One of the great things about growing in the Detroit area . . . . hmmmmmm . . . . . one of the things that's nice about growing up in the Detroit area . . . . ummmmm, OK, one of the saving graces about growing up in the Detroit area (yeah, that works) is that it's just across the river from Windsor. Windsor is in Ontario. Ontario is in Canada. And since Canada has their heads out of their asses, they've set the legal drinking age at 19. So not surprisingly, my summers as a 19 and 20 year old, the time back home living with my parents, included weekly caravans across the river to get drunk.
And lucky for us, back in those days, the exchange rate was a godsend. $1 American got you $1.50 in Canadian. Add in the fact that Canadian beer is like moonshine (oh Molson XXX, you were such a delight), and that as a 19 year old your tolerance isn't exactly at it peak, and you could get destroyed for $20. Ahhh, those were the days. And we used to walk over the bridge to Canada in our barefeet through 4 feet of snow, uphill, both ways, and that's the way it was and we liked it!
OK, maybe not. But on a Friday night at 9pm, the bridge and tunnel to Canada was 98% full of idiot Americans making they're way to Windsor to get loaded . . . and at 2am, it was full of idiot Americans puking out their car doors while waiting to get through customs. And remember, this was pre-9/11. When the customs agent asked you "what was your business in Canada?", and you/your driver responded with "we went to Bentley's and Woody's to get drunk and find slutty girls", rather than of getting searched, you were more likely to get a high five.
I know Manhattan-ites have the term "bridge and tunnel club" for all the Jersey folk that make their way over to Manhattan, effectively killing any coolness that may still reside in a bar. But I now wonder if the Windsor canucks had a similar term for us stupid Americans, who swarm like locusts on weekend nights, consuming all the available Labatt's?
So like every other suburban Detroit kid, Canada gave me my first true taste of the bar experience. But being as that they're such a giving country, the legal age to get into a gentleman's club is only 19 too. And since my friends and I came from a Catholic background, and since we went to an all-boys Catholic school, lord knows we had more than enough pent up hormones, so you're damn right we took advantage of that opportunity as well.
And as I learned about my tolerance for alcohol during my bar experiences, I also learned about my tolerance for boobs. Yes, there is such a thing. The nudie (nudy?) bar is is a fantastic thing, especially when you first get there. I mean, there's boobs . . . and they're all over the place. But like all things in life, you can have too much of a good thing. And the longer I'm at a nudie bar (which is actually pretty damn rare), the more my excitement wains, until it's finally passed the point of indifference.
Then, it's time to go home.
But, there IS a way to have my excitement curve stretched out just a bit more (wow, after typing that, I just realized that sentence may not be the best wording for a story about nudie bars, but whatever. It stays). There is a way to push out that point of indifference. And it's even a little surprising to me - to have girls that are actually good dancers.
Now granted, I'm not talking about classically trained ballet, but rather the ancient art of the pole. But it DOES make a difference. If a girl is showing some energy, some moves, and actually looks like she's having a good time up there, it honestly makes a difference (and actually, you can probably make the same argument about sex in general). For any show really, in any walk of life, if the performer is legitimately good at what they do, no matter how exciting or boring you may think the overall material is, their skill will impact your enjoyment.
And those nudie bars, those delightful Canadian dens of debauchery? Well, in Detroit, one of the most well-known euphemisms around is that if your going to Canada to go to the strip clubs, you just say your going to the "Windsor Ballet".
So attending the Slutcracker last week was kind of like seeing the Windsor Ballet's brother from another mother. The Windor Ballet is a whole lot of nudity with a little bit of decent dancing thrown in, while the Slutcracker is a whole lot of legit dancing, performed by people who majored in dance, who just, well, don't mind taking their clothes off while doing it. And since co-worker Daemeon was creating a documentary on the Slutcracker, Sarah, Katie and I came out to support him . . . and to see some naked ballet.
As you can probably tell from the name, the Slutcracker is pretty much the Nutcracker . . . . with sluts. Actually, it's pretty darn close to the Nutcracker. Same score, same dancing, same story . . . with a few tweaks (at least that's what I'm told. I've never seen the real Nutcracker). SPOILER time!
- Instead of a nutcracker coming to life, a dildo comes to life
- The main character struggles to choose between the aforementioned dildo and her new fiance
- Before making a choice, the main character certainly makes the most of her time with the dildo
- A 10 foot penis that spews confetti makes an appearance
- So does a gimp
- So do a plethora of pasty-covered boobs
And just like the Windsor Ballet, if this was just a hastily thrown together show, with all parts being filled by Foxy Lady cast-offs, I probably would have been damn bored after an hour. But I wasn't, and it turned out to be 2 hours of XXX-Mas Delight, fit for both guys and girls, that I would absolutely recommend. And really, that same $20 at the gentleman's club only gets you 1/8 of the time anyway, right?
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