Well, that was a fast trip home. It did include my Stripparaoke birthday celebration, complete with my rendition of "Last Night," followed by a three-girl lap dance on stage at Devils Point.
"I can't believe you don't have to drink to get up there and do that!" said one of my friends, who, along with myself, regularly gets up on stage in front of scores of people fully naked, without the benefit of anything more mind altering than Urban Decay false eyelashes.

I also had a lapdance with Mr. Wayward that was naughty enough that I had to assure him that no, that wasn't the kind of thing I did at work, but I was happy enough to be on the receiving end.

And now I'm back out of town, in the Upper One, for most of the next four weeks. I'm with the lovely, talented, and peripatetic Hobo Stripper, though I have accommodations without wheels for once. I couldn't take five days to drive the Airstream up to Alaska and shuddered to think what the gas would have cost.

But it sure was fun toting around my house on wheels in Montana and North Dakota. I saw a bunny one morning outside of the trailer!

When I left ND, I was starting to hitch up before I ran into anyone I'd seen at the bar, which was lucky. The guy I ran into was cool, though, in and out of the club, and helped me hitch up. Much like Hobo Stripper, and like any traveling dancer who's not a hooker, I want to keep my lodging arrangements to myself. So when customers ask me where I'm staying, and I know they're just making conversation and not trying to find out if I work outside of the club, I just tell them that there's a room with a few cots in the back of the club where they lock us up at night.

Oddly enough, there is traveling dancer housing like this at one of the clubs in North Dakota, and all of the out-of-town dancers are required to stay there, with a curfew, for the duration of their bookings. I presume this is to avoid the traveling hookers, and see their point, and honestly kind of appreciate it since I had very, very few solicitations at that club. They do make exceptions, and I didn't have to stay in the housing. Thank god. I mean, the dressing room is bad enough; Living with a half-dozen dancers would drive me up a fucking wall.

But here I have a fairly decent arrangement. There's a roof, hot water, and wireless internet, so that about covers it with me. Honestly, as long as I can make coffee in the mornings and take a shower I'm good. And up here there's showers in all of the laundromats! Crazy, I tell you.

Now, let's hope the fishermen start pouring into town. For I, I am a fisher of men's wallets.

Being back at Mary's is really as good as being home. I'm so happy that working there has been as fun as I thought it would be way back before I moved to Portland. My coworkers, the Keller women, the regulars -- at any other club, the best case scenario is that you can tolerate everyone. At Mary's, I actually like and enjoy a ridiculous percentage of them.

That being said, we had some insane freaking people in the club tonight, like the out-of-towner who was buying drinks for one of the local street residents, the two (straight) guys who made out with each other, and the rare appearance of a make-it-rain Houstonian.

The out-of-towner was trying to score weed -- and I understand that this can be a difficult task, even in a pot-positive city like Portland, once you're over 30 and clean-cut and look like a suspiciously straight character to street dealers. I mean, they aren't gonna whisper "smoke?" to you. Still, I thought people used Craigslist for that these days.

Satori told a couple of very loud young men who were clamoring to see her touch herself (touching the kitty isn't SOP around here) that if they made out with each other, she'd masturbate. And of course they were just drunk enough to kiss each other. With tongue. Dan Savage would have fainted with glee.

One large dude who sat at my rack was so clearly not from around here, especially when he tossed a fat stack of singles and a few twenties on my stage. That's Atlanta and Houston behavior, especially in black clubs. "You must be from down South," I said, and sure enough, he was from Houston. He tipped us all really well and offered all of us $500 and then $1000 to come back to his hotel room. No one bit, to his shock, which is understandable enough considering what he's probably used to in Houston (that would be rampant extras and at cheap prices, one of the many reasons I never set foot in a Houston club).

I have about three more days in Portland before I leave town again. It's been a ridiculous year with the travel around these parts. I look forward to September.

Today it was in the eighties and so sunny I could barely lift my eyes up from the sidewalk after noon. Last week it snowed. Having lived in Texas for most of my life, I still take photos when it snows.





Then it rained all day on Monday, Memorial Day. Officially, this is the weirdest weather I've experienced. Ah, Montana.

After Williston, Bozeman was a sight for sore eyes with its natural foods stores, artisan caramel makers, and most excellent Nova Cafe (www.thenovacafe.com). The club here is gorgeous inside and out -- I don't believe I've ever seen a view like this from the parking lot of any other club.





Dig that fence, too.



There's ample parking for semis in the back but also a gorgeous granite bar and dozens of types of premium vodka and scotch. Nice girls, great staff, just a wonderful week, kicked off by the folks who were toasting "Boze Angeles." Why? Because, they said, "Bozeman is the Los Angeles of Montana!" I like it more than that and would say instead that it's the Asheville or Ithaca of Montana.

So I worked last week, and it was fun. Lots of construction workers, contractors, and oil and gas dudes from all over pass through here, not to mention the occasional smokin' ski instructor or elementary school teacher (!). I like the folks up here and hope to return later in the summer. If I hadn't bought plane tickets and made plans through, oh, September, I would just stay here.

But I have to hitch up tomorrow and start for Fargo. I really struggled today but I have been curious about the Northern for so long, and a dancer today told me that "if Lake Woebegone had a strip club, it would be the Northern." If that isn't a ringing endorsement, I don't know what is. Though you know what, I really try not to think about NPR while stripping too much. Perhaps I should get started on that stripper "This American Life" parody podcast now.