How to wake a partied-out strip club

Chapter 12

‘New DJs are day-shift DJs — and day shifts suck…. It’s a bright day outside, where normal, functioning adults are living normal, functional lives. And here you are, stuck in a cavernous, dark room alone with bored, barely dressed women while the thump, thump, thump of contemporary hip-hop drills into your skull.’ [AI]

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The days start creaky and groaning.

It’s as though the club is a living being cursed to an eternity of debauchery — night after night, one party to the next. Each morning we find it corpse-pale in a puddle of its own vomit, head the size of a zeppelin and swearing to God it can’t do another one.

And yet it does.

With each hour, each new girl on the stage, each new guy through the doors, the club shakes off the previous night’s pain — until, helped by the hair of the dog and a restorative bump, maybe two, it’s roaring once again.

Strip clubs are rock stars who won’t die, rat-haired metal gods who go down hard, right there on the Sunset Strip’s still-warm pavement — then somehow pop to their feet just when the paramedics call for a body bag.