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Red Shoe Diary....
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I spent the last week at my parents house. And, one night, while I was
munching on the free food and beer, I spied a video tape simply labeled,
"Nick." Well, I wasn't certain which tape this was, so I popped it in and
sat back to watch the horror unfold.
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Well, it would appear that this
particular tape was of a play I was in my senior year in high school. It
was some silly Shakespeare parody in which I played Felix Unger Caesar...
The famous anal retentive ruler of Rome who lived with a sports writer.
Surely you've heard of him? Anyway - in the opening scene of the play I was
wearing a bright yellow shirt with different colored fishes on it, blue
jeans and a pair of bright red canvas boat shoes. (These were my own
clothes.) My first thought upon seeing this fashion disaster was... "I had
a
girl friend back then?"
Now, ten years later, a smattering of women and romances, I'm without the
famous shoes and am currently, humbly single... Replying to wedding
invites, Nick, party of one. And as my friends join the wonderful world of
matrimony, we line up the fellas for their farewell departure from the
world
of the single, unattached guy. The guys take their friend and say goodbye
to
his honey for the evening and have a secret rendezvous. That's right, I'm
talking about going to the nudey bar. I'm talking about taking your buddy
out for a night of debauchery and layin down the greenbacks to see the bare
back of a hoochy shakin the money maker for the daddy mack. I'm talking
about going out to see women's naked parts.
Now, nothing stirs the emotions of women like the discussion of other naked
women and their man. "One woman should be enuff'" and other arguments spew
forth like a fireman's hose and any man caught in this line of fire knows
he's going to lose. There is nothing a man can say to defend a trip to his
local house of "Live Nude Women." On that same argument, no man should
ever
try. It's the fastest way to dig a hole you will never crawl out of. You
may as well just buy a plane ticket to China, rather than dig your way
there.
But, despite the arguments and discussions and picket lines and divorces,
it
doesn't change the fact that going to the nudey bar is really fun! I don't
know why, but going to some place where people walk around naked is
fascinating. "WOW, I'm fully dressed enjoying this cold beverage and I can
see your.... um.. uh... *sip beer* .. um... I guess that was worth a
dollar."
Ladies, men are not there to fall in love. They go to be stoopid. They go
to
embarrass their friends and to be dumb about it. They go to be obvious in
their infantile behavior and to pay way too much for a can of beer. It's a
game. A game between the strippers and the guys and if everyone plays
together the comedy is.. well.. great! "I'll pretend you're beautiful and
have a full set of teeth if you pretend I'm the most interesting, handsome,
and charming guy ever." And they do! It's amazing. Strange women are
hanging on your buddy's every word. The same guy who you once lit on fire
-
or threw a dart in your leg - or licked an electric socket on a dare. You
know these guys - they're idiots, just like you - and yet, in this magical
paradise you're all smart and funny and probably drunk as hell. It's the
kind of fun one holds in reserve for special occasions and Friday nights.
It's a mystical right of passage for men that leaves funny, scaring
memories. It's not always about the lust of random naked harlots. Not
always.
Now, yes, of course there's a difference between the nudey bar and other
bachelor party shenanigans. There's a difference between a bar chalked
full
of naked ladies and say... busty babes who come to your house.. for naked
acrobatics that often require participation.. or group participation. I
don't even know how to handle this subject so I'm just going to side with
the women and say this: Shame on you. Those acts are unspeakable and
shameful and be sure to get lots of pictures.
So, in my singledom, attending bachelor parties of my beloved friends,
watching the fellas join their spouses in illness and in health, being
jibed, joked, and reminded that I should find a gal to get mad at me for
going to these parties, I've come to the conclusion that Spike Lee was
right... It's Gotta be the shoes! I mean, after all - what would the world
be without David Duchovny and the Red Shoe Diaries? And, it's just my luck
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they happen to have a pair on sale at E-Bay... They're even in my size.
* Look for Mr. Sweeney's article "Can I get that in singles?" later this
week.
**The opinions expressed in Weekly Commentary are those of Mr. Sweeney and his alone. Any attempt at finding sanity or logic in his rantings are feeble, at best.
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