Why Marcus Garvey Might Dig My Mom’s Crib

My mother’s house in Nebraska is primarily decorated in typical Midwest housewife chic. There is a tasteful couch set, conservative blinds and drapes, and numerous pictures of her three sons displayed prominently throughout the house. The one room that is a little outside of the norm is called “The Basketball Room”. The Basketball Room is a converted dining room designed to fit the needs of my hoops-obsessed 10-year-old brother Cole. The room has a 6-foot standing basketball hoop on one wall, plenty of space for vicious one-on-one games, and both a flip scoreboard and an electronic scoreboard to make sure that no one is ever confused about who is winning.

All of this seems normal to me. Heck, given the choice I would have a basketball room in my house too. What makes the room a little offbeat is the presence of an antique piano with the words “Black Power” prominently spray-painted across the top. So why is a 55-year-old Caucasian mother of three promoting a Black Panther slogan? As you can imagine, there is a story.

The piano once belonged to my great-grandmother Nannie. I don’t think that Nannie ever really played the piano, but pianos were just one of those things that people owned in the ‘40s and ‘50s. In the early ‘90s, Nannie could no longer live on her own and moved in with my grandparents. As a favor, she allowed my struggling uncle and his family to move into her old house. Due to the white flight to the suburbs in Omaha around this time, my uncle’s family soon was the only white family in the neighborhood. My uncle had a few run-ins with kids loitering in front of his house over the years. The day after one incident, my uncle came home to find the house trashed, including the spray-painting on the piano. Not long after, my uncle moved out, leaving behind everything in the house. After Nannie died, my mom went through her old house looking through all kinds of memories. One of the things she rescued was the piano.

I have asked my mom why she holds onto it, but have never really gotten a satisfactory answer. Sure, it is a heirloom left to her by her grandmother, but our family is not lacking in these. My mom is the only one in the family who plays the piano, but no more than in one week stretches every couple of years. She could easily get the spray painted portion replaced or simply cover it with a sheet, but she has never been inclined to do that. And this isn’t something she has just forgot about…it is one of the first things you see when you walk through the front door. It weighs a ton and she has had to deal with moving it two times in the last 6 years. It has taken me awhile, but I have come to accept that I’ll never know the real reason that she has such an attachment to that piano. I think she likes the mystery.

How I Have Been Spending My Time

During my last three weeks in Boston, I went to a to strip clubs a total of 5 times. A stripper actually told me, “It is nice to see you again”. This would be acceptable if:

1) I worked as a strip club bouncer/DJ;

2) I was researching a book or movie role;

3) I was over 70; or

4) I worked for vice.

As it is, none of these excuses apply to me. I just keep making the same mistakes over and over again. It has to be getting harder to believe me when I say that I hate strip clubs. But the beauty of writing columns is that I can channel my shame and hopefully learn lessons that I can share with all of you. Here are 5 things that I learned about strip clubs this month:

1) Do your research – This whole strip club odyssey started due to a guys’ night gone wrong. Dan, C.J., Lee (C.J.’s cousin), and I decided the best way to kick off the month of December was a road trip to Foxwoods. Ninety minutes in, our group was stuck for about $600. We were broke and more than a little depressed when we realized it was only 10:30, but we decided try to rally. If we couldn’t gamble anymore, we would try the other guys’ night out staple and head to a strip club. Once Lee called a club to assure it was open late enough (2:00 AM) and that the cover was low enough ($6!) we shot out of our funk and were on the road to Providence. With the low cover and the seedy location, we were expecting something spectacularly low class, but we were pleasantly surprised when we walked inside. The dancers were attractive, the place was clean, and I didn’t feel as if I would contract an STD just by sitting down. We got some drinks, and grabbed one of the few open tables. The first dancer was on the main stage dancing in her bikini. After the end of the song, she stayed on stage for a second song and continued to show off her impressive pole technique. The second song ended with her bikini still on, and a new dancer came to the stage. We looked around, horrified, and instantly realized that we had just paid a cover for a strip club where the dancers didn’t strip.

2) There is such a thing as too drunk – The following day, C.J., Dan, and I were still fuming over the failure of the previous night. After a brief flirtation with road tripping to Montreal’s famed Club SuperSexe, we decided that we would try out a local venue. We did some research (see, we learn) and found an appropriately seedy place (The Glass Slipper!) downtown. The only problem is that it was only 5:00 PM. Thinking that it would be a little sad to show up before dinner, we decided to pre-game for a little while before heading out. A “little while” turned into four beers, a few shots, and a shared 20-ounce water bottle of wine on the train. And that was before going to the bar to meet up with our friend Chantha. We eventually arrived at the strip club and were happy to find the strippers actually stripping. I would have been happier, though, if I had been sober enough to actually open my eyes. I tried to stick it out, but I wasn’t exactly enjoying myself. I guess I liked what I was watching, but probably would have gotten just as much pleasure out of going home to watch the McLaughlin Group.

3) Watch out for the magic hour – The next weekend, C.J., Dan, and I spent the early part of Friday evening drinking and talking about how much we hate strip clubs. Nothing really happens, they are a waste of money, they are actually kind of boring etc. From drinks 1-6, I firmly believe all of that. Unfortunately, between 6-9 drinks, all bets are off. This is where I tend to get into trouble. During that period, strip clubs now become bastions of male bonding, glorious Shangri-La’s of beautiful, misunderstood women waiting for the right man (re: Me) to go home with for the night. From drinks 6-9 I’m fired up, and nothing can convince me that the total failure of the previous ten strip club trips is in anyway related to how my next trip will turn out. If I can get past drink 9, I am usually only concerned with a) getting home as soon as possible; or b) hooking up with any girl who doesn’t recoil when I try to talk to her, before finally giving up and trying to get home as soon as possible.

4) Sometimes, it is just the start of the night – That same night that we were discussing how much we hated strip clubs, we ended the night at one again. Well, at least I thought we ended the night. After leaving the club, I ended up eating, watching Dan pay some guy $20 to “find us girls”, following this guy all around Chinatown for 40 minutes while listening to Dan periodically threaten him until we eventually let him lose us, meeting some girls, realizing the one I’m talking to is too drunk to stand without my help, getting offered a ride by a van full of Italian guys, catching a cab, eating again, catching another cab and arriving back at Dan’s place (a dungeon-like basement he was temporarily living in after being evicted by his previous roommates….wait for it…three Mormon girls). At the door, Dan turns around and tells me that he can’t find his keys. Thinking he is joking, I laugh. He is not joking. He calls Dani, waking her up at 4:00 in the morning and getting her to drive to pick us up so that we can crash at her place. When we get in the car, I tell Dani I love her “but not in a sexual way”. Three hours later, I wake up on Dani’s couch and try to pull myself together for a volunteer project that Dan and I have to be at by 9:00. Julia picks us up and we make a pit stop at Dunkin Donuts to try to refuel before spending the next four hours painting a community center. While in line, Dan leans back on a chair, and starts laughing hysterically. I give him an inquisitive look, until he pulls his keys out of his back pocket. He remembers putting them in his back pocket because he didn’t want to hurt the stripper when she was giving him a dance the night before. Considerate guy.

5) The right mixture can make a strip club fun – The night before I flew to Omaha for the holidays, I agreed to meet up with Julia and Dan for a few drinks in Allston. I would say that this decision was against my better judgment, but I’m not sure that I have ever shown that capacity. The night started off very quiet until Julia expressed interest in going to a strip club. Dan and I had been dragging our heels, but this idea definitely woke us up. We both paid lip service to the fact that we hated strip clubs, but it was apparent that taking a girl to her first strip club was too good of an opportunity to pass up. We decided that we needed to be much drunker before heading out. Over the next hour (and three drinks each) we bonded by discussing all manner of personal issues that wealthier people would gladly pay a therapist to listen to. Newly tight, we set out to look at some boobies. At the first club, Julia actually ran into her friend (heterosexual female) from college. In all of strip club history, how many times do you think that two straight female friends who had lost touch with each other have ended up bumping into each other at a strip club in a different city than they went to school in? 5? 10? I couldn’t get over how weird that was, although I probably should have just taken it as a sign that we need to hang out with Julia’s friends more often. After Dan “explored” the club, we decided that we would go next door to the more familiar Glass Slipper. Dan and I had another night out, but I think Julia had the most fun. She met a stripper (“We danced together!”) and even got to go backstage. It was definitely my favorite recent night out, but I’m hoping that it doesn’t lead me back there anytime soon. I don’t think what is left of my self-image can take it.

Who I am Spending Time With in Boston

I have some noble idea that this blog is going to be about personal growth, but we all know that it is much more likely to be some combination of sports columns and drinking stories. With that in mind, I feel that it is necessary to introduce all of my old readers to the new cast of characters who are most likely to appear in future stories. This is meant to be a guide to be referred back to if you come across a name you do not recognize. Keep in mind that nearly all of my co-workers are recent college graduates…this means I’m accidentally reliving my early twenties while hanging out with kids who are closer in age to my sister than to me. That is in no way depressing.

Co-Workers

Name (Celebrity who would play them in my life story) - Houston comparison):

Abby (Emily Blunt) – Lindsay Botsford. I could be threatened by having a boss a couple of years younger than me if she didn’t know so much more about my job than I do.

Chantha (Anuar Zain) – Chien on an “ON” night with G’s sense of camaraderie. On speed.

CJ (Rhett Miller) – A more stoned Blake.

Dan (Ryan Gosling) – Danny Mills/Munoz hybrid on 6 red bulls and lacking any sense of discretion.

Dani (younger Bridge Fonda) – Very Liz-ish.

Demetrius (Michael K. Williams) – Rob, if he had gone to high school in Dorchester instead of Waco.

Eric (This Guy) – David Beauchamp.

Julia (Anne Hathaway) – A more outgoing, chipper pre-marriage Susan.

Justin (Zac Efron) – a male MMM.

K.K. (Parry Shen) – J. Wu.

Kim (Allison Mack) – Meaghan McEntee, i.e. a stabilizing influence with good music taste.

Lola (younger Ione Skye) – A happier Leigh, if she were from Long Island instead of West U.

Pamm (Kate Bosworth) – A Jen Rammage who is less sure of what she wants to do with her life.

Renata (Chloe Sevigny) – A less Canadian Jen Rigg Kneale.

Tes (Sophia Bush) – Michelle, circa 2002.

Roommates

Andrew (McLovin) – A non-metrosexual Lazar.

Jason (Ethan Embry) – My high school friend who is a mixture of Blake, G, Jeremy, and Swick. Although that tells you just about nothing.

Jesse (Andriy Voronin) – Kevin (if he had never met Lynn) with Amir’s random knowledge, Gahan’s outbursts, and a ponytail.

What This Blog Title Means

I have always admired the overachiever. The kid who stopped growing at 5’7 but grew up to be a major league shortstop and even win a World Series MVP. The lower class kid from a single parent family in a rural town who was elected president twice in the 1990s. The chubby Indian kid from West Virginia who somehow ended up dating Emily. These people all worked hard to achieve dreams that should have been out of their grasps.

I am not one of these people. If you looked at my resume coming out of high school I looked like the prototype can’t miss kid. National Merit Scholar, student council president, two-way starter in football, voted Most Likely to Succeed. Ask anyone who knew me then and I had every appearance of a future Master of the Universe.

Yet here I am, ten years later. No girlfriend let alone wife or kids. Working another in a series of entry-level jobs routinely populated by 22-year olds. Thirty-five pounds past my playing weight, drinking and smoking more than I did at 21. The picture of an underachiever rapidly approaching 30.

Things started to crystallize for me last spring when I realized that I was days away from being forced to address a lot of my friends as “Dr.” Dr. Barker, Dr. Gahan…gulp… Dr. Marouni. Over the previous four years I had been living and partying with these people, but now they had something to show for it. Well, something other than a Guinness record for most times dropping out of law school.

So now I’m looking to turn this pattern around. This blog will chronicle my adventures in trying to get there. If me trying to grow up sounds like a familiar refrain, well, you probably read my old columns (http://www.geocities.com/glenng79/archive.html, http://striversandslackers.blogspot.com/). Hopefully this new blog will be as fun to write (and my Boston friends will be just as understanding of me selling them out at every turn).

Oh, and the blog title is just a bald joke.