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Your life sucks!!! Let me buy you a shot.


the good lord Buddha did not create me to be a stripper. OH NO! no, his intentions for me did not revolve around wearing ridiculously tall heels and incredibly small attire. Well, I take that back. I love wearing said clothing and foot apparel. But only when I'm on my back. Which is why I am a porn star, and not a stripper. No, I was put on earth to be a porn star, to have as many people willing to watch, witness my orgasmically oriented performances. And that is why I do not make any money when I go strip. No. No money. Friends, yes, money no.

Bad stripper. 


Speaking of Bad Strippers. What a night. You can insert whatever music you want that will help to illustrate the passage of time (the previous paragraph was written in between sets in my dressing room and I am presently waiting at gate A20 trying to stay awake so I don't sleep through my flight boarding), but nothing will say it better than Bud Bleeze while we are trying our best to check into Delta flight 935, to LAX.

Bleeze (as loud as his drunk ass can muster): I love this place. I'm fucking down for Atlanta!

Me (putting my head low trying to check-in to the blurry kiosk): Me too, for sure, maybe you should not yell so loudly.

Bleeze (equally if not louder): What the fuck are you talking about? I'm having a great night!

Me: Um, Bleeze, it's definitely morning.

Bleeze: NO!....fuck......what time?


(it then took us another ten minutes to collect ourselves enough to drop our bags with a real person)

The problem arouse when I had to dance until 3am this morning. We ended up kicking it at the Pink Pony South until we absolutely had to go, and smoked a FAT blunt in park near our hotel in East Point. The real problem arouse because I chose to start early, not play late. Like, 6pm early. As soon as I walked in the club, this beautiful baby Skye brought me a shot of Jager, to celebrate this, our last evening. And I've been drinking solid ever since, drinking and smoking and chilling and dancing and taking my clothes off and I just kind of have a feeling that the lady sitting next to me sniffing can't figure out why I smell faintly like her husband does after "going bowling".

Fucking stripper perfume. It gets on ya. I know, I own some, and I'm sure I leave people with my scent all the time. But this lady next to me has taken a couple of sniffs in my direction, and wait.


Just realized it's probably because I reek of cigarettes, weed, beer, jager, vodka and of course what's a great time in tummytown without a little champagne to keep things bubbly. Oh and of course a strip club. But the perfume probably has very little to do with her sniffing me.

This is not turning out to be a very good blog.


Bleeze upon seeing Pascals, Atlanta airport's southern comfort breakfast food. When he screamed it at the top of his lungs, the lady serving us little drunkards jumped about 10 feet in the air and then started laughing.

Pascals Employee: "What can I get you sir?"

Bleeze (who has not been able to eat the whole time in Atlanta, and now with a little pot, his tummy is a rumbling): "mmmm.....what about everything? Do you have an everything plate?

Pascals Employee: "yes"

Bleeze: "You do? Ahhhh, no! You DO? OH I'll take everything then."

And he did. The End.

Why can't we just get on this goddamn plane already. I'm way too tuckered to keep on like this. My little steam engine is running out. I'm going sleeping.

Same day.....10:10pm in LA

I love Atlanta. Everytime I go I have a great time, and this last time has caused me to fall deeply in love with not only the city, but the mentality. The people, the dress, the food, the space. It's amazing. Living in California it's easy to forget that at one point, every single business standing probably had a little bit of room around it. Like, grass. Now? Concrete Jungle, every inch of valuable land has been sold off and is currently changing from a yoga clothing store to a thai restaurant. The only place left to build is up. Up up and away. The sky is really the limit.

I am constantly getting carried away on tangents. Like just now this very moment, I forgot the point of digressing, and started watching the Tibetan prayer flags hanging from my porch sway in the night air, just enough of a breeze to distract the eye. The mind.

Atlanta is fucking dope. I should probably dedicate an entire blog to the ATL, so that is what I will do. This will only serve to complete the thought on why I am a terrible stripper.

Here is what a good stripper says: 

Good Stripper:"Hi baby, you wanna dance?"

Customer: "I only have a dollar. Sorry."

Good Stripper: "that's okay, if you give me two I'll go away."

Customer: "Okay, here's three."

Here is what I say: 

Me: "What's up player, you come here often?"

Customer: "uh...yeah, but don't tell my wife"

Me: "Oh, I see. Well, do you want a dancey dance?"

Customer: "I only have a dollar. Sorry"

Me: "YOU ONLY HAVE A DOLLAR? Jesus man, your life sucks balls. Come on, let me buy you a shot."

I will never make any money as a feature dancer because I don't care enough to give lap dances, don't want to work the room, I just want to hang out, and fondle sexy strippers, and harass customers into getting drunk with me.

I ended up selling almost all of my DVD's to the kind folks that worked at the club. Partially because I was only charging them ten bucks (normally I charge 25), and partially because I got on so well with everyone behind the scenes there that they were like "Yo, dude, gimme some shit I can take home!" More because we are all friends now. I'm not good with the stranger hustle. And I don't hustle friends. So how the fuck will I ever make it as a stripper?

Ugh. I won't. And that is what it comes down to. I love performing on stage, being the center of attention, in case y'all hadn't figured that one out, and traveling. So all of these things are good. Promotion is fun, you can do wild and wacky shit in the name of promoting yourself, and you can write it all off on your taxes, because you tape almost everything and is therefore content. And good content too. Fun silly content. I am a fun and silly content provider. Not a stripper. I am a dancer. A porn star. Occasionally a lady. But I am not a stripper. And my hat goes off to you girls or guys out there that can hustle some sex hungry fool out of his duckets face to face. 

Funny how no matter how hard you try, there will always be some things you just can't do.  

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