I had never been to a strip club before. I almost hope I will never go to one again.

It took me a while to figure out why. I would by lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the evening. I did not find the club seedy or disrespectful to women – from what I saw, it wasn’t. The twenty pound notes I found in the nooks of my bank account were delighted to find a new home in the purses of young enterprising ladies. I was not put off by feelings of discomfort because those feelings disappeared within minutes. Neither did it make me feel deviant – and if it had I would have considered it a good thing.

The reason, I think, is that my memory of the evening at the strip club is one of weirdness. I like that memory. And I don’t want to dilute it.

I – and the rest of the stag herd – went to a classy, upmarket club. The same women in a different building, with different furnishings and lighting, would not have made for the same experience. The mood felt right. The price even made the club seem more respectable.

At the entrance we were greeted by two bouncers. They made us feel welcome and they made the club feel professional. After a quick introduction we were lead down a set of stairs into a small foyer. Our guide stopped there, turned to us and enlightened us of the rules, the prices, the location of the restroom and of the cash machines. Then he turned again and lead us through the entrance of the lair, past the bar, past the pole, past private entranceways until we came to our table. Our waitress arrived as we did and asked for our drinks order. Three buckets of beer in ice was a relatively cheap option for the group.

We were given a few moments to settle. A dancer was already on stage, bending into her feline sway. My friend soon remarked that he had sat in the wrong place, before noticing that the seats had wheels. He span to face the stage.

I glanced to my left and saw a horde of semi-naked women, kettling like vultures waiting to scavenge on our money. The beer arrived; I picked up a bottle and took a sip. And then the women descended.

One girl sat next to me and asked me my name. I knew she only wanted my money but I was polite. I told her mine and she told me hers. Then she asked for a sip from my bottle and opened her mouth ready for me to pour. As I did so a little dripped down between her breasts. She asked me to dry it for her. “Am I allowed to do that?” Apparently I was.

Then she asked if I wanted a dance. I had intended to resist their charms, but I said yes almost instantly.

She held my hand and guided me through the club towards a semi-private room.

“Have you been here before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I’m going to show you the time of your life”, she said. She didn’t, but she made a good attempt.

One song is what you got. Sooner than I wanted she was getting half dressed again; pausing to place another twenty in her purse. I enjoyed the getting-dressed part; it was so unrehearsed and casual compared to the dance. This girl, however, should probably have rehearsed more, because she forgot to put her underwear back on.

After her second attempt at dressing, she guided me back to my table, gave me a little kiss on the cheek and sent me on my way. A brief affair. Completely unsatisfying. But already addictive.

When I returned to our table I could not find the beer I had abandoned, so I picked up a fresh bottle and settled back into my chair. That chair, built for one occupant, soon found room for a policewoman. I examined her uniform and noted that it was not the standard issue.

She made her advances. I was resistant and informed her that I wanted to finish my drink. But she told me she had been warming up. And I enquired how. She said she had been doing stretches. I asked how flexible she was. She put her legs behind her head. I put my beer down.

The policewoman was a grinder and she barely left my lap. Later that night a friend told of how he had paid for a second performance and said that it had been exactly the same dance both times. I became certain this dance was unique when I found her splayed naked across my lap, struggling to free her hair from my shirt button. “This is not part of the performance” she said.

That was my favourite moment of the evening. It brought home just how weird the situation was. A splash of reality in an otherwise dreamlike world.

The third woman spent more time talking to me and I finally got to finish almost a whole drink. She was from Poland. Studying fashion design (unless that was the next girl; I admit I began to mix them up). We talked for at least ten minutes and so when she asked about a dance, accepting felt like the only decent thing to do.

I was more relaxed for this dance, and enjoyed it more. When she finished she asked if I wanted her to continue for another song and I failed to say no. I took in her soapy smell, responded more as she closed herself around me, enjoyed looking into her eyes but did not forget I was paying to admire her body.

At the end of the second dance she said she felt amazing as I watched her. That I’d done something she couldn’t understand. I told her I thought she said that to everyone. She said she didn’t expect me to believe her, but tried to explain that there was something about the way I looked at her that made her feel good. She sounded genuine. I told her I had no idea if she was playing with me or not, but that she was making me feel good about myself. I remain confused.

This was my third dance (and forth). I heard later from one of our party that at this time he was talking to one of the other girls about me: “I was told he was gay, but I’ve hardly seen him since we arrived”. They speculated that maybe ‘gay’ in my case just meant that I was very happy. When I returned he asked me and I explained that I found each sex fairer. The girl he was with then appeared at my side.

The rest of the time at the club is a hazy memory. I know there were at least three more dances, but I do not remember them like the first three. Maybe they were too perfect and so there was little to remember; or perhaps I had just become girl drunk. I wondered afterwards whether I should feel bad about this memory loss, but then figured none of the girls would remember me either.

I do remember managing to stay at our table long enough to experience one pole dancer performing on stage. My back was to her when I noticed everyone looking behind my shoulder. I turned and saw the most incredible acrobatic display. Held upside down by her legs, she slid slowly down, effortlessly disobeying gravity, turning and wrapping herself around the pole before touching down on the stage in a split. It was less erotic and more impressive to the point of impossible.

At the end of the night there was a great feeling of emptiness; and not just in my wallet. The bathroom attendant had told me not to fall in love. I never have yet, so I didn’t believe that was going to be a problem, but it sure was difficult to shake them out of my head (even the hazy memories bring flashbacks).

There is a knowledge when you walk into the club that it isn’t the girls who are being exploited, it is us customers. Strippers may be real women, but I have no idea how much reality they shared that evening. We customers swap money here for doses of perplexity.

Money alters the experience of these women, creating something incomplete and surreal. A conversation you can believe is so much more fulfilling than the naked flesh of a hot stranger. But I have to recommend these nubile dancers as a very rare treat.

What’s this? A blog post?

Yes. Yes, it is.

That’s the thing I like about my blog. It’s here when I want to write something and when I don’t, I keep it out of sight.

It wasn’t always this way. Not long ago I used to worry about posting on my blog. And I used to worry that I’d gone a week without plucking a guitar string. Or a whole month without putting lead to paper.

Then I thought, screw it.

I’m really only doing these things because I enjoy them. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter if learn to play like Clapton, draw like da Vinci, speak German like a German.

Because I’m the kind of person who likes learning new things, and taking on challenges, I don’t really need to pressure myself into trying harder. I’m already trying too hard as it is.

I used to be the kind of guy who would have panic attacks when he visited the library. Too many books. How was I ever going to read them all?

I’m amazed how long it took me to figure out that I didn’t need to.

I’m even more amazed that people are still complaining about this same thing. It’s getting worse they say. Social networks, text messages, blogs, twitter, facebook. How does one keep up? Information overload has becoming a serious problem and it’s only going to get worse.

Or perhaps it’s all in their heads.

I’ve just looked it up. I have 197 subscriptions to various blogs. I probably get about 400 posts to read every day. But I have a secret. There’s this little button in Google Reader called ‘Mark all as read’. And what some people don’t know is you can press that button even if you haven’t actually read all of them! Seriously! I’ve been doing it for months now, and I’m totally getting away with it. Nobody checks.

And here’s the really amusing thing: If you step back from the noise for a while and gain some perspective, you’ll realise that the ones who try so hard to keep up are the ones who keep up, but the ones who don’t try to keep up are the ones everyone else is trying to keep up with.

There any many conflicting reports as to the extent of the killings over the Burma protests, but there was enough blood spilt to make the international community take notice…

The Telegraph writes:

At the height of the government’s brutal crackdown last week there were widespread rumours that some troops in Rangoon had refused orders to fire on unarmed protesters. Rumours also suggest that Than Shwe was sufficiently worried as the street protests grew to send his family to safety in Dubai.

An online awareness campaign is set to take place on the 4th October. You can get involved here.

Although highly suppressed, protests are still occurring (from Mizzima):

Despite the Burmese military junta having imposed night curfews, residents in parts of Rangoon protested by putting their lights off for at least 15 minutes last night.

Residents in North Okklapah said, many of the residents in ward (2) switched-off their lights at 8 p.m. (local time) for 15 minutes as token of dissent.

“As there is tight security preventing us from marching on the streets, we are doing this as a symbol that we the people of Burma are being kept helplessly in the dark,” a local resident of ward (2) of North Okklapah township told Mizzima.

Another petition here

The boycott of the Beijing Olympics continues to be mentioned again and again.

Personally, I have decided I will be boycotting the Olympics, unless China stands up to its responsibility.

In the meantime, I feel it is my duty to get better informed about human rights abuses around the world.

Zipcar.

Join.
Are you 21+, just apply online today. It only takes a few minutes.
Once you’re approved, you get your very own Zipcard. Are you eligible?

Reserve.
Reserve one of our many Zipcars – for a couple of hours or the entire day. Do it online or use a phone. We’re easy.

Unlock.
Walk to the car, then just hold your Zipcard to the windscreen.
The doors will unlock, and it’s all yours!

Drive!
Drive away… and return to the same reserved parking space at the end of your reservation. It’s that simple. And remember, fuel and insurance are included too. Plus we pay the London congestion charge!

I had this idea about 8 months ago; and like most my ideas I soon found it already exists. That’s the world we live in. And I’m glad of it!

The only difference was that I proposed that you wouldn’t need to return it to the same parking spot. You could drive from London to Manchester, say, then get the train home. Or drive to the pub, have a few drinks, and get a cab back. But that’s something which might need a threshold of customers to make work.

I think the idea is great though. If public transport is good enough (which it can be in a city), and you can easily hire a car it gives you far more freedom. If this is a good system, and I end up moving to the city (my plan), I will be looking at this service before I look at buying a car.

I don’t want to own a car. I don’t want the hassle.

I’m sold by their promise. I hope it lives up to my expectations!

And by the way, I don’t want to own a house either. Imagine Zipbuilding!

Seriously.

A large number of nations and companies with economic interests in Burma are defending their moral position. If they were not there, they say, others would take their place (and in some cases they declare this would make the situation worse). If this is indeed the case, we should support them. However, for organisations that are supposedly doing good, they are suspiciously quiet on the matter. Are these organisations negotiating more rights for their workers? Are they offering them pay above the poverty line? Are they protecting them from the fear of persecution, rape or execution?

What exactly are they doing?

If a government or company is doing good in Burma or any other oppressed company then I think they should be proud of that, and report on their effect. Label me a naysayer, but I have a feeling their silence isn’t about modesty.

Silence, or statements that are spun into effective silence, are no longer good enough.

In this 21st century, the first world populace no longer has an excuse to be ignorant. It is our duty to learn the effects of our consumption, and to hold each other to a higher standard.

I am as guilty as anyone of sitting back, and being idle.

And most of you are are guilty of letting me.

Somewhat of a tug-on-your-heartstrings production, but a rather nice first introduction to the crisis and to Auug San Suu Kyi. And a reminder for all those who already recognise her name. It may not seem like it will do much, but it is important for us all to learn her name. It will help us talk about it.

This is not just about Burma. If we can have some success here, it will be a story we can use to peacefully fight human violations around the world. But right now we are learning. Let’s see if we can make this the story we contrast with Iraq.

Let’s face it; every child knows more swearwords than Gordon Ramsey. What they’re less good at is using language in sophisticated and appropriate ways. So encourage them to read the elocutionary delight that is Stephen Fry’s new blog. He swears occasionally, but you feel his appreciation of the English language in every letter.

Grow children up on proper swearing like this and you might help replace “[grunt, grunt] Fck ya u cnt [grunt]” as the default rhetoric.

Seth says:

The best way to counter an ideavirus, any ideavirus, is not by challenging the medium in which it spreads. It didn’t stop pirate radio or salacious TV shows or online porn. What has always worked the best is countering one ideavirus with another one. To use the same medium to spread a different, better, more powerful ideavirus.

You should read the entire post really.

I came to the conclusion earlier in the year that this is exactly what we should do with pornography. So much is horrible and insulting, but I’m sure it’s because it was driven underground. If it were all more public, talked about, discussed and mused over, I think it would actually become a healthy part of our society.

There seems to be a trend towards this. The problem appears to be getting worse, but sometimes you have to stir up the muck before the pond starts getting cleaner.

Drown out plastic porn with intelligent erotica (keeping it graphic where it should be) and I think we will all become better lovers.

An intriguing insight:

TV is not vulgar and prurient and dumb because the people who compose the audience are vulgar and dumb. Television is the way it is simply because people tend to be extremely similar in their vulgar and prurient and dumb interests and wildly different in their refined and aesthetic and noble interests.

- David Foster Wallace

Hat-tip Ben Casnocha