend is cool. So cool, in fact, that he spends more time behind the bar and in the office than the club manager does. I mean, who is this guy (coke dealer)? Why do all the other dancers seem to love him as much as Destiny (cocaine) and, how is he so cool with both the biker gangs and the gangbangers (seriously, the shit is barely stepped on and makes your whole face go numb)? In fact, didn’t Destiny break up with him last month? Doesn’t she work at another club? Fuck, it’s getting late. If only I could find someone with a little pick-me-up...guess I’ll play Destiny’s Boyfriend a song or two for *sniff* free, before reminding the customers to *sniff* tip their staff. Hey, does anyone have any gum?