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How to Pick Up DJs
April 20, 2000


Please note: these are tried and true methods. The most important thing I can say about scoring with DJs is to be bold. DJs don't like namby-pamby nice guys - they want to be taken by a real man. So get out there, and get some DJ meat!

  1. The waitress is your best friend. Tip her well, and then ask her about the DJ. Find out what he drinks, and have the waitress bring him a drink on you. Not only will he feel like he owes you something now, but it will also get him a little tipsy, so he'll be easier to manipulate later.

  2. If you find out he's worked somewhere else, tell him you followed him from the other club, and that he plays the best music of any DJ you know. Flattery will get you everywhere.

  3. When he says "Clap for the ladies unless you're a homo", don't clap. Why do you think he says that?

  4. Bring beef jerky to the club, and offer him some. For some reason, DJs love beef jerky.

  5. Fold a crisp dollar bill into the shape of the Eiffel Tower and hand it to him at his booth.

  6. Be at the club when it opens, and tell him this would be a great bar if they'd just get rid of all the breeders.

  7. Request Frankie Goes To Hollywood, and then wink knowingly.

  8. At the end of the night, put "G" in his house drink. When he starts passing out, tell the bouncers that you're his brother, and you'll take care of him.

  9. Tell every dancer in the place that you sucked his dick last night. If he's going to get blamed for it, he may as well get something out of it.

    And finally...

  10. If none of the above works, just ask him if he gives extras outside the club. If he doesn't, maybe he'll tell you which bouncer does.

For more great suggestions, plus my other book - How To Get Your Ass Kicked By Bouncers - send your email address on a $20 bill to:

How to get stuff
P.O. Box 666
East Bumfuck GA


AFTSD 1999: The Bucket
December 3, 1999

By Bluenote <>

It was 1969, a turning point year in my life. It was a good year for living. It was a bad year for dying. I would spend the first six months of the year nearly flunking out of UCLA because I dreaded the next six months. I would spend the last half of the year living in the swamps of Viet Nam shooting people and getting shot at.

The month of May was a blur. I didn't have much to look forward to, knowing I was getting called up for active duty. I spent the mornings surfing. I spent the nights drinking. The month was one endless drug binge, smoking joints like a bad cigarette habit, supplemented by acid, downers, speed, and whatever else came my way. I went to class only to take mid-terms and finals, it didn't seem very important.

Back in those days, there weren't many strip clubs. There was the Carolina Pines by LAX, now the Century Lounge. It was bowling with lunches served by topless waitresses. There was the Seventh Veil in Hollywood. There was Lee's in Chinatown. I had never been to a strip club. I knew I had to go to one before I left home. It might be my last chance to see some American flesh. I knew I wasn't going to see any big buxom blonde valkyrie type babes in Nam.

My friend Johnny was in the same rut as me; his dance card said Uncle Sam on it too. One night when we were completely fucked up, but not yet toast, he asked me "Wanna go to the Bucket?"

I replied, "What the fuck is the Bucket?"
He said, "It's a strip club, dumbshit. It's is a nasty ass strip club." He didn't have to twist my arm.

Back in those days, I drove a Vette. Not a very nice Vette. A '57 vette to be exact. I got it in exchange for a perfectly cherry 12 second '57 Bel Air. The Vette didn't have a top, it had white wall tires, a 3 speed trans, cracked fiberglass, and I had no bread to do it up. But I wanted it, and it was my ride for now. Johnny and I piled into my car, and we took a ride from the Crenshaw Area where we lived, up through Baldwin Hills, and into Inglewood.

Driving around in a convertible is a great way to sober up, but it is completely fucked up trying to smoke a joint when the wind is blowing all over the place. I had a Temptations jammed into the 8 track, blasting out of my Jensen speakers. It didn't take long before we arrived at the Bucket.

The Bucket sat on the westside of Hawthorne Blvd. in Lennox, a part of town that seemed suited for broken down cars and people without faces. A one sentence description for Lennox could be "Keep driving, don't bother stopping." It was a nondescript town. And the Bucket was a nondescript club. From the outside it looked like a welding shop. A single neon sign hung over the front door that said "The Bucket." The outside was stucco and gray. If Johnny hadn't told me what the place was, I would have wondered how a place could make a living selling buckets.

We parked around the block, lit up another joint, and exchanged
superchargers. And then we broke out a bottle of tequila and sat there listening to the music and talking shit about shit. After awhile we decided to go in before neither of us could walk.

A big ugly fat bald headed white dude was at the entrance. Some things never change about strip clubs. We paid admission, $2 if memory serves me right. The bar was to the right. The stage was to the left. There were about 30 guys milling around. A dancer was on stage, naked.

"Whoa, Johnny, that bitch ain't got no panties on!"
"Hey, where the fuck do you think you are? This is a strip club, mother fucker!"
"Yeah, but she's butt naked."

Oh yeah, it was my first time in a nudie bar. I wasn't prepared to see pussy, just boobage. Up until then, I had only seen one pussy up close, my girlfriend's.

I beelined it to the stage and pulled up a chair. Johnny was right behind me. I was mesmorized by a red head up on the stage. A real readhead. A pitcher and a mug of Budweiser draft appeared in front of me. I guess Johnny must have got it because I was too busy gawking at red. She must have liked my gawking because she kept standing in front of me with one foot on the railing and the other foot on the floor. I was hypnotized by her pussy and stared at it in a trance, as if I wanted to see all the way up to her ovaries. Finally her stage ended. I threw out a buck, she thanked me, and I exhaled.

"Hey, dude. This is fucking baaad." I said to Johnny.

We laughed and toasted each other with our beer mugs, slapped some skin, and laughed some more. The night went on and girl after girl came out on stage. Back then, there wasn't such a thing as lap dancing couches. There were booths, but the girls weren't naked. So the stage was the place to be.

After awhile, the word spread that Johnny and I were draftees, about to leave to go to war. And we started to get more attention than the parolees lookalikes that were milling around the joint. There were about 15 girls. The best looking one was a blonde. She seemed out of it. She sat next to the bar, alone most of the time.

Johnny and I watched the dances, mingled, and drank. After awhile, the blonde took a seat next to me. I could smell her perfume. It was familiar. She was wearing Shalimar. I turned to look at her, and she was staring at me. Just staring. Finally she took a cigarette out of a small case that she held, and she said "Light me?" I took out my lighter and did as she asked. She didn't look away, she didn't blink, she just stared. I couldn't stare back, but I did check out the goods. She looked about 20. She wasn't a blonde; I could see her dark roots in her shoulder length hair. But she was pretty, and what I could see, she had a very nice body. A white lacy bra held a pair of medium sized firm boobs. She wore a white chiffon over her shoulders and a lace panties. Her eyes were a strange mixture green blue and gray. It was if I could see through her pupils. We just sat there and stared at each other. Finally she stopped staring. She took my mug of beer and took four long swallows, nearly emptying the full mug.

"That was good" she said. "What's your name?" "Sean"
"When are you leaving Sean?" There was no where are you from or have you been here before.
"Are you scared?"
"Two hours ago, I was. Right now, no."

She smoked her cigarette and stared at me some more. I smoked my cigarette and stared back. I had enough drugs and alcohol to put most men down. But I felt strangely sober.

"I have to dance soon. Will you be here for my stage dance?" "How can I say no?"

She got up to leave. Then she stopped.

"You didn't ask me what my name was."
"Okay, what is it?"
"Okay, Dee. I'll be waiting."

I sat there alone at the stage, sipping my beer waiting. Another girl occupied the stage, but I sat there puzzled by my exchange with Dee. The DJ announced the next dancer.

"Next up we have Joanna. Let's give her a big hand to welcome her out."

The lights went out completely and I thought power failure. But the music then started, then I realized it was part of next dancer's act. Two small round little lights about the size of marbles suddenly appeared from behind the curtain. The lights were affixed to the dancer. They were clipped to her ears. They were all I could see in the darkened room.

She danced to a slow Beatles song "And I love her" which was out of place compared to the Hendrix and Cream and Creedence Clearwater and Steppenwolf tunes which had been blaring throughout the night.

The slow song and the two lights played upon my physique, and the experience became visceral, almost surreal. I wasn't seeing anything but two lights, yet I felt it took even further away from my reality. The two lights danced their way over to me and paused, swaying side to side with the melody. Then suddenly two more marble sized lights appeared, at the chest of the dancer, attached apparently to her nipples. They had been covered I guessed by a garment. These two new marbles had a different life than those attached to her ears. These lights were choreographed. They did circled in unison in one
direction, and then in another direction. The dancer directed them to even circle in opposite directions. By then I was in a trance. Maybe the booze was kicking in, but I felt myself get woozy looking at them. Finally the lights began to slowly come on, not all at once. As she stood there in front of me, I saw it was Dee who was dancing. Or was it really Joanna. She was nude other than a robe and her lights, marble domes fastened by small chains. She was about 5'4", all legs. She had a magnificent physique. With perfectly shaped C sized boobs (no boob jobs back then, whoo-hoo), and a great pair of square
shoulders and arms. And she wasn't a blonde. I didn't see what her pussy looked like, I couldn't get past her eyes.

Her nips were erect like small pink eraser tips poking through rings that held the small chains that held the marble lights. She danced her way around the stage for the benefit of the rest of the gawkers, then back to me. She knelt down on the floor and massaged her breasts to the music and stared at me.

I looked at her and said "I thought your name was Dee." She said "It is. Really."

She got on all fours and crawled closer to me and got sat in front of me on her knees. She held her left breast in one hand and pulled off the marble and placed it in front of me. Then she did the same with her right breast. She said "Usually I need to glue these things on, but you're made my nipples really hard."

I sat there and stared some more.

She got up and danced off the stage as the song ended.

She came back out, back in her robe. She came back for her tip. She said, "I have to go." She got up and left.

She never came back to the room. After she left, it wasn't the same for me.

Johnny was slumped over the bar, barely breathing, but still managing a conversation with a dancer.

"Hey let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"Home. I'm beat."
"There's no place like home, Toto."
"Yeah, I know. Can you walk?"
"Yeah, just point me in the right direction."

I grabbed Johnny's arm and we walked out of the bar together. We staggered around the corner. The big ugly bouncer stood by my car. A girl sat in my car. It was Dee. Her chiffon covering that she wore over her shawl was tied around her hair like a scarf. The bouncer came up to me. "She said she was going home with you. Is that right?"

I was still holding Johnny up. He was barely awake, he was toast. I looked at her and she looked at me and nodded.

I said "yeah."
The bouncer said "if she leaves with you, she can't come back here."

I looked back at her. She raised her eyebrows, as if to say "Who cares?"

I said "Whatever." The bouncer walked away.

I stood there with a lifeless Johnny hanging on to me. And I looked at Dee. We stared for awhile. Finally she said, "Can this thing hold 3?"

"Not really."
"Do you want me to leave?"
"Can I come home with you?"

I piled Johnny in the passenger seat. Dee sat in the middle between the two bucketseats. It must have been uncomfortable on the ride into Crenshaw. The streets were deserted and it was foggy. The
incandescent street lamps that existed back in 1969 cast an erie glow and I felt far removed from what had been a crazy day and a crazy life up until now.

"Why are you with me, Dee?"

She looked down, and stayed silent. Finally she said, "I lost my brother last year. I decided I'm not going to lose you. You're here for two months. Can I keep you company till then?"

So she stayed. And I left. I came back from Nam, Johnny didn't. The Bucket was still there, but I never went back. It eventually died and other clubs came and took it's place on Hawthorne Blvd. Some of these clubs rose up and died the strip club slow death. And places like the Bare and the Rhino came about, and men's clubs became glitzy and extravagant, complete with Barbi doll dancers made possible by the miracles of modern medicine and space age synthetics. The big ugly fat bald headed bouncer had kids and they work at every strip club as bouncers.

I go to clubs every now, only to entertain clients. It's amazing how the knowledge of a few languages and strip clubs can motivate even the most stubborn of negotiators. There are strips clubs around the world, but none like L.A. where you can get a porn star to stick her boobies in your face.

But every now and then I get a lap dance from my all time favorite. At home. From Dee. Who is now a brunette. And plays to a 12 handicap.

There's no place like home, Toto.


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