*** Friday ***

The weekend has arrived a little faster than I had hoping for. I had intended to get a haircut and to get the apartment squared away a little better. My friend A.C. has invited me over for some gaming with friends from work. I’m about ready to hit the door when Mike asks if I’m going to a going away celebration for Kate at a local sports bar. I figure I’ll make a brief showing then get the haircut I need before going out.

There is fair turnout for Kate’s going away party, but one suffering from a small malaise that I have noticed at most of our company functions these days. Our boss is there, a man who is soon on to bigger and better things within the corporate structure. His smile is genuine and he is an easy man to like, but when he is not talking to someone he has a distracted and unhappy look. I don’t know if this has to do with the changes soon to come for him and change of location, or whether other personal problems dog him. I wish him well, but I think everyone feels that some sense of community is being lost. It has been waning for sometime, but his departure makes it all the more obvious.

Still the party is not completely joyless, ironically it is the newer hires that seem to be the most jovial, boasting loudly and challenging one and all to games of pool.

I have brought along a copy of a new Top Ten list I have been working on for my blog and for entering in a contest on the David Letterman website. I often share these with a few friends like A.C and Mike, but my humor takes harsh review from them. Not that they don’t think I’m funny, but their appreciation is tempered by a strange mix of competition for class-clown and genuine constructive criticism. Like people that look down on TV watching, their appreciation for humor is mainly for that which is spontaneous. We probably all consider our selves the best at spontaneous humor, but I’m the only one who puts pen to paper to work on jokes in a more premeditated (and thus lowbrow) way.

Anyway, like an eight-year-old at show and tell I pass around a printed version of my newest list to a wider audience at the party. To my surprise many begin to laugh out loud and congratulate me on my cleverness, insisting that I email them copies to pass along to other friends. It is a bit of a shock compared to the usual tepid reviews I get from my closer circle of friends.

I get so caught up in enjoying my coworkers’ praise I linger much later at the party than I had planned and a haircut is now not an option. I go home, catch a show I usually watch, and start to putter around the apartment. I’m still planning on going out and visiting A.C.’s party along the way, but the night is getting away from me. I’m still in my jeans, I could shower and still go out, but I’m unhappy with the mess my hair has become. I keep puttering around the house, dithering on whether I should just head out and join A.C.’s party only and not bother with preening, but the party had started at 7 and it is now 10:30. It would still be going on, but A.C.’s parties can go either way -- not getting into full drive until 11 or sputtering out at about 11. I decide to just flop down on the bed and work on my blog, entering the gem of a Top Ten list that had gotten me so much attention at the party. There's always tomorrow to go out, and if I went out tonight I'd just end up at the Masonic, and I haven't been having that great a time there lately.

*** Saturday ***

I've done the gym, gotten a haircut, run some errands, worked some more around the apartment, then decide to color my hair -- probably the real main reason I hadn't gone out the night before. I could have touched up the gray on the sides Friday, but that would have left darker patches on the touched up areas that might get exaggerated after a haircut. Now I have a fresh haircut and the coloring will look natural and even. As I wait for the dye to set I take care of other acts of preening I never indulged in when I was in my twenties, like thinning my chest hair with trimmers, and shaving the patch of hair I have on my back between my shoulders. I go so far as to dab a little hand lotion at the corners of my eyes wondering if it will soften some crow's feet that are starting to become noticeable. I have put hair color on my eyebrows as well so as to make sure everything matches. Before rising they have a huge beetle-brow exaggerating effect, which along with the pale yellow dabs of hand lotion at the corners of my eyes combine to create the clown visage that stares back at me from the mirror. It occurs to me I have mutated into the character that Peter Sellers played in "There's A Girl In My Soup". A story about a middle-aged man doing exactly what I am – expending a lot of effort trying to stay young (look young) and chasing women too young for him.

By the time I've finished with my getting ready ritual it is getting close to eleven. A little later than I would have liked to hit the town, because I like to arrive before the lines form and the clubs become crowded. In fact many evenings I will leave around midnight not because I am tired or bored, but because it is just too crowded to bear.

I head out, feeling almost like I’m going to a job. I must force myself to go out and socialize. I know in the long run I would regret not going out and my aloneness not cured by staying at home and watching TV. I’ve tried online dating a couple of times -- it is just as hit and miss as regular dating. Still I will probably give it a try again soon.

I haven’t been having that great of a time on my own at the High Dive lately, but I had been there with Ammie a couple of weeks before. An ex-girlfriend that was being her usually flaky self and making noises about getting back together, we had a decent time. While there I had run into another ex Charlotte. I don’t expect to run into Charlotte again tonight, but I would be lying to say it isn’t a factor in deciding to try the High Dive.

There is already a long line, but I queue up anyway. The evening is not that late, and it is probably just taking the staff that long to check IDs for a sudden crush -- get there too late of course and you will wait all night once they hit capacity, which could happen anytime, but generally doesn’t until after 11:30.

The line moves slowly but fairly steadily. I am annoyed by the arrival of people who jump the crowd control ropes to join other friends they know, but who were probably not really saving them a place in line, causing the queue to move backwards a step or two from time to time. Am I just annoyed because I have so few friends that would invite me to cut in line? Probably not, judging from the looks and grumbles and see and hear from elsewhere in line behind, but no one does much about it. It occurs to me that thousands (if not millions) of fights have probably started over this sort of thing, but I doubt there are firm laws on line standing behavior to exclude cutting. Club owners probably turn a blind eye knowing the greater liability would be to intervene to enforce fairness. Hostile stares are the only punishment the line cutters get and they seem not to care.

Once inside I decide to take a trip full circuit around the club, almost like a burglar casing a joint. No sign of Charlotte, but a lot of pretty other women. One of the first girls I notice is wearing some sort of push up bra with a white top open all the way down to her beltline, it has some sort of cross lacing like a corset only in front. The effect it eye catching to say the least, and it is almost impossible not to stare at the far above ample cleavage. Of course to dress this way is to invite some amount of gawking I would have to imagine. Why it would be rude not to stare, I muse to myself.

She is with a small group of friends, but the women are clustered together on one side and the men on the other, so I decide they are probably all just casual friends and not couples. “Hello, would you care to dance?” I ask?

“Sure, why not,” she answers enthusiastically. She hands her drink and coat to a friend standing next to her.

“My name’s Larry, what’s yours?” I ask as we push towards the dance floor. The club already appears to be approaching capacity.

“Audrey,” she replies. I actually do a double take upon learning her name is Audrey. She is stunningly beautiful, a very dark shade of brown, and very well endowed on top. I am aware of a black adult actress named Audrey and I confess to checking to make sure it wasn’t her.

We dance a few songs and she rejoins her friends without saying a word before leaving the floor. It seems odd. When women dance out of politeness or pity it is usually for a single song. When they dance more, there are usually some words of parting. The song ends and Audrey turns and leaves not even a glace back. I’ve had a good time dancing, I think I acquitted myself a fair dancer, and appreciate the time on the floor, so don’t dwell on the sudden departure.

I run into a friend named Jay. I have known Jay for years, though only from running into him at clubs we used to frequent in common.

“How you doing?” he asks and we shake hands.

“Oh pretty good I guess,” I say, “I just got off the floor with that girl in white.”

“Which one?”

“That one, behind the one in blue” I clarify, to which Jay nods in appreciation and is looking in the right direction so I assume he sees Audrey. “Her name’s Audrey, but when we got done dancing she just turned and rejoined her friends without saying a word”

“Ah, you can’t worry about that. That’s just the way young people are,” he states. Jay is younger than me, but not young based against the average patron’s age here tonight. Jay looks like he could be in his twenties however. I’m not sure which of the two of us is aging better, but Jay looks the same as when I met him over 10 years ago. He usually has a twenty year old on his arm -- it doesn’t look unseemly.


Audrey’s little group of friends has drifted by us by chance so I motion to Audrey. “When you need a drink a little later, just let me know” I say. I can see she already has one in hand.

She smiles back and says, “sure.”

I turn back to Jay. We talk awhile then I announce I’m off to go checkout what else the club has to offer. We do a parting handshake with a couple flourishes at the end that are semi fresh.

On the way towards the back I spot someone I recognize -- a girl named Mickey that use to come and Dance at T.K. Wendels back years ago when I use to DJ there.

“Hey, you probably don’t remember me. Your name is Mickey right?” I’m not sure why I said this in such a self-deprecating fashion.

“Ah yes,” she answers. “Where do I know you from?”

“You used to come out to T.K. Wendels back when I D.J.’d there,” we had danced a couple of times together their also, but I was hoping she would remember that fact on her own.

“And you remembered me?” she asked, seemingly a little surprised. From this I surmise she doesn’t remember me.

“It’s not hard to remember a lady as attractive as you” I say. This is only partially true. I have run into Mickey maybe two times in the last five years, so it wasn’t just the T.K. Wendels days 10 years ago. She is also the only Mickey I know, and Tony Basil’s song “Mickey” comes to mind every time I see her. And yes she is very attractive. I’m guessing we are similar in age, but she is aging very gracefully. It might get me the labeled a pig, but I’m usually not attracted to women in their late 30s early 40s. Mickey is a rare exception.

“Why thank you,” she says and smiles.

“Would you save me a dance sometime tonight,” I ask.

“Sure,” she says almost purring. She then disappears into the crowd with her girlfriend. When I first met Mickey she had been married, her husband and her coming to TK Wendels together semi often. One night she showed up alone, seemingly not in a very happy mood. I found out she had just gotten a divorce. I think we swapped numbers that night and probably danced, but some how I lost track of Mickey. I started dating Anita soon after anyway and that was a five year period I was out of circulation.

The friend Mickey disappears into the crowd with has an overly taut masculine for a woman appearance. This can be either due to staying fit to fend off aging, or she may be a lesbian. Mickey and her seem to be dancing exclusively together, sometimes provocatively so. I shrug and put it at a high probability that Mickey swings both ways. I’ve dated several women that swing both ways, somehow it has never translated into the typical male fantasy of a three-way.

I run into a cute girl named Katrina, we dance a couple of songs, and then I’m on my own again. I probably would like to get to know Katrina better, but she has a disinterested air about her. I figure if we dance again later I’ll ask for her number.

I head back over to the bar counter area, there is a girl there I had wanted to say hello to earlier.

“Hello, can I buy you drink?”

She seems to consider my question for a moment or two then acquiesces, “Sure, Amaretto Sour.”

“Amaretto Sour it is,” I say and wave at the bartender. The drink comes in an unusually short time for the High Dive. In fact most of the bars in town are extremely slow to serve customers, at least at peak. I don’t think this is just me being impatient, because when I’m out of town at far busier bars in big cities the drinks seem to come much, much faster.

“Thanks for the drink,” she says. “Aren’t you having anything?”

“Oh I’ve already had a couple of beers, and I’ve got to drive tonight,” I say. We then launch into a pleasant conversation and I learn her name is Rhonda and she is from out of town, and just visiting with some friends. I’m struck by how pleasant and polite she is. I wonder if she is just gabbing with me out of politeness. I can’t really read her.

As we are still gabbing when a couple of her friends come up to join us. One of her friends immediately sidles up to me. I’m quite surprised because it seems disrespectful of Rhonda, but this girl is hot. Now Rhonda is cute, but she doesn’t really seem interested in me, and she’s definitely not pressing her self up against me the way this girl is. Still I hate to just seemingly take after one of her friends. Her new friend tells me her name, but I don’t quite catch it. I should ask her to repeat it but she is already, running her hands through my hair.

“What’s your name?” she asks. She’s obviously in a tipsy state, maybe well on her way to getting drunk. I feel faintly embarrassed by her sudden intense interest in me, but I try not to let it show. I really am quite stunned by how good-looking she is, and that she would show such interest in me uninvited.

“Larry,” I answer.

“Larry, are you going to do a shot with us?"

I look over at Rhonda apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind, you weren’t quite this persuasive.” Rhonda shrugs, she seems not to be offended, but still I feel somewhat guilty.

I turn back to the girl whose name I didn’t catch (or worse forgotten). “Sure,” I motion again to the bartender. The drinks come, and we throw them back quickly.

“Larry you are hot,” she says. She has moved onto my lap, and has her arms around me. I drape my arms around her waste, but try not to be offensive or groping. “Do you know how hot you are?”

“I’m OK,” I say.

She puffs up a little with a huff. “Now don’t going acting like I’m stupid or don’t know what I’m talking about,” she says.

“OK, I’m being modest, yes I think I’m pretty good looking, especially for my age.” I keep telling myself not to bring up the age thing so easily, but this girl is from St. Louis. I don’t particularly want to waste time chasing a girl from out of town that thinks I’m younger than I am if it isn’t likely to lead anywhere. Not that I’d lie to an in town girl about my age, just that I might wait until after a dinner or two to bring it up. Conceited or not, I think I look at least 10 if not 15 years younger than my actual age, and this girl is doing nothing to disabuse me of that impression.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“46,” I reply after a short pause.

“You are not 46!” she says.

“Well I’d like to think I don’t look it, but I’m am”

“You are not!” she says again, “you’re like 30”

“I wish I were, but I’m not”

“You are not 46! Quit fooling with me”

At first I thought she was just being polite, but now I’m pretty sure she honestly believes I’m not over 40. I take out my wallet and remove my Drivers License handing it to her as proof. She focuses on it intently, looking back and forth from it to me, evidently to confirm it is not a fake.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re 46!” she says. “Does he look 46?” she says looking over to her friends, who nod in polite agreement, but who aren’t gushing the way she is.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“I’m 23,” she answers, “and I still think you are hot!” The fact that she is exactly half my age doesn’t escape my notice.

She begins to dance against me even though we are still at the bar and nowhere near the dance floor. In fact it is more of a lap dance, and she grabs my hands and puts them on her thighs. I rub them firmly, but resist exploring more intimate areas, though I doubt she would have objected. I feel a little sheepish, worrying the management will ask us to take it outside. This actually happened to me once with Ammie who I’d taken with me to Indianapolis for a night on the town. I seem to attract women how have few inhibitions in public. I might also note I seem to have a knack for meeting women in bars who I later turn out our strippers. There are either a lot of strippers in the world, or I meet an above average share. I suspect the latter. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if this girl danced professionally from time to time, but I’m still amazed she focused on me. Maybe she just figured anyone that Rhonda would be talking to would be an OK Joe.

One of her other friends, not Rhonda, stops by and grabs her by the hand. “Let’s go dance,” she says.

“We’re going dancing,” my newfound 23 year old friend says, and motions for me to follow. I try to keep up, but the crowd is at max, and I don’t feel like knocking people down just to keep up with the girls. I then notice that her friend has pulled her passed the dance floor and is probably headed back towards the bathrooms. I sigh to myself realizing the friend is probably on a self appointed rescue mission, a mission to rescue her friend from herself and from me.

I continue to push my way past the dance floor, possibly to see if I can find Audrey again when I run into Mickey. “Have you been dancing yet?” she asks.

“Uh, a little,” I respond. “I was just looking for someone to dance with now.”

“Well come on then,” she says and pulls by my hand back to the dance floor.

The DJ has entered a Techno set, and while it is crowded and I’m having a little trouble getting enough space to dance well, I think I’m doing pretty good job. I have a pretty frenetic uninhibited style dancing to techno, and Mickey smiles at me largely when I look up from my high-speed jig. We dance probably 5 songs in a row, before she makes to rejoin her friend. I hadn’t been sweating much while dancing, but now that we’ve stopped my bow beads with perspiration to an annoying degree.

“Say would you like to go out for an evening sometime?” I ask as we exit the floor.

“Sure that’d be nice, why don’t you give me your number?”

I fumble around with my wallet looking for a business card, but come up empty, them I’m looking for any scrap of paper, eventually I write it down on the back of my emergency road side assistance card. I figure they send a new one every time I re-up my insurance anyway, or I can get it again later off of the internet. The pen quits writing once, and I have to shake it. I beginning to think perhaps I’m looking a little too excited and impatient trying to get the number down and in her hand. I would have asked for her number, but I didn’t want to go through the scene of trying to find something to write on again. I figure if it is meant to be she’ll give me a call. I’ve actually found this is rarely the case, but with Mickey it seems best not to push it anyway.

Now that Mickey is gone, I’m left look for another dance. I grab some napkins from the bar and dab my sweat away. I spy Audrey again at a table alone, she is sitting back to the dance floor with her head on her hand lost in thought.

“You don’t look like your having a good time, can I buy you a drink?” I ask.

“I’m not, but you can get me an Amaretto sour.”

“One Amaretto Sour coming up,” I say. It seems to be the drink of choice tonight.

I return with her drink in short order, having better luck getting drinks at the bar than I’m used to. Maybe the owners have started cracking the whip on the employees. It seems odd that they wouldn’t just naturally work as fast as they can during a crush, their money in tips far exceeding salary on a good night.

“So what’s up? Boy problems?” I ask, not really expecting that to be the answer.

“I just broke up with my boyfriend,” she replies.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, “and I hate to seem opportunistic, but I’m probably leaving here soon, maybe I could get your number and take you out to dinner sometime.” I had had it in mind to dance, but looking back at the crowded floor and with a retro rock set playing, I realize it would have been pointless to ask for a dance. It’s also getting close to closing time.

We exchange numbers, and I figure I’ll make one last pass by the cute girl from St. Louis. She and her friend have not rejoined Rhonda.

“Hey Rhonda I hope you didn’t feel insulted by my paying attention to your friend,” I say.

“Not at all, she really seems to like you.”

“I probably shouldn’t ask, especially since your other friend seems to be trying to save her from me, but could you give her my number for me?” of course I am asking and writing my number down on a napkin to hand to Rhonda.

“I’ll be sure and give this to her,” she replies pleasantly. I can’t help but think how much luckier I would have been had it been Rhonda expressing an interest in me.

There is probably about 15 minutes to last call. I’ve gotten in four dances with four very pretty ladies, so I decide to call it a night. I’m not really expecting anything to come of the three numbers I’ve handed out, or the one I’ve gotten, but I feel a certain confidence returning. In fact every women I asked to dance, danced with me this night. Like they say -- “age ain’t nothin’ but a number.”


*** Prolog ***

It’s almost a week later. Mickey and the Hot Girl have not called. I’ve called Audrey a couple of times, and expect to take her out this coming Monday, but I won’t count that egg until it’s hatched. I went out Wednesday and had a good time dancing again, this time at Lava, a dance club that has been around a longtime, though under a different name. I even DJ’ed Lava once, but that was back when it was still called Bradley’s. I plan on heading out tonight, Friday, to the Masonic, and probably to the High Dive again on Saturday. I could write up my Wednesday evening exploits has well -- but won’t -- I’m falling behind in living my life and getting it down on paper. As long as I’m meeting new women I’ll stay with this new routine. Should my charms seem to wear off again, I’ll try the internet and/or traveling up to Chicago or Indianapolis to meet women.

For those that read my writing in detail I have to come clean on one issue. If you look at my blogger.com profile you will see it reads 39. I probably should change it to read 46, my true age. Like a salesman trying to get my foot in the door, I’ve fibbed on my profile in case any women that might be passing through casually might take interest in me. For anyone reading this far into my writings I’ve probably no need to keep secrets, especially since I’m so brutally honest in these postings, including my true age.

If you are reading this close to the date of original posting it has not had much proofreading. As always be forgiving of my typos and grammar, I really have slapped this together rather hastily. Gotta hit the clubs tonight remember!

I guess this story needs a little preamble. I have not been writing these first person narratives for about a year now. I had been busy with other web projects and then there is that other annoyance – work. I had also been dating someone last spring, and I didn’t want to jinx things by indulging in Kiss and Tell at the time. After that came to an end in early summer, I just had lost the habit of writing down my social exploits. Then there was a total fiasco dating someone in late summer of which I will have to write about sometime. Then came a pointless string of dates with an ex that went nowhere fast. So after three failed attempts at some kind of relationships over the last year it was time to try something different.

Different in this case was going further a field than downtown Champaign, Illinois. Indianapolis and Chicago are about equidistant from Champaign, but once in Chicago it still takes an hour to an hour and a half to get anywhere interesting whereas it only takes 10 to 15 minutes to tool across Indianapolis to the downtown area. Add to this that parking is easier, cheaper, closer, and the clubs of similar size and quality. Indianapolis it was for a set of weekend adventures.

So we’ll skip my growing dissatisfaction with clubs in Champaign/Urbana like The Legion and The Masonic, Club Xtreme is out of business, and The High Dive has become some sort of annoying weekly fraternity like keg party. And rather than replay the whole last year, we’ll just rewind to three weeks ago.

Funny She Didn’t Mention You…

The day seems to be slipping away faster than I would like. It always does. I even got a jump on my Saturday earlier than usual. I suppose I could have just hit the road for Indianapolis or Chicago before noon instead of going to the gym, but I’m just getting back in good form having shed most of a few extra winter pounds, and I have discovered that if I don’t go when there is nothing interfering, it can lead to finding it easier to not go when it’s not so convenient.

Anyway it’s closing in on Three O’ Clock, so I decide Indianapolis it is, because I don’t even know where to head to in Chicago and by the time I get into Chicago and figure out where I would like to go for a little shopping it’ll be dark already.

That leaves deciding what to wear after a quick shower. My main concern is looking sharp for the club later. I would prefer to wear a casual ensemble, but it is easier to pick out something that works with a tie. With a tie, I also don’t feel like I have to put in my contacts, which I haven’t been wearing lately anyway, mostly because I’ve been too lazy to order a new left lens and am using an older, fuzzier, less comfortable one. I forgo a sport coat, of which I have two or three that I never wear. To be honest I don’t get sport coats. They look good when I buy them, they aren’t tied to specific slacks like a suite, but when I get them home I just can’t seem to find the right pair of slacks to pair them with. Of course I could by matching slacks when I buy the sport coat, but the purpose of buying a sport coat had been to leverage a closet full of pants, shirts and ties. Sport coats remain for semi formal company diners and events, where even though I might feel I have not picked the perfect combination, I still have most likely chosen better than most of my coworkers who chafe at anything formal. I have one suite, and that is saved for the rare meetings with clients, weddings, and of course funerals.

It is with embarrassing vanity I check myself out in the mirror on my bedroom door. I look sharp; at least I think I look sharp. I will no doubt look overdressed to most where I am going, but I don’t care, in fact this is a plus for me.

I pack a few items in case I decide to overnight in Indianapolis -- then hit the road. It is straight shot down 74 to Indy, so two hours of nothing but listening to AM Radio. I hate myself for not being more into music on long drives, but I have become a news addict, and scan the dial for news. Most of the Chicago stations come in well enough, but NPR has some higher quality fair, but it fades in an out along the drive. Not all NPR shows are interesting though, in fact of late only “All Things Considered” and “BBC World Service” are really worth listening to, but they are head and shoulders above most of the crap that passes for news here in the States. After listening to some Right Wing Conservative on a non-NPR channel for a while, who has made some good points, but then lapses into some incoherent rambling that throws logic out the window, I switch over to some NPR Lib whose logic is impeccable, but whose fact and figures I happen to know are wrong, if not in fact outright lies. This disturbs me more than the Right Winger working himself into a lather, as with the Lib you have to be up to speed on the facts to see what he is presenting is wrong, whereas for the Right Winger it will be the circularity of his arguments that tips you off. I sigh and shut the radio off and play with a math/programming problem in my head that I have been thinking about on and off for a couple of years. I’m no Einstein however, and I realize I’m unlikely to make much progress on a riddle that has stumped far better minds for centuries. Still it seems a better exercise of mental ability than crossword puzzles or word search (which you wouldn’t/shouldn’t be doing driving a car anyway). For those curious, I created a factoring algorithm some years ago, and have two or three key areas, that if I could improve, might be a real contender for factoring compound numbers over other methods. Unlikely it would do so in Polynomial time, which would be the real Holy Grail of Factoring, but I can dream. This all so much an aside to our story that I hesitate to put it down, but this really is what I’m doing in my head as I chug down the road towards Indianapolis. Ok, not chug. It’s a 2004 Sebring convertible, but it’s not a quiet glide either – too much wind noise. The whistling wind noise is definitely annoying, and there is also a dull thumping cloth noise from the fabric of the roof beating in the wind. Still my last three cars have all been convertibles, and when the weather is nice you can’t beat driving with the top down.

I have only been to Indianapolis five or six times, but I suspect the frequency will be going up to perhaps once or twice a month, at least until I’m in something like a relationship again. Still I have already fallen into a rut even here. I head downtown, park close to Circle Center, then walk to Circle Center for some shopping and time killing until its time to go dancing later. I would have gone to Gator’s, which used to be in Circle Center itself, but this large popular bar has closed its doors in the last year. I wish I knew more about this, but it didn’t seem to be for lack of business.

Circle Center is a much nicer mall than the one we have back in Champaign. It is probably two to three times as large, but less sprawling as it has four levels to Champaign’s North Park’s one. Some of this size comes from a Movie complex on top, more eateries, a very large arcade, and the Gator complex of bars, now closed but still taking up space. Discounting this, the number of shops in not much greater, though they seem to have a better match of items that I want in clothing and shoes.

I wander from one end of Circle Center to the other, musing to myself that if I continue to do this the full 3 or 4 hours I have to kill, that I will have probably walked 10 to 15 miles. I then realize shopping could be a highly effective form of exercise if pursued correctly. Against this though is the memory of a growing number of shoppers back home at places like Walmart that use electric powered carts to do their shopping. These are not disabled people on average, but grotesquely fat ones. They can almost certainly walk, but I can see the cavernous size of Walmart would be a strain for them. So rather than work up the sweat they so desperately need they plop down on electric carts, enveloping the carts in Jabba the Hut like folds of skin, and whir through the store throwing high calorie items in the basket on the front. Does the irony of this ever hit them I wonder – the negative feedback loop they have gotten themselves into?

I manage to loiter in the mall long enough to take the clock up to 9pm and it is time to go as the shops are closing. Much of the last hour spent looking at patrons in the arcade plying their superior video game skills. When I had been younger I would spend hours shooting at moving blips on a video screen, but these days I’m more a voyeur. Of special fascination is watching DDR players in competitive synchrony to various techno beats. For those not familiar, DDR is short for Dance Dance Revolution, a game you play by dancing in sync to symbols on the video screen that belt out which of the 9 grid squares your feet should be on. I had thought to see a movie, but the couple I had been marginally interested in had stated at about 8:30, so it is time to exit the mall and kill a couple of hours walking around the small area of Indianapolis I am familiar with close to the RCA Dome and Conseco Fieldhouse, the latter home to the Pacers. Spring is still a couple of weeks away, and the weather just cold enough to be annoying for a walk of any distance.

It is hard to say how many homeless there are in Indianapolis, but there are many. Some lay still on grubby blankets and sheets of tattered cardboard, backs to the street and sidewalk, their begging cups visible but un-held, they have complete fled the world. Others sit with cups in hand shaking, shaking; assaulting you with an unending rattle of small coins. Still others, those standing, inquirer of you in a loud voice if you have any spare change. You find yourself steeling for the passing of these lost souls, planning how and where to fix your eyes as you briskly walk on by so as to avoid accidental eye contact else they trap you with a gaze that seems to beg and blame at the same time. An unvoiced “You could be just like me” seems to come from each one, and you tell yourself “no, no, I would never come to that.” I am killing time before having what I hope will be a good time. This unsavory juxtaposition of human suffering elicits guilt. Still I imagine most of these people begging for money don’t know true suffering, at least not the in-your-face begging types. They wouldn’t know suffering like some child left orphaned by disease or guerrilla warfare, unfed and starving in some South Asian or African hell. My own father, who’d been crippled by arthritis and forced to leave the vocation he loved, had on average suffered far worse I imagine than whatever self imposed destitution had kept most of these people down. I dislike passing them by, but in it way it would seem unfair to give to just these few just because they push their misfortune in your face.

I had planned to walk farther and peer at the sights more, or perhaps find some small café to idle the reaming hour away until the club I had decided to finally go to, the Lotus, would be starting to fill. But the chill is getting to me, and the constant attention from beggars also began to insinuate its way into my bones. At some point you begin to feel as though they are a tax on walking at night -- that you have no right to walk their streets if you don’t plunk down a dollar or two into their cups or buckets. I had had it in mind to most likely from the beginning to go to the Lotus, I had been there a couple of times in the past, but was hoping my leisurely stroll might unveil some more promising venue. I’m really missing Gator’s now as it would have saved me all of this dithering and searching, checking the movie times earlier would also have been a good idea, so that I wouldn’t have just been killing time, but possibly being marginally entertained as well. Now I change direction mid-block and head back in as straight a fashion for the Lotus, it’s early yet for dance, but at least it will be warm and I can just sit and relax.

There is no line visible at Lotus as I get within eyesight, though the other clubs on the same block have a small early attendance. I have not made note of their names, but these other clubs are belting out tunes from the 80s and I suspect are filled with a clientele closer to the medium level tech or business mold I am from. I look through the windows as I pass by and see mostly knots of people like one would see at a company going away party. By and large they are even numbers of women and men in these groups, so I conclude rightly or wrongly these are not likely to be singles out looking for a possible love connection, but husbands, wives, close friends, and coworkers out to let off some steam and cheer on whatever is the local sports favorite. I have a vague longing to be part of such a group, but I’m not. They remind me of what my parents’ friends had looked like to me as a child, and I realize that somehow I have not quite transitioned into the grownup social animal I should be. I have no wife or kids, not even a failed marriage, this last would at least be a sign that I had tried to enter the world of social folk doing what society expects of me.

The cashier at Lotus takes little notice of me as he asks me for my five dollars, but there are a couple of other employees close to the door who seem to fix a special gaze on me. This could just be because it is early and there is no one else to look at, then again I am likely to be one of the few white faces in the club tonight, so they are most likely wondering if I have wandered in by accident.

When I go dancing, whether it’s back home or not, I usually seek out hip-hop clubs. There are other dance genres that I prefer, but I do like hip-hop. I have yet to find a club currently that plays just the mix I like, though there have been clubs in the past. What I really would like to find is someplace that plays a little techno, a little hip-hop, a little mainstream dance, and a little retro. I am more likely to end up dancing if I go to a hip-hop bar nowadays however, and since I’m looking to meet women this seems like a real plus. I’ve always had a certain attraction for women of color, which is fine, because to be quite honest most of the Caucasian women I would find attractive don’t seem to have the time for me these days. Skin color or ethnicity are completely unimportant to me in deciding whether I would want to be with someone, though there are some races that seem to produce a higher percentage of women I find attractive, most of this centered around petiteness.

There was a time I felt a certain apprehension going to establishments that catered mostly to African Americans. Over 25 years ago when roller-skating was not quite dead yet I had some friends suggest I attend some semi private parties over at Kimberly Pines Roller Rink in Bettendorf, Iowa. These were all soul parties (hip-hop didn’t exist as a word yet I don’t think). Then as now, I was likely to be the only white face in the crowd. I fit in however by not fitting in. I was a good skater in those days, and these days a good dancer I think. While I may be an oddity, I just didn’t worry about it and while dancing or skating just concentrate on letting myself get lost in the beat of the music. These days I don’t feel any apprehension at all checking out hip-hop joints, though I do take a certain undo pride in going places my work friends and colleges wouldn’t go.

There is plenty of time to ruminate on these thoughts as I sit nursing a beer I’ve just bought. A beer I drink more to just having something to do, than to just look stupid sitting like a schoolmarm prim and proper doing nothing but waiting and trying to look dignified. There are three or four TV screens visible in the downstairs bar; they have random fair on with no sound, which if they had sound would have had to compete with the DJs tunes from upstairs. No one is upstairs yet, and only five or six down. For some reason I have always disliked the random visual clutter of televisions with no sound you find in so many bars and restaurants. If there were some reason, some unifying theme, some tie-in they made to the bar or restaurant then they would not annoy. There seems to be some subliminal message that one mustn’t stray to far from the tube. Ironically I find them all the more annoying because I am actually watching them while I wait – shifting my eyes from one to the other as though I was actually following something, but in reality it begins to feel like some kind of surreal collage.

It really is not that long until people start to arrive, I get up and walk around, trying to look like I belong here. Not because I’m uncomfortable in the setting, but so as to look natural and relaxed should I meet some woman I would like to talk to, and not look like some out of place loner-slash-stalker. This also affords me the opportunity to decide whom I might like to approach later, and while not exactly come up with a pickup line, at least a reasonable greeting. It occurs this behavior has certain intersections with that of a stalker, but I’m pretty sure I am not usually perceived this way, especially since most of the women I offer to buy drinks accept.

At first the people who are arriving cluster downstairs, probably waiting for friends who should be close behind or like myself are waiting for some tipping point of attendance when things shift to the upstairs. Then it happens like some small dike that fails, a small trickle at first, then a steady stream up the stairs towards the upstairs bar and dance floor (OK, like a dike that fails, but the water goes up). I join the upward flowing stream myself and look for likely dance partners. It’s way too early for anybody to be dancing yet, a certain critical mass not achieved. I myself would have no trouble being one of the first on the dance floor, had I someone to dance with, but I dislike dancing alone, which for males has become a more and more acceptable practice, but one I rarely indulge in.

The layout of the club is long and narrow, but not ridiculously narrow like the High Dive back home. At the High Dive there is barely enough room between the tables and the bar for you to walk single file. Worse, once the High Dive fills up, groups of people talking take to loitering in these areas blocking your progress through, then give you rude looks as you try to shoulder your way past towards the dance floor. It is the normal state of affairs for some weird zombie conga line of people to form trying to make it from one end of the club to the other, but which can’t make any real progress for the knots of people who feel an isle way is a convention center. So there they all stand weaving slightly from side to side, looking for an opening to slide on by.


After a few back-and-forths from one end of the Lotus to the other, I find a place to stand by the edge of the dance floor. A few people have started to dance, so I am now getting ready to get serious about find someone to dance with. I leave my little stake of territory between a table and the edge of the dance floor to do just that. There are three women close to the bar, all attractive enough. Now comes the problem of deciding which one to ask. I could go for cutest, or I could go with most likely to dance with me. I most often go for cutest. Call me shallow, but without anything else to go on, why not start out with pleasant looks? Of course what I consider pleasant looks is not to say I’m out looking for a super model, and often I will pass on the more beautiful women, not because I intimidated, but because they wear their beauty in an off putting way that says they know they are good looking, and you better be prepared to impress them if you dare to talk to them.

I wait for a small break in their conversation, then break in with a “Hi there,” when there’s a lull. They all look, but I lock eyes with the one I’m trying to get on the dance floor. She says hi back.

“I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?” I say. This has become pretty much my standard opening line -- polite, common, but not corny or crass.

She thinks for a moment, then glances sideways at her girlfriends who give her a cryptic grin back that could either be he seems nice or we won’t tell your boyfriend “Sure,” she says, “I’ll have a Royal Crown”

“Royal Crown it is,” I say and make towards the bar, which is only 5-steps behind where they are standing, she turns and follows me, so I say, “I was hoping to get a dance later when things pick up,” over my shoulder, while striking a pose at the bar that says I’m ready to order.

“Sure I’ll dance with you,” she says.

“Ummm what’s your name,” I ask as we wait.

“Natalie,” she says, “what’s yours?”

“Larry,” I reply.

“Nice to meet you Larry,” she answers back and then gives me some kind of polite nod.

“So that’s Natalie like Natalie Cole?” I ask.

“Yah, my mom named me after her.”

The joint is still just getting going so the wait for the drinks isn’t long; I get Long Island Ice Tea for myself and hand her Crown.

“Thank you,” she replies pleasantly, “I’ll be sure to save that dance for you.”

“No problem,” I say and then watch her turn and retreat to her girlfriends without following her. I would like to dance with her now, or perhaps get to know her better right now, but I don’t want to appear too eager or intrusive. Had she been alone I would have immediately engaged her in a discussion, but she is with friends and I don’t want to be in competition with them. Anyway I have the promise of a dance later.

I head back to my little nook territory off out of the traffic, now with a drink in hand. Next to me is a man in a black tee shirt, arms crossed about his chest, staring intently out over the dance floor area, which doesn’t have many dancers yet, but does have lots people milling about with an anxious lets-get-the-show-going kind of energy.

He glances sideways to me, “How you doing tonight?” he asks.

“Fine,” I respond, “how-bout you?”

“Oh I’m doing OK,” he answers back then turns his glaze back to the crowd.

One thing about me is I’m not shy. So with this stranger having already broken the ice, I decide to start a real conversation after a small pause. Not to seem to calculating, it also looks good to have a friend at your side when your out dancing, and if this stranger is a regular that could help me cut the ice on gaining social acceptance here.

“My name’s Larry, I’m not from around here.”

“My name’s Ray,” he says with enthusiasm and thrusts a hand out for a hand shake.

“Ray… You must be getting a lot of comments about your name what with the movie Ray out and all.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot these days, I was named after Ray Charles,” he says. It’s just a coincidence, but it seems odd I should meet two people in a row named after famous musicians. Maybe more people are named after someone famous than I realize, and I have just never thought to ask. “So where are you from Larry?” he asks back.

“Champaign, Illinois,” I reply. “We’re the ones with a basketball team that doing pretty good this year.” Which is a bit of an understatement as the Illini have just finished an undefeated regular season.

“Yah I heard about that,” he says. “So Larry, first time here? What do you think?”

“Seems like a nice place, I’ve been here a couple of times before. It’s a bit of a trip for just a night out dancing.”

“So what brings you out tonight?”

“Oh, been in a bit of a rut back home of late, just got out of a dead-end relationship, felt like a change of scenery.”

“I hear that, “ he responds enthusiastically.

“So what do you do Ray?” I ask.

“I work here for security,” he replies unexpectedly and with a big grin of pride. He’s bigger than I am, but not a huge man like some of the other bouncers that have the word “SECURITY” prominently emblazoned in yellow on their black shirts. “I like to just stand back and watch, make sure everything is going OK, most people don’t know I’m security.”

I don’t inquire, but Ray is probably in his early-thirties, younger than I am, but older than the other security personnel are. Maybe he has some mid management title with the bar. It does seem like I saw him earlier talking to people around the cashier area that were probably employees.

We chat for a bit, I tell him about the Canopy Club back home where I moonlight occasionally, then make to prowl the establishment again looking for a dance. It is getting close to midnight now and place has really picked up. Ray feels he needs to head off to duties somewhere else himself.

I approach a table where a couple of cute girls have been sitting all night. “How are you ladies doing?” I ask. “We’re doing fine,” the one in on the left answers in a kind of polite but disinterested way. I decide to focus on the one on the right. “I was wondering if you would like to dance?”

“Not right now,” the one on the right replies, “but maybe later.” This maybe-later answer is not always a “no”, but nowhere as good as a promise or a save-you, which themselves are not really guaranteed yeses.

“And who would I be asking to dance later when I ask?”

“Tequeesha,” she answers almost embarrassedly.

“How about a drink Tequeesha?” I inquirer, looking to get a firmer feel whether my attentions are wanted.

“I’m fine right now,” she says giving her nearly full drink a stir, “but you can get me one later.” Since there is no maybe in the last sentence I feel a little better about getting to know her later perhaps. She smiles, and I realize she is probably way on the young side for me, but I’m more interested in the dance than really getting serious. I haven’t been dancing yet and I’m getting a little antsy. Her smile reveals steel or silver capped teeth symmetrically left and right on her upper set ether side of the front four. When I was younger this was the standard type of caps one might get on baby teeth. I’m not sure if this is some fashion statement or low cost dental work. She’s pretty and I don’t mean to over emphasize the caps. I just wonder to myself if they are a fashion statement. My last girlfriend Twanda wore a gold cap with a star cut out on her left incisor, gold cosmetic caps being a been a pretty common accessory for some since the early ‘80s.

I go back to pace about looking for someone to dance with. I ask a couple of more ladies for a dance but am politely turned down. I don’t want to appear desperate so I plant myself close to the wall and try and just enjoy the music. After some time I see Natalie exiting the dance floor in what looks like a hurry with a girlfriend close behind her. I hadn’t noticed her on the floor, but by now the floor is a completely packed square of writhing human flesh -- in fact a quite a bit past the density point that I find for pleasant dancing – so it isn’t surprising I didn’t see her.

She sees me and alters her trajectory to walk over. “Hey Larry why aren’t you dancing?”

“Uh, I don’t know, I’ve asked a couple of ladies to dance, but it just hasn’t happened yet.”

“Well lets take care of that right now,” she says, takes me by the wrist and drags me by the hand to the dance floor, giving a quick wave to her friend who seems to be angling for the bar.

As I had expected, the bodies around us press a bit too close to dance comfortably, but I do my best to be expressive with my body in the crush. She seems satisfied that I’m not making a fool of myself on the floor and we make it through two songs. I would have liked to dance longer, but at least two songs say it wasn’t a pity dance.

“I have to rejoin my friend,” she says.

“Well can I buy you drink on the way?” I ask.

“Sure,” she replies and we exit the dance floor.

“Another crown?” I ask as we get to the bar.

“Sure,” she answers, and I order.

“Um, I don’t know when I’ll be getting back to Indianapolis, but if you like maybe we could do dinner and a movie sometime.”

“I’d like that.”

“Here’s my business card,” I say “its got my cell on it.”

“Thanks. You got a pencil, I’ll give you my number,” she replies back before I get the chance to ask her for it.

“I’ve got my phone with me, why don’t you just type your number in.”

“I can do that,” she says, then adroitly takes my phone to punch the digits in.

The Royal Crown arrives in short order and I hand it to her.

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

“Well I’ve already had a couple of drinks,” I answer “besides, I’m driving back to Champaign tonight.” In fact I’m still feeling a buzz from the last Long Island.

“You’re not staying over?” she asks.

“Well it’s only a two hour drive back, if I get tired I take a nap at a rest-stop. I won’t drive if I’m too tired. If I’m really tired when I leave here I’ll get a room.”

“As long as your safe,” she says. “Well thanks for the drink.”

“Your welcome,” I reply “I hope you’ll save me another dance later.”

“I will, you have fun,” she says in parting, then I watch her bounce off towards the back of the club, presumably to rejoin her friend.

My mood is especially good now, but I’ve only been on the dance floor once and now feel it some kind of challenge to dance with at least one other women -- if only to not have to answer no, should Natalie ask me later if I’ve danced any more.

I make it back along the tables along the wall and see three men talking to Tequeesha. It could be my imagination but they look to be flirting with Tequeesha and are being turned down, at least two of the do. They leave after a short talk, and I angle in to say hello myself. It become apparent the third person talking to the pair of ladies is a Security person. In fact a huge one with arms that are enormous. He is probably my height or a little shorter, but hugely muscular with a little bit of a roll about the waist. A fact which adds to his physical presence a bit, as it is the kind of gut you see on real weight lifters and not pretty-boy body builder types.

He is sweating profusely for reasons I’m unaware and is pulling his shirt off to be in just a muscle shirt. He wipes his brow with the freshly removed shirt and turns back towards me, noticing me for the first time evidently as I wait for an opening to talk to Tequeesha, assuming who ever this Security person is, he will have to attend to duties elsewhere soon.

“What do you want? Why are you standing there?” he asks with an evidently irritated voice.

“I was waiting to talk to the young lady,” I say in a polite voice.

“No you weren’t,” he answers back.

“Excuse me?” I ask surprised.

“You should just move on off,” he says firmly, in a voice I can’t quite read.

“I was talking to her earlier and was just stopping by to see if she would like to dance.”

If his tone had been professional before it now lapsed down into something low with a tinge of malice. “The lady is my girlfriend, and you should just take off now.”

I probably should have followed this advice, but I don’t really believe Tequeesha is his girlfriend and that he is abusing his power as an employee of the club. Worse I particularly hate guys that speak for women like possessions. “Funny she didn’t mention any boyfriend when I talked to her earlier.”

“It’s time for you to move now,” he says, visibly loosing his temper.

“Maybe we should go talk to the manager about this…” I begin.

I might have gone on to say something more, but he cut me off with a quick motion saying, “that’s it!” grabbing me from behind by me belt and shirt collar practically lifting off the floor, then begins to charge through the club with me in front like the shovel on a snow plow truck. I’m not really concerned for my safety, but I have to spend all my energy on not falling face first as his persuasive pressure pushes my torso ahead of my feet. On the other hand I’m not trying to appear to be fighting him as I’m sure to straighten this out with who ever runs the club, though I can’t say these thoughts are coming to me in real time. Just not falling down will be good enough for now. People are making exclamations like “Damn” and “Watch it!” as we barrel through the crowd. Drinks are flying and I do have the distinct thought how wasteful this is, and how mad I would be if I were a patron who got spilled on during this confusion. Our progress remains unchecked even at the steps and now I’m really concentrating on not loosing my balance, as I expect should I fall I might just be left to bounce down the concrete steps headfirst. We pass more startled patrons in the stairwell, and the flight continues all the way to the front door where I’m ejected with a theatrical push that leaves me pinwheeling my arms to regain my balance. Just outside the door are two police officers who startle at my appearance, but other than standing from they had been sitting/leaning they take no action as I straighten up and take time to adjust my tie. I guess they are use to seeing bodies come flying out of the Lotus.

I walk up to them to explain my situation. There is no sign they would have approached me, but I’m still feeling wronged, and have a complaint to make. I also want to make it clear I’m not the troublemaker here, though there is no appearance they care.

“What’s up?” ask the nearest of the two as I approach.

“Well I just got kicked out of this club, and I’m not too happy about it because I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

The two officers, one white and one black, exchange a knowing glance like oh-sure-we’ve-heard-this-all-before.

“I’d appreciate it if you might join me in going in and talking to the manager.”

“I’m not sure what good that would do, I think perhaps you should just go home,” says the black one. He says it in a friendly way, but it is clear he just doesn’t want to see any more nonsense regardless of who is at fault.

“Look, I really didn’t do anything and if nothing else I’d like to get my money back.”

The white officer steps back to sit again and leave his younger and probably more personable college to deal with me. “Look, let me go in and talk to the manager, you wait here,” the younger one says.

After a minute a short black man probably in his late 50’s with a white stubble beard and a small old-fashion driving cap comes out to talk to me.

“Look,” I explain “I was waiting to talk to some girl that your bouncer claims was his girlfriend. When I told him she hadn’t mentioned him he went off on me, if nothing else I’d like to get my money back, because I definitely didn’t do anything wrong.” I’m still pretty flustered so I’m not sure how well I’m coming off.

“How much did you pay to get in?” he asks.

“Five dollars,” I reply and our conversation doesn’t go much further. He doesn’t press me for details.

“Wait just a here just a second,” he says, then turns to walk back into the club.

“The girl’s name is Tequeesha,” I blurt out to his retreating back to prove the veracity of my claim. “If I hadn’t been talking to her earlier I wouldn’t know that.”

He comes back a minute later with five dollars in his hand, and gives it to me without malice or apology. “That take care of everything now?” he asks.

“Yah I’m fine, thanks,” feeling vindicated to some degree.

“You OK now?” asks the cop also.

I feel patronized a little, but repeat “Yah, I’m fine thanks,” and make off to get in my car and go home. It’s just about 2pm Indianapolis time, 1pm back home. Getting my money back and having an excuse to hit the road an hour earlier really isn’t all that bad a deal. If nothing else I have a story to tell back at work that should amuse, since I think I’m one of the last people most of my coworkers would expect to get kicked out of a bar, nothing close to it has ever happened to me before.


Prolog:

I usually don’t have a prolog for these stories, and I’m not sure how much more there is to write relating to this topic. I apologize for the abrupt ending, but I got kicked out, got my money back, went home -- not much more to say. I went back to the club the next week, sort of a pride thing, so there could be a bit of a follow up to write. I have talked to Natalie a couple of times, and she has called me as well, though I still haven’t seen her again yet. I didn’t get pen to paper as quickly as I would have liked with this, so some details may be blurred a bit, or mixed up with my follow up visit, but I’m fairly sure this covers the events with reasonably fair accuracy and lack of bias.

I’m posting this without much proofreading, having kind have promised I would post this story soon. So if you are reading this shortly after I post it, I may make some correction later on, feel free to point out writing errors if you find any.

It's been a long time since I've written in my journal. The last 3 months or so I had been in a relationship of sorts. I wasn't sure how things would work out, and it seem prudent to not speculate so publicly and honestly on how things where going.

Long story short, things didn't work out. While I think this person had some feelings for me, I think they mostly saw me as a meal ticket. After breaking up with her, she was still asking me for money. The last and most disturbing of these requests was to be in exchange for "pussy payments." I did not take her up on the offer and requested she not call me again.

Right now there are three ladies interested in me, but they all come with huge red flags attached. One lives here in Champaign, Ill. Another lives in Danville (about 30-40 miles away) and another lives in New York City. This last one I have not met yet, but have a previous girlfriend who wants to play matchmaker. The one here in town is friends with my last girlfriend, so you can imagine the red flags there. And the one in Danville is so immature acting it is hard to describe, plus is constantly begging for money and gifts. She is by far the youngest, and I keep hoping she'll grow out of this annoying phase (a wane hope perhaps, since she is young compared to me, but no kid), so I haven't severed ties completely, but let her know constantly that we can only be friends for now.

That's enough for now. It may be a while before I write again. Most likely my next post will be a postmortem of one of these tentative relationships.

Another weekend has arrived. Weeks just seem to fly by these days. I'm not exactly sure why this should seem so. Perhaps it is because I have been writing with quite a bit of frequency, blogging actually. I could say more about this growing obsession, but it is not the only obsession I have lately. My weekend outings have become an obsession also. Now that I have an assistant of sorts doing camera work at the Canopy Club I'm able to get away much more often for a weekend of dancing. It now seems obligatory to go every Friday and Saturday.

I enjoy dancing, but job-one these days is really to find a girlfriend. The last four years has been a dessert in this area. I meet lots of women, I dance with lots of women, and over the course of the last four years I've dated lots of women, two or three of whom which I was in long platonic dead end relationships with that should have ended a lot sooner. Not because they were platonic but because they prevented me from finding someone who really wanted to be with me, and because they were just using me to various degrees, holding me at bay with an odd balance of flirtation, neediness, and disingenuous statements about their relationship seeking status. Ok, let's be blunt and honest about this: they claimed to be celibate and said they were considering me for a relationship, but were seeing others behind my back, while plying me for favors and gifts. Maybe I'm just a sucker for a pretty face, because even used as I was, I still can't help looking back and wonder might have been if one of these ladies had wanted to be in a real relationship with me. Could I have done things differently to makes things play out differently? It's all well and good to say if a person is going to treat you a certain way, then you shouldn't have been with them in the first place. I would like to believe that if someone truly lets you in, that you may have a positive effect on each other, making you both better people. Call it an idealistic fantasy to rationalize spending so much time and money on the wrong women.

That this should happen repeatedly to me these has to say something about the women I pursue, but I just don't seem to know how to socialize in any other environment other than a dance bar. I have said it before, but I'll repeat it here, I really need to leave this town. I don't think the problem is so much me, as this town. It is not really filled with attractive eligible professional women. Why this should be I'm uncertain. When I spend time in Chicago or Settle or Washington D.C., they seem bursting to the seams with the kind of women I would like to meet. Maybe it's all just grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side syndrome.

Friday Night
Fresh out of the shower and time to go. It's only 9pm, but I have promised to stop by The Canopy Club to check on some video feed connections. I park right in front of the building in a loading zone rather than hunt for a parking space. This close to the University they are often hard to come by. I don't plan on being here long, and while I have had a ticket or two, it's rare this time of night. Sisko and Steve both wave me a friendly greeting as I sidestep the crowd entering for "Jazz Mandolin Project." Things are quite a bit busier than I had expected, and hope there is no crisis that will take much of my time. There is no crisis, someone has managed to move one of our man projectors to the front bar, and get a main video feed to it. I'm slightly impressed. Not because this should be hard, but because it has been done in a timelier fashion than these things usually get done, and put on a freshly built platform professionally hung from the ceiling. I am not impressed long with the quality of the work, as the video both is a total disaster. I know I will have to rewire and reinstall all the equipment soon, but have no were near enough time tonight. I find Chad my video assistant, and show him what I am doing to make a few quick patches so that he can make a reasonable filming tonight. He is not to blame for the sad state of the equipment as far as I know, it mostly has to do with an ill conceived attempt by Jake the sound board guy to clean up the wires for the video area. This is ironic, because in the chaos that has ensued in emergency patches by Chad and Myself to get basic functionality back, the booth is ten times worse in appearance than before Jake tried to help us out. Sigh.

It's now only just about 10pm as I leave, having not been at the Canopy long, but I had expected to get into a little more work than I had. The fact is there is so much to do, I only do as little as was possible before escaping the mess that cabling has now become.

The Xtreme has become my regular haunt these days, my substitute for Main Two which is now a sports bar named "Guido's" and no longer has dancing. For a while my bars of choice were Masonic on Fridays and the Legion on Saturdays, but I save those as last resort these days. I usually have a good time dancing at them, but seem much more likely to run in to a desperate type of woman looking for a meal ticket.

The Xtreme is slow, but its only just past 10pm and I expect things to pickup. I order a Long Island and have a seat with a clear view of the front door so I can check out the women coming in. Thing is, there are no women coming in. The club has all of about ten customers. I nurse my drink and try to enjoy the music, but I am alone, and feel pensive to say the least. 11pm rolls around and things are still slow. 11:15 and it becomes clear to me the Xtreme is a bust tonight. I chat with Dave the owner at the door a little before leaving, make an apology of sorts for abandoning them on such a slow night, but I'm on my mission to find a woman. I drive over to the Masonic, but the parking lot is mostly empty -- very odd for a Friday at the Masonic. I don't bother to stop, and continue driving to the Legion, I figure if the Masonic is slow the Legion must be where the crowd has settled on. The parking lot at the Legion is even emptier. Considering that we are talking about establishments that can be jammed packed on a Thursday, and were on Christmas, I don't get how all three clubs I've visited can be so slow on a Friday. I'm sure one of the three is bound to pick up later in the night, but I figure the night is shot for me and head home. Might as well get a decent night's sleep, and save some money, rather than sit alone in a slow bar nursing a drink.

Saturday Night
My day off has gone quickly and time has come again to try my hand a socializing. After the bust the night before had been, I'm almost inclined to not go, but going out Friday and Saturday has become some self appointed job that needs doing until my labors bear fruit in the form of a girlfriend. Nicole has not called this week despite the amount of time spent together the week before, but she may already be on the way to Atlanta. Ammie has called, but I really want to resist opening that can of worms again. I had said that I perhaps should have given Ammie more of try at being my girlfriend, but her recent whinny calls about money problems, boredom, and unhappiness at work have convinced me I made the right call the first time around. She is pretty, and I don't have a regular woman in my life, my weekend work has become a race to resist temptations with a woman I know is no good for me in the long run.

It's a little after 11pm and club is fairly jumping when I arrive. Jade the hostess gives me a warm greeting. At one time I thought Jade had been interested in me, but I'm not looking at Jade as possible dating material any longer. The week before, I had finally asked for her number, but she turned me down politely. I'm fairly sure she had once wanted to date, and would have given me her number, but I suspect my friend Nicole hitting on her as we left one evening a couple of weeks ago had something to do with her changing her mind (yes Nicole swings both ways). Then again, maybe it's just because she sees me hitting on so many other women. I would not have entertained the idea of making a play for her if she had not made a big deal about letting me in for free a few times, and letting me know out the blue that she is divorced. Perhaps she has met someone new in the intervening week or two. Maybe she flirts with many of male patrons just to flirt, or to encourage return patronage. Maybe all of the above. I most likely will never know. One more word about the free admission policy, Jade had informed the doormen I was to get free admission and not have to wait in line in general. I didn't bother to try and collect on the favor she had offered the week after. She hadn't been at the door anyway, and I hadn't wanted to play it off like I was a big shot. I had Nicole on my arm, and just paid the admission. The next week Jade charged me admission, with a small apologetic gesture while not explaining the change. It may have had nothing to do with Nicole, maybe Dave, one of the owners, has laid down the law. Maybe things are tight money wise with the recent admission policy changes.

I hadn't hurried out after the previous night's slowness, but now I wish I'd gotten out maybe a half-hour earlier. Not so much because I have missed any excitement, but because I like to observe the crowd coming in so as to better focus my attentions on whom I may want to meet. Maybe this sounds a little too calculating, but I don't like muscling in on people that have already formed into groups or pairs. It seems rude. Much better to say hello early and offer the promise of a drink whenever they are in the mood to take me up on the offer. I wouldn't say I have a line, but I certainly have a practiced style -- good for meeting women, not so good for keeping women.

I make my usual sizing up pace round about the club and dance floor. "The Calmer prowl" (call-mer, as in my last name) is what they use to call it at the skating rink I used to work at years ago. My discrete stalking leads me to a group of four pretty women in a group, a couple of whom look familiar, but I'm not sure. They all look young, but must be over 21, as the club has changed its entry limit age to 21 about two weeks ago. This had the immediate effect of diminishing the crowd size, but I actually prefer a club that's not too crowded. It also makes me feel easier by not having to worry quite so much about how young a woman might be when I ask her to dance. A dance is only a dance, but wise or not, despite the fact that I do like to dance, my primary motivation in going out these days is to find a possible girlfriend candidate. 18, 19, and 20 year olds are just too young to waste my attentions on, despite the one crazed 20 year old in Danville that seems to think I'm the man she wants. Did I mention I'm trying to resist temptation?

I'm inclined to approach the prettiest, she has a certain elegance and pose. She also has sexy legs that show off well in the mid thigh length skirt she's wearing. I hesitate to approach however, it isn't that I'm shy, but she looks young, and if I've hit on her friends in the past, it seems likely I'll come off as some kind of desperate lonely barfly. I'm not sure that would be far from the truth. One of her friends makes for the bar and after a short pause she makes for the bar too. What the hell I think to myself, easier to offer a woman a drink if she's already close the bar.

I offer to buy her a drink, but she declines politely, but seems more than amenable to talk and says she will take me up on the offer a drink later. She'd only followed her friend to the bar to assist her friend, not because she was in need of a drink at the moment. Her name is Jameala, a speech communication major at the U of I. We have an animated discussion that perks me a bit. I don't expect much to come from meeting Jameala, but it makes me feel less awkward and out of place to have a pretty girl pay attention to me, if only for a short chat while her friend is rounding up drinks.

Tawanda and some female friend of hers that I haven't met before show up. This is the Tawanda that is a student at U of I, not to be confused with another Tawanda who dips into and out of my life from time to time. I don't have this Tawanda's phone number, and while I don't remember asking for it, I pretty sure I must have asked and been rebuffed politely. It has a dull echo of something done. Then again I ask a lot of woman for their numbers - I lose track.

Other than Jameala, I haven't talked to anyone else yet this evening, nor asked anyone to dance. I look around and don't see anyone new I want to meet so head towards Tawanda and her friend. I think Tawanda was just been being polite in dancing with me the first time I met her, and don't really expect much attention tonight. Then again, nothing ventured nothing gained. My rule about only being on the look out for possible girlfriends goes out the window with Tawanda. It's still an ego boost to dance with a pretty girl. And while Tawanda my not be interested in me as a suitor, she displays a lot of class and consideration for my feelings when others try to cut in between us.

To my amazement both Tawanda and her friend, who I learn is named Neesha, seem glad to see me, and when I offer a drink there is no hesitation by either in accepting. The three of us head towards the bar, while I remind Tawanda that she hadn't seemed to like the first drink I got her the first time we met. She assures me it is only because it was so strong. She now seems to have a well-practiced confidence in ordering something she'll like. Quite a change for only two weeks, but I have to allow for my first impression being wrong. I ask in what seems to be not too awkward a fashion, whether Tawanda will be dancing tonight, at which point the girls ask if I would enjoy with both of them. The banter has a certain Penthouse Letters tone to it, but I don't expect the ending will be worth sending off to Bob Guccione.

With drinks in hand we make it back to the dance floor, and it isn't long before Tawanda indicates she's in a mood to dance. We dance about one song and Neesha joins us. I've danced with two women before, but this is a little different. Usually when you dance with two women it is with a crush of mutual passion, a sort of abandonment of inhibitions. Tawanda, Neesha and myself are dancing close, but for the most part not touching. I am finding it hard to figure out whom to concentrate my attentions on, and I can't be sure but I almost think it is a competition between Tawanda and Neesha for my attentions. I don't think either girl sees me as anything more than someone to dance with, but I can't quite figure out the underlining vibe of what is going on.

I notice we are drawing the looks of a few guys on the side of the dance floor. Every now and then one of them will walk up to Tawanda or Neesha to whisper something in their ear, only to sulk off a couple of seconds later after the girls shake their heads no. It is easy to see an irritated anger rising in these younger me, perplexed by the older white interloper doing quite well with a couple of the more attractive ladies in the club.

We have been dancing the majority of the night, but the DJ hits a clinker, and we stop for a while. Tawanda suggests I get us so more drinks and I enthusiastically agree. I try to take both ladies' order, but have a little trouble getting it over the noise of the music -- we're right next to the speakers. Neesha volunteers to help me get the drinks, she and Tawanda are both having the same thing. We have to wait at the bar a little bit for our drinks so we begin to talk. I tell her if I remember correctly that I have asked her friend Tawanda out, but have been turned down. She's perceptive enough to ask if this is a lead in to asking her out, and answer "yes if that doesn't make me too much of a dog." She assures me it doesn't and says she would like to go out with almost a little too much enthusiasm. But she informs me, she has some complications in her live currently and it would best if I give her my number, and she will be sure to call.

We finally get our drinks and head back to the dance floor, only to run in to Tawanda coming towards the bar. I apologize for our tardiness, it really is a wait to get drinks. I notice my apology doesn't seem to register, and she has something else on her mind. She exchanges some words with Neesha and they make for the bathroom together. Nothing to do with me I'm sure.

We hook up at the backend of the dance floor a few minutes latter. Neesha asks if I would like to dance and we do. The men I had noticed earlier approach Tawanda. She looks unconcerned, so I let it go. She's not really with me anyway. Tawanda comes out a little latter dance with me, Neesha heads to the sidelines. I'm beginning to feel as though I'm being tag teamed. Now it's Neesha's turn to talk to the knot of men I mentioned. Her body language is far more relaxed than Tawanda's however, and it is clear they are friends of hers in some way.

Tawanda and I stop dancing and head to the sidelines. She seems unhappy about something, and I ask her what about. She assures me it is nothing. I tell her it's not my intention to pry. I worry I might be hovering a bit too much so excuse myself to walk around a bit and giver her some space. There is an attractive woman dancing on the sidelines, and she seems to be giving me a come-over look. She is dancing with or for some younger guy in a wheel chair, but is also stroking and dancing with other men close to her. She is definitely being an exhibitionist. I stand close by acknowledging her gaze, but feel a bit weird about moving in a girl who is in the company of someone in a wheel chair. While she is being a flirt with the other men, it is clear she has fixed her attention on me. I ask a lot of women to dance, but it is rare to see the evident interest so clearly before I ask. Finally I do ask, after the man in the wheel chair seems to give some kind of go-for-it hand gesture from where he is seated. It seems a bit odd, that two different men I don't know have encouraged me to ask women to dance tonight. But its not all that odd, in fact now that I think about it, this is advice I've gotten often from men I don't know or have barely met while standing on the sidelines checking out the crowd. I think this probably happened more often to me than others, but I'll save the speculation for that for another time. I rarely need the encouragement anyway. She agrees quickly when I ask and presses in close to dance in a much more intimate fashion than Tawanda and Neesha had been. After a dance or two I offer her a drink, she wants "An Incredible Hulk" whatever the hell that is, something green I've no doubt. I get her a drink and ask for her phone number as I hand it to her. She thanks me for the drink, but informs me she is from Chicago and only visiting friends. I think to press her for the number anyway, Chicago being only a two-hour drive, but think better of it. I've had my dance, and she doesn't seem like the kind of person into serious relationships anyway.

I'm alone at the edge of the dance floor when Jade comes by. I don't know whether she's on company business or just on the way to the restroom, but as she walks by she coos "How you doing Larry?" She reaches up and briefly strokes the nap of my neck pushing her fingers deep into my hair. Then is quickly gone. There seem to be enough women to flirt with me, but I expect to be leaving alone at the end of the night. How I can so consistently attract the attentions of women at a dance club, but not have a girlfriend is amazing to me. I don't think the two are mutually exclusive, but there's some connection I haven't quite figured out. Maybe I'm just spoiled by having had a girlfriend whenever I wanted the majority of my life -- I certainly don't have a girlfriend whenever I want now.

I make my way back to Tawanda and Neesha. The knot of men I mentioned earlier is close by. One of them, one who I'm pretty sure had been saying disparaging things about me earlier, is motioning that I should ask the girls to dance. It seems an odd turn around, and one I'm suspicious of. He comes over and asks why I don't ask the girls to dance. I explain I have been dancing with them, and if they want to dance I'm pretty sure I'll know. He makes some remarks that I can't quite hear all of over the music that I got be a man and step up, let the girls know who's in charge. It seems odd advice since his own advances haven't landed him many dances this evening. He has a sort of main stream young urban good looks going for him, so it seems odd to me also that I should be the belle of the ball instead of he.

One of his friends (and this is just an assumption) is pressing in close to Tawanda, and placing his arm over her shoulder. She is shying away from him a bit, and lifting his arm off her shoulder, but not really fighting him off. She seems uncomfortable under his attentions, but I also see she could be pushing him away more forcefully if she chose. I come to stand close by, ready to interject should things get out of hand. Tawanda sees me, and seems to glance my way with an apologetic look on her face a couple of times. The man, a bit larger than me, dressed in some kind of yellow sports jersey is obviously trying to be persuasive and charming, but in a bit overly and unwanted way. At some point he leans in very close and Tawanda is ducking down and pushing his hands away. Enough I finally figure, and lean in slightly to tap him on his shoulder to get his attention. He looks at me and I put my arm between him and Tawanda. "I think the lady would like a little space," I say. I know I have his full attention.

"Who are you?" he demands.

"Just a friend." I answer firmly, but not belligerently, and continue with "I can't really hear what's going on and just wanted to check that the lady is OK"

"You touched, me. Who gave you permission to touch me?"

The irony of this question strikes me immediately, as I only barely tapped his shoulder to get his attention, not wrapped my arm uninvited around his neck as he was trying to do with Tawanda. "Just trying to get your attention, not trying to disrespect you," I say.

"What business of this is yours?"

"Like I said, just checking on my friend," I reply.

His replies have a certain bully-cliché sound to them, which stiffens my nerve that I'm doing the right thing. I'm not so much concerned about whether some guy would take a swing at me in a bar. Only that I be completely and unarguably in the right. I almost wish he'd haul off and take a poke at me. I just wonder what it would feel like. I've never hesitated to break up fights at the other bars I've worked at. It was always simpler to do than I would have expected. I don't think it is because I'm so imposing, but most people are reluctant to continue a fight when someone is prying them apart, probably glad for the face saving excuse to have the fight end and still appear to have been man enough to be in one. This of course would not be me trying to stop a fight but finish one if it happened. I also figure if you're gonna get in a fight it might as well be in a bar where people are likely to step in before either one of you really get hurt. I'm not so sure my courage would be so evident if we were alone in an alley.

I step in close so that we are practically nose to nose, so has to make it clear that while my words are conciliatory, I'm not backing down to let him have his way with Tawanda.

"It doesn't matter if you're some kind of cop or not, this isn't any of your business," he says.

The cop comment takes me a little off guard, coming out of the blue as it does, it's an accusation I get quite a lot in the clubs I frequent. I'm not sure how to play it. I usually deny being a cop, which I'm not, but that never convinces anyone I'm not a cop. To most suspicious minds if you deny being a cop, this proves you're a cop. There's no winning this one. I can only assume these accusations come from people who would have good reason not to like cops.

"It doesn't matter what I am, I'm just making sure my friend is OK," I think I stammer a little, but the music is loud and my body posture is firm.

Tawanda motions to me. "It's OK," she says apologetically. She motions for the jersey-wearing guy to calm down as well.

I'm confused whether I'm being a bore or not, but the guy in the yellow jersey turns away. I hadn't been scared of the looming confrontation, but now that he has turned away, I feel my legs begin to shake, and have to concentrate to keep the quaking from becoming apparent to those around me. Was I scared and hadn't realized it? I hope it is just the rush of adrenaline now taking it toll, now that the cause for the rush has gone away. I remember once almost being struck by a car, and having the same leg shaking experience afterward.

I apologize to Tawanda for if I was interfering where not wanted. She accepts my apology but explains she can handle the situation and doesn't want there to be any trouble. She seems visibly torn over the situation, and I am slowly realizing she and Neesha have some complex relationship with the knot of men that had been giving me the evil eye earlier.

Neesha is now dancing with the guys I thought had been looking my way belligerently earlier. Tawanda is talking to the man in the yellow jersey again. I decide its time for me to go. Not because I'm intimidated, but because I have played my roll as the knight in shining armor, and the ladies have chosen to keep company with the dragons. Maybe they are just trying to protect me. I'm sure both Tawanda and Neesha like me, but have strong social connections with the group of younger men.

It's getting late. I think about leaving but make one more trek around the club before leaving. A young girl comes up to me to give me a toast. She toasts some other males next to her as well. It seems clear she's mistaken for being among a group of people she has recently met.

"I'm not with your fiends, but thanks for toast," I tell her.

"Oh sorry," she says, looking around with a little lost look.

"But I wouldn't mind buying you a drink or having a dance," I say hastily before she goes off to find the group she came with.

"That would be nice," she says, and I realize she has an accent I can't quite place.

"What would you like?"

She looks puzzled for a second and answers "A beer."

"Any particular kind?"

She shrugs with an I-don't-know gesture. I begin to realize she's struggling with the language especially over the loud music. She probably isn't familiar with American beer selections.

"A beer it is," I say and off the bar I go. I return quickly, and she accepts the bottle with a grateful nod. We begin chatting and I find she is from Peru, she gives me her name as well but it doesn't stick, I'm not quite sure I hear it correctly over the loud music anyway -- it seems to end an "ah" sound. I don't ask her to repeat it since basic conversation is a little hard to start with over the language barrier and loud music.

We don't chat long and R. Kelly's Steppin' in the Name of Love comes on. I ask her if she knows how to step. She shakes her head no. I explain it's a simple side to side step and show her a little example. She shakes her head no again with a little laugh. I myself know Steppin' is both easy and hard. A simple step once acquired, but requires an almost syncopated timing that can be tricky to catch on to.

"You can just do dance however you like, it doesn't matter," I say persuasively, she nods agreement with a smile.

We begin to dance, and I find I'm steppin' in good form, far better than when I dance with Nicole, who is a much better stepper than I. Without having to concentrate on matching someone's moves like Nicole's while steppin' it's much easier for me to just follow the music and improvise. The Peruvian girl I'm dancing with is dancing OK, but definitely not steppin'. Sometimes it's nice to be the better dancer. On average most women are better dancers than men are - especially the good-looking ones.

We dance to a few more songs, and suddenly the music is over. We make our goodbyes and I give "?-ah" my card, telling her to call me if she would like to go out for dinner sometime. It seems unlikely she will call, as she quickly enters into animated discussions in her native tongue with her group of friends who are reforming now that the night is over, about three women and five men. Still I can hope. I'm sure she would come with far fewer complications than the American women I've been dating or trying to date lately would. It seems likely Neesha will call me later, but I'm unsure that will be a good thing. Tawanda would be my first choice to date and get to know better, if I had the choice. I suspect Jade would be the best bet for making a relationship work, I think she respects me on some level as being both a person with a professional career, but handling myself in a club as well, plus being in the same business to a degree. These are just idle speculations on my part, more fantasy than real observation.

I still have part of a Long Island Ice Tea as I head for the door. This one plus one I hadn't gotten to finish earlier because someone had cleared it away before I was done with it make for only about one and a half drinks over the course of 3 hours. But Long Islands are strong, and I realize I have a little more of a buzz than I should have. I'm tempted to down the remainder, it had been flavorful, but think better of it. I rarely drink more than two or three beers when out, or the occasional Long Island. I find it a little disturbing that just an half a Long Island more is enough to get me so close to my safe limit (if not beyond). I'm certain I'm one of the more responsible patrons the Xtreme has, I shudder to think how many people are driving home juiced up two or three more times than I am.

Another weekend come and gone. At least this one had been different -- I'd almost been in a fight.

About Nicole
I had forgotten to mention last time that Nicole had called me Wednesday and we went last minute Christmas shopping. It seems relevant to mention that Nicole does not have a drivers licence, and while she contacts me every day now, I'm not sure what her intentions are. Almost certainly they are not to make me her boy friend. She describes her life as complicated, but I can only speculate what this means. She is also leaving Champaign, Illinois for Atlanta, Georgia on the 11th for nine months. This seems an odd amount of time, and she tells me she's not pregnant. I think she said something about the reason, but It wasn't an in depth explanation. I think she has family in both areas, so perhaps this is just the way she lives her life.

This is getting a little off track, but let's shorten this by saying I'm not sure Nicole is interested in me, or just having someone to give rides, buy drinks, buy presents, and give the occasional small pocket money. Nicole works in a Nursing Home as a CNA. I would assume she makes a living wage, but she smokes and likes expensive liquor when she drinks. She drinks often and to excess in my presence, but I don't know for sure that she is an alcoholic. I'm sure by many definitions she is, but she is not an out of control nonfunctional variety. During the day and at her job she seems alert, professional, and sober. But I am no expert on alcoholism.

Friday
Nicole calls and wants to go dancing. We start at the Legion, but the Legion is slow, then again we have arrived early, and for the time business is relatively good. We dance, but are practically the only ones to do so. After an hour or so it becomes apparent the crowd isn't getting any larger, in fact it's getting smaller, so we decide to head to club Xtreme. We dance, and I see some familiar faces, but it is a rather uneventful night. Much as I hate the uncertainty of not knowing whether I will have someone to dance with or even meet and talk to, I guess it gives a certain air of adventure to an evening as well. Gambling would be boring if you always won. The outing also gives me an excuse to bump into the cute hostess again, who I learn is named Jade and claims to be a part owner in Club Xtreme and is recently divorced. I restrain myself for asking for her number here and now out of some kind of respect for Nicole and because I don't want to appear to be too big a dog. I'm sure I will see Jade again soon.

After dancing is done I take Nicole home, and offer to walk her to her door, but she assures me she is fine. I wait in the car long enough to be sure she gets inside OK and head home. I'm not sure how to feel about Nicole. We don't seem to be getting closer, but staying on some kind of warm simmer interrupted by brief infrequent stirrings.

Saturday
There was no promise of going out again Saturday, but Nicole calls about 9pm and wants to go catch Xtreme's early Salsa program which goes from 8pm to 11pm. It turns out Main Two's Salsa DJ has taken his Friday Salsa show to Club Xtreme. I'm not dressed for an evening out, but dress quickly and pick Nicole up. She wants to hook up with her cousins, so we drive over to there uncle's and wait in the car for them to arrive. Her uncle comes out to say hi. He seems a friendly enough man, but has a certain overly familiar, affable, distracted air that I associate with alcoholism. He also proclaims proudly that its his birthday. I would peg his age at anywhere from forty to fifty, and muse that perhaps he is younger than me, though he gives of an older worn down with life vibe. Half of what he says I can't really follow, but he complements me several times for taking good care of his niece Nicole. He asks Nicole if he can come dancing with us to celebrate his birthday. She doesn't say no, but I wouldn't say she encouraged it either. He then disappears into his house to ask his wife for permission. In the mean time Nicole is getting bored waiting for her cousins to show, so suggests we go to Piccadilly a local (national?) liquor store chain. She asks me to buy a bottle of Rhemy. The week has already been expensive in gifts and drinks and admissions, so I balk at buying another $50 bottle of liquor, but she pulls out her own money without argument or rancor and says she just wants a fifth. I'm not familiar with how much a fifth is, so I go in with the twenty she presses into my hand. It turns out a fifth is the size bottle I normal buy, so I get the cheaper brand of Rhemy for $35 and put in the difference. When I get the car she is surprised at the size of the bottle, she hadn't known the size of a fifth either and had really wanted a half pint. I take the bottle back and get a half pint and a refund. A half pint of Rhemy is ten bucks, I give her back her change.

We go back to her uncle's to wait in the car some more and she pours a small glass of Rhemy for herself. She offers me some, but I decline. Not so much because I am driving, though that's a good reason, but because straight cognac is too strong for me, I dislike the burning sensation on the way down. Finally a sharply dressed man knocks on the window, gray suite, red shirt, red shoes. I assume it is one of her cousins but it turns out to be her uncle again, who has cleaned up rather nicely from his dirty ball cap, rumbled flannel, and jeans. Her uncle works on cars at his home, and I think it is implied this his only living, and he had probably been tinkering with something in the garage when we first met.

Finally her other cousins arrive and we make our way to Club Xtreme. On the way in her uncle Charles pulls me to the side to ask for some money, so as not to be embarrassed at the door by having someone else pay for him. I press five dollars into his hand, but I'm getting a bad feeling about the whole outing.

With all the waiting around there isn't much time left for Salsa. The Salsa crowd is pretty small in any event and the few dancing are not cutting a rug with quite the expertise the Salsa crowd at Two Main had when Two Main still had dance. It turns out Club Xtreme has recently hired the Salsa DJ that had worked Two Main, but the Salsa crowd hasn't found its way to CX yet. Nicole's uncle Charles pulls me to the side again, explaining he would like to get some drinks for the ladies, but he wants to be able to pay for himself. He also doesn't want Nicole and her other cousins to see me giving him the money so he asks me to follow him to the bathroom. I dislike following Charles to the back bathroom, but I'd rather give him some money than make a big stink. I try not to follow directly on Charles heals, but I can't help but feel the whole thing looks like I'm following some pusher to get a fix. There are a couple of guys using the urinals and Charles pulls me into the one stall. Nothing suspicious looking about two guys entering a toilet stall together I think to myself grimly. I'm sweet on Jade and I'm negotiating to DJ with Dave one of the other owners; it wouldn't pay to have either of them think I'm into shady dealings. I press twenty into Charles' hand, and he promises to hook me up with some fine ladies. "Stick with him and we'll both do real good," he tells me. I can't help but think about how I am on a date with Charles' niece and he's promising to ply me with women in exchange for a sawbuck or two. I also think how ironic Charles needs his wife's permission to go catting about. No doubt she expects Nicole to keep him in line somewhat, or thinks him too pathetic or broke to attract other women.

We get back and Nicole pulls me to the dance floor. I'm no Pedro Gomez, but I manage to pick up and put down my feet to the beat of the music. Still I'm a bit uncomfortable and clumsier dancing than usual, I always am with Nicole. Nicole always leads, and while her moves are smooth, I just can't seem to find a natural way to follow, which always throws off whatever natural rhythm and grace I have.

Salsa ends and Hip-Hop starts up. The club is now starting to come alive and filling up quickly. I buy Nicole and one of her cousins a drink. When I get back someone is try to press his attentions on Nicole. I hang back, but strike a firm pose that I have arrived back with the drinks. He looks over, and shakes his head. The music is loud but I'm pretty certain I hear him say "Ah, sister, don't go there..." then sulks away. This is a phrase I've heard more than once in the past. Nicole thanks me, and seems genuinely thankful I was there to stop some unwanted advances. She complains especially that before I had gotten back he had touched her hair.

Between dances with Nicole, I try to avoid Charles annoying attempts to ingratiate himself with me, even as he panhandles me for money. To be fair he is asking me for loans, but I don't know Charles, don't expect to see Charles again anytime soon, and don't expect to get repaid. While Nicole dances with a couple of other men, I excuse myself to go talk to the owner about my upcoming possible DJing gig. This is actually a lie, as I really want to feel out Jade the hostess for if she is interested in me, but the more pressing motivation is to just get away from Charles. I feel a bit like a two-timer, but I know Nicole is not going to be my girlfriend, she's leaving to live in Atlanta early in January, I'm unsure whether she is only interested in me for my wallet, and her family, well a least Charles, are not people I want to get to know. It's easy to rationalize my borderline sleazy behavior.

I push my way toward the front of the club and Jade greets me with an easy smile. We quickly slip into conversation. Jade not only claims to be a part owner in the club, but tells me her and her ex-husband (who are still on good terms) are into a number of business together, including a chain of Gyro restaurants. I give her my business card. She makes to give me hers, but is interrupted by a fresh stream of customers at the door. She asks if I'll be around till closing, and seems to want to talk more and or I assume give me her number in kind.

I rejoin Nicole, her friends, cousins and uncle. Charles is agitated. He says he has lost the twenty I gave him, and his wife has arrived, and he wants to buy his wife a drink on this his birthday. I give him another twenty, and he thanks me with a little too much sincerity, and promises me a drink with the fresh twenty, I ask for a miller lite. He disappears for a time, and then I see him on the dance floor. Soon someone is motioning in our direction, it's Dave, and he has some drinks. It would seem Charles should see him, but he doesn't come over. I sigh, and motion for Dave to let me pay for the drinks.

I don't remember buying Nicole many drinks, but she had had some Rhemy in the car and by 1am she is staggering a bit. Her cousins suggest I take her home, and get her home safe. I see it as an escape of sorts, and quickly make for the exit with Nicole. While we had given a ride to Charles, I assume he will be riding home with his wife, though what mood they will all be in by the end of the evening is a mystery to me. Though Nicole is obviously a little loaded, I can't help but wonder if the early exit has been more orchestrated to save me from Charles.

On the way out the front door Nicole pauses to lean over and have a rather long conversation with Jade, as Jade writes something down on the back of a business card. Nicole has confessed to me that she likes women, so I have no doubt she is making a play for Jade, who she has commented looks quite attractive to her earlier in the evening. I'm not sure if this is good or bad, the thought of a possible future threesome flashes through my mind if I play my cards right. The irony of us both hitting on Jade hits me also, and the possibility that Jade will see me in diminished lights if she is not into Nicole's advances. The future will unfold as the future will unfold. I don't worry about it and am still thankful for the early retreat.

When I get Nicole home she asks me if I had a good time. I tell her not really, but that it wasn't her fault, mostly that her uncle was really wearing on my nerves, though I leave out his panhandling as I tell her this. I have to steady her to get the door, once inside I help her take off her coat. She gives me a hug, and then somehow things change. We kiss and Nicole leads me back to her bedroom. We both begin to get undressed, but before the cloths come off completely she turns off the lights. All the lights. With the door closed it is pitch black. Again I will not get into very graphic details, but the love making seems to be good for both of us. I think sex is better for Nicole if she has a little buzz on. It takes me a little work, but we make love three times. I wish for the body of a younger man to more enjoy Nicole's surprising lust. Once it is over, I can't help but wonder if part of it is to apologize for her uncle Charles behavior. I also wonder whether the sex is better for her with the lights off. Perhaps she is fantasizing I am Jade. Maybe she is uncomfortable with her own looks, which would be silly because she is very attractive, and perhaps of a little too much importance to me, quite thin.

I dress and make to go, we hug a little, and she purrs some promises for us to get together again soon and will call tomorrow.

Sunday. Nicole does call, but I miss the call, my phone on low ring for some reason. I return her call but she is already busy with something. Just as well I think to myself, the weekend was expensive enough and I am tired enough, that I look forward to just lounging around my apartment and watching some more episodes of OZ on DVD.

Another weekend come and gone, the last one of 2003.

For better or worse my social life has been in high gear the last few weeks, so much so I am having troubling chronically things in a timely fashion (no doubt things will be settling down soon), even so I have a bit of preamble to get out of the way first.

I am aware that my journal has some small number of readers now, though most have not been offering comments. Some of my earlier entries had a couple of courtesy replies after commenting on other blogs, but now my blog has become an object of some minor curiosity at work. Definitely a case of be-careful-what-you-wish-for. This undoubtably will have an impact of how much I wish to disclose about any given situation. I am also dithering over whether I should be using real names. While I haven't used any actual last names, I worry about how well someone might react to something I have written if they are the subject. Perhaps I should have started off with a completely new account other than DumbSwede, which has several links back to my true identity. Perhaps the knowledge that there are people I know reading this will center me to an appropriate amount of discretion. I do have a number of personal demons to deal with that may be illuminating on my motivations and how I've come to be where I am. Someday, most likely here, there will be a full accounting of what these are, but for now assume you are not getting the whole story.

One last thing before getting started with this week's events. I apologize for any obvious and glaring problems with my writing. I am trying to crank these out rather quicky and I find I do not like the grammar-checker that comes standard with Word Perfect. I will be switching back to Word sometime soon. In the mean time (and beyond) any and all are invited to leave grammar or typo correcting comments. I suspect even if I go back to Word, it will not enforce a consistent tense usage from sentence to sentence. A word to word-processor writers, I would like to be able to color code my sentences by tense.

And now... on with the Show!

Tuesday
I had called Yolonda on Sunday, and we had agreed to a Tuesday dinner date. I call her at about 4:30 before leaving work, she had told me to call before after 3:30 which is when she gets off work.

"Oh shit, I forgot," she says "I'm at Midas right now getting my car worked on, I'll give you a call when I'm done."

I go home and putter around the house a little, I call her number again at 6:30, but just get the answering machine. I leave some message about calling me so I know what the plans are, but I am already not expecting a return call.

Sometime latter in the evening Ammie calls. I don't think I have mentioned Ammie before. Ammie had wanted to be my girlfriend on two previous occasions, and I was more than willing to be her boyfriend, but things went bad. Maybe the problem is in going from zero to committed in less than ten seconds.

I met Ammie at The Canopy Club on a Hip-Hop night when I was DJing. Ammie is young, real young, like 19 years old young. She was hanging along the back divider area of the club by the sound booth and video booth areas. I was just finishing up my set, and was free to roam about a bit. My friend Bennet was working the sound board next to my video both and he was more than amused when I moved in to talk to this girl less than half my age. I will have more to say about Bennet and some complications with another recurring player in the drama my life has become, but that is as the say "another story."

Ammie is cute, and flirty, and pleasant. I think one of the reasons I can't seem to give up DJing is the fantasy that something would happen like...well just like what happened in this case. Ammie no doubt thought I was a cooler guy than I feel by virtue of my DJing in one of the more successful clubs in the Champaign/Urbana area. Now it has been something like six months since I last heard from Ammie, and I don't remember how long we actually dated the first time (it wasn't long), but I do remember one extremely wearying weekend that ended it. I could give long drawn out details, but won't, maybe some time in the future when the present is a little less interesting. In retrospect I probably should have worked harder both times to make things work, not because it was a great relationship, but because I was soon to learn relationships are not necessarily easy things to come by, and while there are women who are willing to trifle with me, Ammie seemed to be the only one really interested in me.

The conversation with Ammie isn't long and has a weird deja vu feeling: me apologizing again for hurting her, though not promising that things will be different.. She gives me her new phone number, and I'm left wondering how badly used by others she is, that a man twice her age, who has dumped her twice and gives her no real promises, seems to her like the best bet she has for happiness. Maybe it's like the old Groucho Marx quote "I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member." I'm not sure which one of us is Groucho.

I'm not off the phone long with Ammie when Nicole calls. Nicole wants to know if I have any good movies to watch and I would like a visitor. I ramble on a little too long about how my collection of movies is probably not up her alley, but that we can pick up a movie. She assures me that won't be necessary, and a few minutes later I'm picking her up. It's about 11:00, we go back to my place and are barely there when she asks if I have any porno videos. I don't have many on DVD, but I do have a few. I have dozens on BETA that I recorded and watched often as a younger man, but the internet has replaced any occasional need I have for porn, and by occasional I mean nightly.

I fire up the porn on my ten foot diagonal projection system, we flop on to my water bed and are soon akimbo in arms a legs. I suppose I could give more graphic details, suffice it to say I feel I acquit myself a better lover this time round, but still the love making is clumsy. I have a decent release, her I'm unsure of, it's sometimes hard to tell with some women. I offer to do more for her pleasure, but she declines pleasantly enough, saying she is fine. She has been over only a half hour to an hour and she tells me she has to work the next day. We both dress rather quickly, and it would seem almost as soon as it is started we are done. I take her home a little confused that she isn't staying the night. She'd brought no change of cloths so this would seem to have been her intent all along, just an itch that needed scratching. Oh well I tell myself, it's a work night anyway. I allow for the possibility (large possibility) that she just doesn't find me a satisfying lover, but the idea doesn't bother me overly much. It has been my observation over the years that if a women doesn't care about being satisfied by you, then there is little you can do that will satisfy her in more ways than one.

Wednesday
I get a call from Tawanda, the Tawanda I have known for sometime. She hasn't heard from me lately and wants to know how I'm doing. I tell her fine and suggest we go out to dinner or a movie sometime soon. She agrees, but we make no firm plans.

Tawanda has always run hot and cold on me. Again I could give a long complicated history. I really like being in Tawanda's company, but I don't hold my breath that her on again interest will lead to anything meaningful before it is off again.

Thursday
It's Christmas Day, 2003. No work. I do a little work around the apartment and four loads of laundry. I watch movies most of the day, and finish up my longest blog to date "The Name Game." The day would seem to be over with no thought of elves or jolly old men in red or world saviors being born. My apartment is devoid of any clues that would betray the season.

It's getting close to Midnight when Nicole calls. She wants to go dancing. I express doubt any place would be open or have much business, but she assures me Club Xtreme will be hopping. I tell her by the time we get anywhere, it will be close to 1am, and the night will be just about over. She agrees and lets me go. She calls back about fifteen minutes latter, she really, really wants to go dancing, so I acquiesce. I throw on some clothes, just some jeans and a flannel shirt, definitely not my usual going out duds. I don't even put my contacts back in, but just grab my glasses. It's not so much that I'm in a hurry, but that I am lukewarm on going out. Nicole has also commented on how rarely I ware jeans, so I figure I give a little more gritty Larry.

I pickup Nicole, who is already a little buzzed after Christmas celebrations. We get to Club Xtreme a little before one, and Nicole is right about it hopping, but there is a long line outside, and it is obvious we have little hopes of getting in. I can't help but notice the line, or more accurately disgruntled jumble of people crowding the crowd control ropes is all male. We change plans and head over to the Legion. The Legion is also busy, but no line. We get to the door, but the doorman informs us there are no more entries. Nicole protests a little, but the doorman is adamant, so we again head out in search of some place to dance. This time we try C-Street. C-Street is a self avowed gay club, but has a sizeable straight patronage also. There are a lot of stories I could tell that start at C-Street, but not here, not today. We find a parking space right in front of the club. There are plenty of cars around on the street, but no line in front of the club. So we assume we finally have hit pay-dirt. We get to the door, but there are only a few bodies milling around inside, someone leaving explains that they have closed early, normal closing is 2am, and it is only a little after 1am.

Joe's Brewery, C.O. Daniels, KAMS, we try all the campus bars one after another in quick succession -- all closed. Based on C-Street, and with U of I out of session, they probably all made the smart call. I'm surprised Club Xtreme and the Legion are doing so well, but they have a reputation for having a good Thursday, and evidently their regulars are a good seed crowd for people seeking to escape the holiday or celebrate it in a more nontraditional way.

I take Nicole home, no itch to be scratched tonight.

Phew, that's enough for now. Coming up: A Nicole Weekend.

I had meant to get a jump on this journal entry, and started to write some notes as the weekend progressed. I tried stating this entry Saturday, and then again on Sunday, but the words just didn't flow or convey any sense of reality or meaning. I looked back at my earlier postings, and while they are not great literature, or in many cases even gametically correct literature, they do seem to have some kind of voice. So here I start with a complaint about trying to find my voice in hopes it will return. One other whinny little note, I find I'm struggling with tense a little bit in these weekend documentaries. Past tense would seem to be the obvious choice, but present perfect tense seems to come more naturally, and I think I have flip-flopped a few times inexpertly and incorrectly. Perhaps I should have paid more attention in English class.

Friday
I am suppose to go out Friday night with Attila. She had called me earlier in the day, expressing a desire to get together. I get off work at 6:30 and call her. She is busy with something, and says she should be ready in an hour or so. I call again at 8:00 and she is braiding her hair and says she will be ready to go in about an hour. I call a little after 9:00, and she still isn't quite ready to go. She tells me to tell her where I will be and she will meet me there. I have some errands to run, like dropping off wash, and tell her I will call her once I figure out where that will be. The errands do not take long and I return home. It is still a bit early to be sitting at a club waiting for a dance crowd to arrive, besides Attila had said she wanted to shoot pool when she had first called me. I call her for a last time about 10:00 and tell her we should meet up at OTB (Off Track Betting) for pool, and to just call me when she is ready to hit the door. By 11:30 the call hasn't come. I had already called four times, at times she had chosen to coordinate a date she had suggested. I finally leave for the Masonic. I have my phone with me, but it never rings. I had been tepid about going out with Attila, and actually am thankful for an excuse to beg off in future. I can only assume Attila had been equally tepid about me.

The Masonic is very slow when I arrive and there don't appear to be any interesting faces in sight. I make to leave when a young man of slight build and stature walks up to me to compliment me on my vest. I am unsure if this is genuine praise or mockery disguised as praise. I had become a familiar face at the Masonic, but am on a very small list of white patrons, and perhaps am overly sensitive expecting some kind of racial slight. He seems to have some other questions about my vest, but stops talking suddenly and hurries off without explanation. He turns out to be the D.J., and has to queue up the next song before the current one ends. I make to leave again, but not before a female friend of his informs me her friend the DJ really wants to know where I bought the vest. I had had the vest for several years, vests as accessories where probably more common then. I had bought several, some quite bright and flashy, though this one has a muted maroon pattern , but which I think goes well with my maroon shirt and black dress slacks. I don't recall where I had gotten it exactly, and tell her so, I also tell her it is several years old, and that in any event they probably don't make them anymore.

I spend only about 10 minutes at the Masonic, then take off for The High Dive. It's getting close to midnight. I peer through the window into The High Dive, but the dance floor area is virtually empty. This is almost unheard of at the High Dive, but U of I is between semesters, the college kids back with friends and families in Chicago. Champaign and Urbana townees are probably too busy themselves with pre-Christmas plans and activities to make a showing too. Club Xtreme is also slow for this time of the evening, but it isn't empty, so I go in.

Once inside I start my usual casing, looking for familiar faces, or more hopefully interesting women to meet. The first woman I approach is named Tawanda, which is the same name as another women I have dated recently, but this is my first time meeting this Tawanda.. She is easily the cutest women in the club, and I offer her a drink which she at first makes to turn down, but her hesitation in saying no gives me an opening to cajoling her into taking advantage of my generosity. She follows me to the bar where the bartender focuses on me, but I waive him to her with a whatever-she-wants gesture. They exchange some words which I can't catch over the loud music and he pours a drink that is a mixture of something clear and something red, all I know is that it's pricy, but I don't care. She takes a sip and grimaces, obviously not caring much for whatever it is. I tell her that she doesn't have to drink it, or I can have the bartender fix it more to her liking. She demurs, takes another sip, grimaces again, though maybe not as severely. We walk back to the dance floor, and I find out she is a U of I student studying speech communications. Her real home is Chicago so I ask why she is not back there for the holidays, but can't quite catch the answer over the music, I ask her one more time, but fail to catch her response the second time as well, so let it drop. She had been sitting stiffly before I had come over to talk to her, and she still sits hands on knees, in an almost schoolmarm fashion, though her cloths are quite fetching, and reveal a well rounded bosom. A bosom I must take pains not to stare at. It is not the size, but the tastefully well crafted cleavage that beckons. Her face is round, but her chin sharp, and gives her an innocent angelic look. I have little expectation this woman, most likely half my age will be leaving with me. I long to be in her presence, but I also don't wish to be wearying with my presence, or obnoxious with unwanted attention, so I get a promise of a dance later, and make for further rounds in the club.

The woman who had briefly danced with my friend Apollo the week before is there, and I put her on the short list of women I might ask to dance. I meet a girl named Shanice at the bar, but she turns down a drink, but not the possibility of a dance later. In quick order I meet Patrice, who definitely promises a dance later (though later comes and goes with no dance), Joy who "might" dance later (again a dance later never comes). Camea has arrived, who I had met a week or two ago, but appears to have given me a wrong number. I am now repeating names over and over again my head to keep the women straight. I have never been good with names, and resort to a simple memory trick of associating some object or event with the sound of their names. Tawanda with a wind up toy (to wind a), Shanice with she's-a-niece, Patrice with patting rice. Joy with "Joy and Pain", a DJ EZ Rock and Rob Base tune. Camea sounds similar to the Crimea. It occurs to me, I'm almost making work out of trying to have a night out.

I go back to Tawanda, she is still sipping slowly, ever so slowly on the drink I had gotten her. I had commented on how stiff and uncomfortable she had looked earlier. I'm sure she has things on her mind unrelated to me. She's at the club alone, so possibly a falling out with a boyfriend. She seems to make up her mind about something and takes me by the hand out to the dance floor. I wouldn't say I was in my best groove, but I guess I was dancing OK, and we danced several songs. Towards the end, a taller, younger man comes over to dance with Tawanda at the same time, or more accurately to lure Tawanda away from me. She allows him to dance a few beats behind her, but then shifts, indicating she is dancing with me. I would be lying to say I had never lost a women to another man who had moved in on the dance floor. In fact, in probably the majority of these situations, I am left dancing alone, and feeling a bit humiliated, but not today. I wouldn't say my ego swelled however, instead I just have a weird feeling of appreciation that here is a young women who takes into account the feelings of the person she is dancing with. Then again, maybe I'm just the "safe" dance, and she doesn't want the attention of the younger, bolder bucks. We finish dancing, and perhaps with a little too much sincerity thank her for not dancing off with the other man, as I always find that a bit insulting with it happens. Of course this is an admission that it happens.

I make the rounds a few times and finally decide to ask the women that had approached my friend Apollo the week before, with a sort of half tease dance step, only to danced away from him seconds later. Her name turns out to be Yolonda, she's probably in her mid 30's, and teaches third through fifth grade. We dance a few songs, and before the end of the evening we exchange phone numbers.

The rest of the evening I don't well remember, not because the first part of the evening was so memorable, or because I had gotten drunk, but because it blurs into being like some many other weekend nights before. Most of my charm with women seems to have worn off (if it had ever been there) and I leave a little early.

Saturday
I call Apollo up and suggest we do the town. I don't suggest we go out because Apollo and I are such close friends, and not because I think he is a good luck charm in meeting women, but just to break the rut that going out has turned into recently.

We were to start off at Number Two Main, which use to be my favorite club, but which had closed for remodeling and had just recently reopened. I wasn't expecting it to still be a frequent hang out, and only suggested we start there out of curiosity. I already knew they had abandoned dance on Friday and Saturday nights and gone to an upscale sports bar format. I got there before Apollo, and paced around the entrance way. The place is not crowded, but they have customers. No where near as many people as would have been there normally, but then it is the last weekend before Christmas. The timing of the remodeling always struck me as odd, much better to remodel over summer, when you wouldn't loose as much U of I business. There are several large flat panel wide screen TVs around the bar, most showing ESPN. The booths, tables, carpeting, woodwork all look very nice and upscale, not that the place had been a dive before -- far from it. But the remodeling tab is sure to have been several tens of thousands of dollars at a minimum. If their grand reopening is to fewer customers than they were having before the remodeling, I can't help but think the current owners will take a huge loss, and may never see a profit from the bar. Then again, there is some huge city structure being erected across the street, and perhaps they are making the smart long term bet.

Number two main had had a rather unlikely crowd of regulars Friday and Saturday before the remodeling. At five it was usually filled with business attired people, and the music tended towards jazz and blues, at seven a DJ would begin to play Salsa and an enthusiastic group of Salsa devotees would crowd the small dance floor area, which wasn't even a real dance floor, but just bare asphalt tile. At 10:30 there would be a changing of the guard and the next DJ would play Hip-Hop till closing. By 11:30 the place would be jam packed to capacity, half still business types, the other half urban townees. I am chagrined that I reflexively use code words to describe the crowd, by urban I mean mostly black. It had been the biggest melting pot in the city by far, and despite the fact the business had appeared good, they must have had some fights, and worried what reaction the city would have if things continued as they had. The city can just decide to pull an establishment's liquor licence for failing to control a crowd, and a bar owner has little legal recourse if this happens -- you just have to accept that you are going out of business.

The bar now has a couple of pool tables where the dancing use to take place and I notice the area is carpeted. This is significant because it says there is no going back to dance. The area would have look just as nice or nicer if it had been redone with wood, then the pool tables could have been moved out of the way when needed for a real dance floor.

Apollo shows up and I tell him we probably don't want to stay at Number Two (insert whatever scatological humor you want here), I have seen what I came to see, but we make a quick sweep to see if there are any ladies that might be worth striking up a conversation with. Most everyone is paired up in the club, or in tight little groups of friends, all except for two very passably attractive ladies playing electronic darts. I ask Apollo if I should approach them and strike up a conversation. He is noncommital at first, but finally agrees I should after I press him for a yes or a no. It must be apparent by now that I'm not shy about meeting women, but this isn't a dance club, and I now find myself awkwardly waiting for the right moment to approach and say hi. Apollo seems mildly amused at my indecision as to the best time to approach, as I mumble something over and over about timing to excuse my stalling. Finally there is a break in the dart action and I assume the game is over. I walk briskly over, trying not to look as though I'm rushing and ask "who won?" It turns out I don't know much about electronic darts, or darts in general for that matter. The game is far from over, especially as it turns out these girls are not very good at "cricket" which is the dart game they're playing, a very common one, and one I've never heard of. All I know about darts is that you throw them at a dartboard.

It turns out that Apollo knows "cricket" and several other dart games. The girls agree to play us once they finish their game. Their names are Abbey and Isabel. Isabel is short and Asian, Abbey is average height and blond. Abbey seems the friendly of the two, and seems to enjoy our company, but Isabel is the more talkative and animated. She asks what Apollo and I do for a living, to which we answer we are computer programmers, and to which she opines that she is sorry for us. She quickly realizes she might have given offence, though in all truth Apollo and I don't care. We defend our profession, but perhaps a bit too much. Isabel it turns out is a psyche major at U of I. The girls game goes on for at least fifteen minutes, until one of the girls at last concedes. There is some subtlety in finishing "cricket" with points over or under or something. A subtlety I don't quite get. They surrender the dart machine to us, and scoot off. Its unclear to me whether they are on some kind of schedule to meet other people, or are just ditching the clueless programmers. If the latter, they were tasteful enough not to let it show.

It's now 11:30 and we head over to Club Xtreme. The place is crowded, far more than it had been the night before, but we get in with only a short wait, which is good, because neither of us is bundled well for standing in the cold. Apollo pays his cover, but the hostess refuses my money saying that it's free because I have been to the club three nights in a row. I hadn't come out this last Thursday, but I don't argue with her. I wonder to myself how firm a policy this is. The hostess is cute, but not a kid like most of the club patrons. She could be anywhere in her thirties, and I wonder to myself if she is attracted to me, the free admission a not so subtle hint. I don't want to make an ass of myself, so I don't approach her this night, but make a mental note to flirt with her a little the next time I come out to get a feel for her intentions. As I mentioned in a previous post, I think I've gotten a reputation as a big spender at Club Xtreme, usually dropping anywhere from $30 to $60 in free drinks for ladies I know or am trying to get to know. Perhaps this is the reason for the special treatment at the door. $30 to $60 may seem like a paltry sum for those used to going to bars in the big cities, but for Champaign/Urbana, Illinois, this practically makes me a philanthropist.

Apollo and I quickly head for the sidelines of the dance floor area, and I point out a few women I would like to dance with. Lori and her sister (Shaboz?) are at the club. Lori is 20 years old, with a birthday coming up in February and way too young for me for sure, but then again most of the women I chase are too young for me. I should explain that in the Champaign bars, 19 and 20 year olds may enter though not drink. In Urbana they allow 18, 19, and 20. I usually look for a red stamp on the back of a woman's hand, indicating that she is at least of drinking age before approaching, but I wouldn't call this a hard and fast rule. I have danced with Lori several times in the past, and even had her phone number, though strictly as a friend (I think she suggest we exchange numbers). She claims to really be fascinated by my dancing style, and finds it hard to believe a white man like myself can throw down. I think she just likes to see the faces of her many younger admirers as she dances with the uninhibited older white man who seems to have no shame. She is also not shy in asking me for drinks, which I shouldn't admit to buying, but she'll be 21 soon, and I doubt law enforcement will track me down just based on this posting. When I was 18, the drinking age was 18, but this isn't something I bother rationalizing my largess with. She's cute, she dances with me, it's hard to say no.

My friend Apollo is just 30 (and perhaps looks even younger), and it wouldn't be such a stretch to see he and Lori together. In fact I think he has a strange fascination with Lori and her friends, and perhaps a wistful fantasy they might end up together. Apollo is shier than I am, and perhaps more reserved, but Lori and her friends flock around him now when we run into them, but perhaps this is more like birds flocking to a bird-feeder, as Apollo now plies them with drinks in my stead. Though I like Lori, and it is a real boost to my ego when we dance, I'm glad for a little relief from being their sugar daddy.

When I had first met Lori, I had ended up giving her a ride home a couple of times (I don't remember how this came about) though I remained a complete gentleman, I think I did entertain some fantasy that Lori would be mine someday. I was working the Canopy Club much more often back then, and was the first DJ up on the Hip-Hop nights. I wasn't the main draw or attraction, but unlike the other DJs, I was there every week. Good enough to be a regular, but not the main event. Then again, my format makes me a good warm up for the crowd. I do all music video (so really I'm a VJ). I'm not a scratch mix or beat mix artist, which is what really got the Canopy Club Hip-Hop crowd dancing (I use past tense here, because Hip-Hop night was suspended this summer, after about a year long run). I sometimes felt a little like the man behind the curtain in OZ, because my video both is well back from the main stage area where the other guest DJs perform. A majority of the crowd probably didn't even realize I was DJing the first half of the Hip-Hop nights, maybe they assumed the videos where some kind of canned feed. Lori came by often on these nights and usually said hello, even if I was usually too busy doing my job to pay much attention to her. I never bought her drinks at The Canopy Club, since I could ill afford to be breaking the law where I actually work. I am probably the most straight laced worker the Canopy has, I haven't even tried pot in all my years in this world, and have no intention of starting now. This really makes me a minority in the club scene, especially as a DJ, and I assume most of my co-workers at the Canopy smoke often. The Canopy Club has one of the more notorious reputations as being a refuge for tokers. They have a lot of modern rock bands headlining, and to say many of these acts are pro-pot is an understatement. Many lighting up on stage -- of course one never knows when this is sincere rebellion, or a sham with tobacco.

On one of these Hip-Hop nights Lori made sure to introduce her boyfriend to me. We shook hands, and I doubt Lori was trying to send any kind of message to me, but I couldn't help but note the distracted and amused look on the face of her boyfriend. He seemed to have little interest in meeting me, and all I could see was an arrogant little shit. I don't think I let my disdain show, but I stopped having any fantasies about Lori that day. It wasn't that Lori was now unavailable, she certainly should end up with someone younger than me, but why someone that has the outward appearance of some penny ante player or gang banger? Maybe my assessment is unfair or colored by my desire for Lori, but the man's body language was not that of an upstanding citizen, or someone that respects and treats women well.

I hadn't seen Lori's boyfriend by her side in months, I doubt they are still together, but I don't plan on making a play for her. She's not shy, and I think if she ever wants to get to know me in a more than platonic way that I'll know. Maybe Apollo will have better luck than I.

As I said, I was pointing out women to Apollo. One was in a tight fitting white top which showed just a line of bare midriff. She was very curvy, and very attractive, maybe just a bit on the fleshy side, but in a way which a young busty women can pull off to good effect. Call me cynical, but I see a women like this as almost irresistibly attractive now, but a time bomb waiting to put on fifty pounds over the next ten years. To my utter amazement she waives to me and rushes over saying "How are you Doin'?" I must know her, and she seems familiar, but I can't attach a name at all. I think to myself how is it possible for me to know this strikingly attractive woman, and not only forgotten her name, but the dance or shared drink or long conversation that had probably brought us together as well?

"Are you gonna buy me a drink?"

"Sure," I almost stammer.

"Two cranberry and vodkas?"

"Sure," I say again, though I worry a little about getting her multiple drinks straight out of the starting gate. Cranberry and vodka turns out not to be too expensive, and I get off cheaper than other drinks I usually end up buying for women. She grabs a drink in each hand, and then motions for me to follow. I have a Miller Lite in my hand (no product placement intended, but hey Miller, feel free to send me a check), and she immediately starts in dancing. I don't like dancing with a drink in my hand, but she has one in each hand, and it would look foolish for me to put mine down, so I try to incorporate it into my moves, taking a swig from time to time.

All the time we dance I rack my brain trying to remember her name and it never comes. We finish up after a few songs, and I'm feeling my ego swell a little. I wish I could remember her name. Certainly I would have asked for her number when we last met, so if it wasn't on my phone, she must not have given it to me. There is a vague memory that maybe she told me she didn't have a phone, but I have heard that a few times, and can't say for sure if that was what she had told me the last time we had met, or whether I really have any true memory of her at all. I would like to try for her phone number, but time, circumstance and the crowd keep us separated the remainder of the night. Normally I would not let this stop me, but I just can't remember her name, and figure it would be rather futile to admit this and then ask for her number.

Now it has been the case that I have had many occasions to admit to a woman in a club that I have forgotten their name. In most cases they feign being a little insulted, but in almost all these cases, they can't remember my name either. My rejoinder is almost always "well then I don't feel guilty", which I always follow with a well practiced smile.

I look around but have lost track of Apollo, I wander back to the bar area and finally find him. There are a couple of women by the bar that seem to have captured his interest. I ask him what's up, and he confesses he is thinking about trying to meet the shorter of the two women, a redhead, perhaps just little on the plump side, but certainly not fat, and a very, very pretty face. She is a natural redhead with the pale skin and freckled shoulders to go along with it. Apollo tells me he has a special weakness for redheads. I can understand this, as I have a weakness for redheads too, though I also like exotic women, especially black or Asian. I encourage him to go up and say hi, but he can't seem to bring himself to do it. I ask if he would like for me to make an introduction? Perhaps he finds this a challenge to his manhood, and walks over and offers her a drink, which she accepts. Way to go Apollo I think to myself, then saunter off in search for a woman of my own.

I see a short woman who seems very familiar. I ask her name, which see informs me is Sandy, in a little bit huffy fashion. Another forgotten name. In quick succession I meet Rachel, Merion, and Veronica, but none of these meetings leads to a dance. Perhaps I seem overly transfixed on getting a dance, but when you go out dancing, the point would seem to be to actually dance.

I finally meet a young woman name Tiffany, who is more than willing to start in dancing. She starts off by rubbing her butt up against my crotch. This is a dance move that has become more and more popular over the years, and not one that I shy away from. She is not all that tall, but the motion is just above my nether regions, and therefore not as stimulating as it could be, and I wonder to myself if I should have a hard-on, which I don't. If I were a teenager, this type of dancing would probably have brought me to climax all by itself, now I worry it betrays me as not being viral enough. I can't help but wonder if the whole point of this dance style is to test a man's assets in arousal. We finish up, and I offer her a drink, which she accepts.

Most of the rest of the night is spent pacing the perimeter of the dance floor, but not dancing. I talk and flirt with various of the women I have met during the evening, but little seems to come of it. There's still a half hour to go, and I now take it as a challenge to dance a least one more time, or meet someone new, or get a phone number. Perhaps this is all a little too goal oriented and desperate, but I don't care, and perhaps feel I have to put on a good show for Apollo, though I have scarcely seen him through out the evening. I start to dance with Tiffany again, but there is a surge at the front of the club over by the bar area and the music stops. The DJ gets on the mike and starts the people-people-people-let's-not-fight mantra. I can't really see what's going on up front, but it is clear the evening is over, and the DJ finally announces so. I hang back as the bouncers shoo people towards the door. Tiffany has hurried over to a group of her girlfriends, and at least one of them is being partially restrained by the others, in an obvious attempt to keep her drunk self from getting trouble. I see the group includes the girl in the white top and Camea. So of this group of five woman, I had hit on the majority. I keep looking for an opportunity to ask Tiffany her number, but the problem with their drunk friend keeps me from approaching. This small group of woman and myself are about the only ones left on the dance floor, though the bar area is still crowded with stragglers slowly making their way to the door. Finally the bouncers shoo the girls towards the door as well, I following in their wake and finally ask Tiffany her number which she gives, but which I have to ask for a couple of times over the din of people and I'm not sure I get it right. It still feels like mission accomplished so I catch up with Apollo just outside the door and we exchange a few comments on the night, which by Apollo's lights I think he considered a success.

That was the weekend and it is now Thursday, Christmas day. Three separate women have contacted me out of the blue this week, but you'll just have to wait for my next entry for the details. This entry is more than long enough, and has taken too long to get composed to stretch it out any further.