A jetlag-free life, from American Gods to strip clubs.
I won't bore you with even more details about how a brilliant guy called Olaf manage to save the day again for the company he's (technically) collaborating with. It would be too boring and you would miss the breast octopus story. Your choice. Actually, mine.
I stayed for the whole week at Johnny and Liz. They will get married soon on a beach in Tampa (very soon: next week, congratulations again), so it was a good time for celebrating the end of the celibacy for John.
I've got used to it this year: this is the fourth guy I know that gets married. I've done my share of stag nights and weddings. I knew I would miss John's wedding so the only good gift was a visit to the local strip clubs.
But before beginning tales of tits, asses and bottles of beer I would like to stop a moment and reflect about one event that impressed me a lot: the death of Eddie Guerrero.
I know that many of you don't like wrestling at all (or better, don't understand) and I won't try to convince you that no, it is not a sport, yes, it's just entertainment and the outcome are decided by a booking team (fixed, but if you think about the Italian Serie A, there are pretty much the same thing. At least wrestling entertains).
We're talking about guys who are spending their life on the road, like a circus, with no time at all for families and friends and with the goal to create a show almost every night, for all the fans in the world. They're building stories like a TV Soap Opera, and they're not just using their acting skills, but their bodies at well, to the extreme.
I've always been a fan of all that stuff that Parents Associations never really liked it (Japanese cartoons in the 80s, then wrestling and Stephen King in the 90s, then hip-hop not much later, and let's not forget internet in the last 10 year or porn since I was 13) and every time I read some article about one of these subjects written by some idiot, well, it makes me sad, and angry.
Kids like and watch wrestling more than soccer. Well, have you ever wondered why? Maybe because they are all sick of football, of fake heroes, of fake results, of real violence? Fake by fake, wrestling is better. They know how to fake it professionally, and they're entertaining.
Eddie Guerrero has passed away. I missed the tribute to Owen Hart (another wrestler who died tragically 10 years ago) but because this time I was in US, I didn't miss the moving Raw and Smackdown tribute to Eddie.
Watching grown wrestlers (Big Show anyone?) trying to hold back the tears it was truly shocking, and for once I was almost having troubles holding my tears back.
And that Chris Benoit tribute, Eddie's best friend... this was one of the few moving moments I've ever experienced on the television. Only the over kick goal in Victory and Rock victory over Drago gave me the same chills.
Oh crap, the battery is dying, again. I close my consideration about Eddie here. He was probably not the best technical wrestler out there, but he was a damn good entertainer, and he was incredibly funny. And I like funny people.
Let's go back to the naked girl stories.
We hit two different strip clubs in two different nights. One great thing about strip clubs in US is that you don't make a big deal about it.
You don't have to be elegant and if you want the clubs are open at lunch time (when the girls make more money, incredibly).
Another great thing about them is that they are cheap. Very cheap. A beer costs like a beer, not like fucking Dom Perignon (London).
A private dance is 10 dollars, and 1 dollar tips are accepted with a smile.
Compare it with the 30 pounds / 3 minutes dance in London and you get my point.
Only one major drawback: no pictures inside. So I can't offer you a collection of naked girls like some of you (Kapil and all the other male readers) would have loved. So here there is a link for you all perv.
The first club, Follies, was a modest and dirty club, mostly frequented by the local Mexican community.
Cheap drinks though, but not many attractive girls. The dances at least lasted more and they put more passions in it. I didn't enjoy a single dance by the way, the party was all for Johnny, and after few beers and some disappointing bodies, we decided to hit the other club the next night.
With the whole team out (John, Rob, Katan - the Viagra pusher - , Jimenez + Louai + Martin) we hit Oasis, and we found the paradise of the strip club. Great atmosphere, great girls (I tried to count them by after 20 I lost my mind) and overall some great acts. We chipped in to buy a goodbye dance for John, who was soon tied to the pole, shirtless, whipped with a belt and surrounded by four girls happy to give him a good time (he has a nice British accent after all).
Four girls rubbing tits on his face.
This is 8 tits.
This is a breast octopus. Johnny didn't drown and he survived, happy enough and ready to walk the aisle next week.
Yes, the battery is almost gone. I would have loved to say more about the bar, but, hey, fate decided that this morning (half past two, still 2 hours before the check in opens) I've written enough.
It's time to go. Back to London, with a bag full of even more crazy stories.
Oh, how I would love to be already 90 with all my grandsons around me to entertain them by telling them the story of the breast octopus....only 60 something more years.