Captain, White Band was hauling ass down Columbia Blvd. There were quite a few clubs on this strip so we left guessing out of the equation. The whole bus jeered as we passed the Sugar Shack. It looked like 3000 sq. ft. of 70's style panache. I dreamt of shag carpets, rotating stages and a gigantor labia holding a spear of destiny. All that was prematurely curbed as we arrived at the Viewpoint. I couldn't figure out why the ladies were so enthusiastic about the place until I learned that the peenor danced on the upper deck while the ladies bounced and swiveled down below.

Kyle and I immediately headed to the bar to order another ice, whiskey, and double old fashioned. We both realized that our bartender had an uncanny resemblence to Vasquez from Aliens. You know, she was the one who didn't give a fuck about the aliens but just wanted to know "where they were." Only that badass could pull off that line and only this look-alike could look me in the eye like she wanted to break my neck while she poured the makers. Kyle was in love.


Unfortunately for the ladies, the men weren't set to shaft for another hour. If Dancin' Bare was any indication we knew we'd be out of here before the ice cracked.