Bryn Robertson, contributor
There are a few things to pay attention to when dressing in drag at a strip club.
Number one: The further you look from the photo on your identification card, the better. Make no apologies and stand up straight. If there’s one thing my Dad still nags me about, it‘s good posture.
Number two: Get your mustache right. Pair the previously innocent Hawaiian shirt you’re wearing with a sleezy, two- line Sharpie coke catcher above your upper lip and everyone around you will start reciting lines from Fear and Loathing. Lean on the side of thicker, vertical lines and you’ll fall somewhere between the janitor from Rocky and Bullwinkle and the Dad you always wanted to be.
Number three: If you’re going to be ordering food, really man up and order something that would make your Old Man proud, because there’s no such thing as a vegetarian Dad at a strip club on a Wednesday morning.
Last Number: If anyone talks to you, especially one of the girls, collapse your chest to hide your female give-awayers, order more beer, and bury yourself in grunted clichés like the results of your prostate exam or the San Jose Sharks.
The best thing I can say about my day of Dad dragging, popping wings and keeping-my-eyes- to-myself is that it doesn’t take much. Once you work your way through the front entrance, (poker faced) you are essentially free to play the part.
What’s the part? Coors light, some cheesy 70s cop shades and Dad-worthy bashfulness. There’s something that happens when you dress up like a dad that changes the way you look at naked girls young enough to have been born with half your DNA. On the other hand, if you already are a girl dressed in drag who’s trying to stack clips by writing for Savage Henry, there probably isn’t much any booty shake could do to get you off.
Early on a Wednesday, the club was virtually empty, making my job as a blender-inner tougher than I had expected. There aren’t many that survive the night and make it into the morning at strip club. (I cheated, caught a ride and was there by 8:30) An inappropriately goofy part of me half hoped the joint would be swarming with Dads at any given time of day, an underground collective escape from the pains of shitting babies, back-talking teens and premenopausal wives, a shrine of Good Dadhood for those seeking to find a balance. I guess what I’m trying to say is, perhaps people like Pee Wee Herman and the Pope should take a tip from the dads of my dreams and get it all out over Coors Light and Mexican hot wings at the club.
I’m sure if I had stayed a little longer some people, maybe some doghouse Dads, would have come crawling in and joined me at the bar. But after emptying my Hawaiian shirt Dad-pockets on sleepy ladies and some ungodly morning beers, I figured I could blame it all on heartburn from the wings and get out of there before I blew my cover.
I don’t think anyone fell for it anyway.