Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist
So Saturday night, I stripped for a bachelorette party.
(pause for effect)
I’m not making that up, but I’m almost positive that the reality is not what you think. For you see, although clothes were shed and gyrations were done and several tipsy women hooted and hollered with delight, it was a gag and I have nothing to truly be embarrassed about.
Backtrack. My friends Jane and Herbie are getting themselves married over Memorial Day weekend of this year. Jane’s bachelorette party was Saturday night, at Amelia’s apartment, which is three short blocks away from Donna’s place. The joke I came up with was to have the “strippers”  show up wearing a ridiculous amount of clothing–five layers of winter coats, for example, and then strip out of that, stopping short of actual Monty.
For those keeping count, I was wearing, in order of proximity to the skin:
– Boxers, T-shirt, jeans, socks, biking gloves
– snow hood, belt, rollerblading kneepads, sneakers, windbreaker, sparring mitts
– scarf, stocking cap, windbreaker #2, boxing gloves
– light trenchcoat, baseball cap
– heavy trenchcoat
– heavy winter coat
And this was all done to the classic James Brown number “Get Up I Feel Like Being a Sex Machine.”
Ah, the adventures you can have while you’re wearing too much clothing. Let’s start with the fact that one cannot manipulate such things as doorknobs and keys when they are wearing boxing gloves . Luckily, Donna’s roommate was available to open and close the door behind me.
A single alley connects Donna’s street and Amelia’s, and, being as that I looked like the Thing That Came From The Burlington Coat Factory, I decided it was for the best to use this alley. And while Donna’s neighborhood isn’t known for late-night alley muggings (they’re well-lit, for one thing), I’m not sure how attractive a target I would make. It’s hard to threaten someone with a knife when that someone has five layers of protection between them and you. Also, wearing boxing gloves. Also, looked insane. It was cold out on Saturday night, but hell if it was that cold.
I arrived at Amelia’s apartment and could not get the buzzer to work. I assumed I was unable to accurately depress the button due to the boxing gloves, but after removing one, I discovered that the buzzer itself was broken. This presented a brand-new dilemma: do I walk back to Donna’s apartment and inform Amelia of the situation, and then walk back, which would mean two more potentially awkward trips wearing my outfit? Or do I ring the buzzer of the tenants above Amelia, and hope that I could convince them I wasn’t some dangerous psychotic who was being let loose on a party of defenseless women? I’m glad I didn’t think to wear a hockey mask.
Ultimately, despite our hope that my arrival would be a complete surprise, I was forced to call into the window.
The dance itself I remember little of. I had not rehearsed it, and knew only that the punchline to the affair was that Amelia had only paid for one song, and therefore would get no more nudity than that length. I simply had to fill that time with a few hip shakes and some discarded coats.
James Brown sings that song much longer than I otherwise remembered. I got down to removing my socks and managed to tease the removal of my belt long enough for James to “hit it and quit.”
And thus ended my career as the Antarctic Stripper. Remember, ladies, I also do bar mitzvahs.
More later, but I just realized that I need to get a congratulatory present for a co-worker whose lunch is today.
 Tofu and Rick were supposed to have joined me in this endeavor, but both chickened out weeks before. It’s for the best, however; I can’t imagine how we would have looked walking up the alley, all three of us, dressed like that. Like some kind of weird, Warriors-esque street gang. “We’re the Eskimos! Reprazent! Way North SIIIIEEEED!”
 Unless, of course, you are Strong Bad.
Current music: MP3 list, Indigo Girls, “The Power of Two”