I have been surprised by the number of people, some old friends and some new visitors, who have commented favorably on "Cousin Cranky," my post about my visit to my relatives over the weekend. I'm glad people are interested in who I am, although I don't think my life has been very interesting. Haven't traveled much, have never married or had children, never made big money, am not famous or acclaimed for my accomplishments; just a working stiff freelancer in a creative field (I prefer to keep details of my professional career discreet; suffice to say that in my blog, I am doing what I do best--write.)

I'm of a literary bent, with as much love for a text as I have for the beauty of a woman, and I think I've painted a piecemeal picture of myself through all my various posts, this text; in the last six weeks, I've probably written almost the equivalent of a book. I think that people reveal themselves through the movies they enthuse over, through the types of sex and partners they get turned on by, and by their spiritual struggles. I've touched on all of these things. But I know that I may be too roundabout in this approach for many people. I know that I have a love of "subtext," what is underneath the tip of the iceberg, and that my writing approach is sometimes to reveal things in a sideways manner, obliquely. I guess I'm asking readers to assemble a picture of me from the fragments I am putting forth.

I do this in my personal life sometimes too. As I have written, I have a claustrophobic fear of intimacy because of relationships that went very bad; one short relationship, with a stripper, forever made me think of the films noir of the 40s not as thrillers but as reality shows--meaning, I've known and slept with a real femme fatale; and so in reaction to all this, in my middle age I tend to present a somewhat sexless, low-key persona when I encounter women I am very attracted to. This is partly because I am somewhat shy, but also because I am attracted to women who are far too beautiful for me and who, oftentimes, seem to have screws loose. I have solved this problem of aspiring too high (and too dangerously) in a neurotic fashion by the constricted relationships I have inside strip clubs with the beautiful women who quite willing to talk to me as long as I have money to spend on them. Because dancers want to keep the relationships in the club, I can consort with gorgeous and even sometimes gorgeous nutso women without getting in too deep. I do all this consciously. Ironically, because I feel accepted in these places (however linked that acceptance may be to the almighty dollar), I am more freely sexual there--I feel less shy, definitely not sexless, and can be more direct.

I have always been able to talk with women on a non-sexual basis because I grew up essentially in a house of women. My father was rather distant and absorbed in his work and didn't have much time or interest to hang around with me. One of my few pleasures with him was going on walks sometimes after dinner, but we never went to ball games or other stereotypically father-son things. I spent more time with my mother and two younger sisters. I was something of a protector for my sisters, taking them to movies, babysitting for them when I got old enough, and just hanging out with them. I had friends too, but I spent a good deal of time with my sisters as well.

I know very well how to be an older brother to admiring sisters, and I fall into this role quite easily with all the women I meet. I play this role with my friend Diana, the younger woman I've mentioned here before, with whom I've been friends for several years.

My father is deceased (the word "dead," with its blunt finality, never can apply to parents, because they live forever in your minds, hearts, and souls), but my mother and younger sister live in the Midwest, and my middle sister lives in the Southwest. Both my sisters are married with children. Although they know of my interests in both strippers and movies, I don't discuss strippers very much with them because sexuality in its various forms has never been a topic of discussion between us. My mother is a rather prudish woman in spite of the fact that she is talented as an artist, and I never discuss strippers and such with her. In general, my family was prudish, certainly on the surface. I learned about sex in a very fragmented fashion from a book that my parents placed on my bedroom dresser at age 13: Evelyn Duvall's Facts of Life and Love for Teenagers. I repeatedly perused its passages about "making out" and "petting," as well as its visions of the romantic nirvana that was possible when you met the right girl, but I didn't read the rest of it very carefully.

I don't see my immediate family unless I travel to the Midwest, which I do every year or two, but I talk to them every couple of weeks on the phone. I have two nieces and one nephew. I regret living far away because I enjoy being an uncle, and I seem to have been a success at that, but my anxiety about flying certainly cut into the number of my visits over the years. I even took the train out to Chicago a few times, and that's a twenty-four hour trip from New York.

So there's a little more about me in a nutshell, and not scattered through the posts. I am Sir Cranky: Son, Uncle, and Brother.

In the New York Post this morning, columnist Dale McFeatters commented about how some snobbish Europeans, dismayed at the spread of larger Halloween celebrations on the Continent, are disdaining it as a "bad American habit" symptomatic of commercialism. He said that some Austrian mayors are trying to boycott our joyous style of festivities in their own villages. I think they've got it backwards. Wasn't it in Europe that masquerades, carnivals and festivals began long ago? Our hard-working citizenry, still steeped in the Puritan ethic, taking less vacation time than that of any industrialized nation on the planet, is finally catching up at last to the human necessity of letting one's hair down occasionally in a playful, silly way.

Actually, I think Halloween should come more often, say on the LAST SATURDAY OF EVERY MONTH. And adults, particularly in extremely high and responsible positions, should be required BY LAW to dress up like BABIES IN DIAPERS CARRYING BOTTLES, so that all their pretentions and stuffed-shirt dignity can be scaled down to manageable size in front of the amused eyes of their underlings.

In the future, maybe there will be machines that will make Halloween costumes only one of the options. Maybe we will be able to transform our bodies to suit the costumes. Sir Cranky will be able not only to dress like Zorro, but actually look like Tyrone Power for the evening.

I might dread the next morning, though, having to become Sir Cranky again...

Hmm. There are times when self-love can be not only a necessity, but a virtue. For who will love me if I do not love myself?

One of the strip clubs I go to has a Halloween party every year. It's fun to see the dancers dressed up, especially because I think they should be allowed to wear costumes all year round anyway as part of their job as entertainers. But they don't. At least in Manhattan clubs, the gals adhere to a fairly strict daily "dress/undress" code--long gowns or short dresses, thongs and/or g-strings, and high heels. Despite the erotic allure of stockings of all types and textures, I never see dancers wearing them in the clubs I go to. Maybe they do at Scores, but I've never been there.

I don't have any plans to dress up myself this year (stick-in-the-mud!), but since my friend Rexx and I are going to see a special retro burlesque Halloween show at a theater downtown, maybe I'll grab a Zorro mask to wear and carry a ruler as my sword, just like an eight year old...

Better to save my own diaper and bottle for a private party.

Before I begin this post, I must admit I don't know if anybody is really interested in all this family stuff of mine, even though I'm leaving out many details for discretion's sake. I include this material because I'm trying to give you a picture of different aspects of the life of one strip joint customer--me. But if it's not interesting to you, you can skip it and still enjoy the other aspects of the blog.

Anyway, I'm back from New Jersey and the visit to my relatives. It was a bas mitzvah, and for those of you unfamiliar with the Jewish religion, it's the female version of a boy's bar mitzvah, the confirmation of the thirteen year old as an adult member of the community. That doesn't sound plausible, as I write it. The confirmation of a THIRTEEN YEAR OLD as an adult member of the community? But that's what it is--or was many years ago, when life was tougher and children grew up faster. In 2005, most thirteen year olds don't seem in most ways to be adult or capable of adult responsibilities.

After the religious service there was a huge party. My relatives seemed happy to see me and kept saying throughout the day that they wanted to see more of me. One of my cousins said he missed me a lot, and he and his wife invited me for Thanksgiving. I said I would let them know about Thanksgiving, but felt guilty for not being able to accept wholeheartedly on the spot. The thing is this: people frequently assume we New Yorkers are delighted to get invitations out of the city on the holidays, especially if we're single. This is not always true. It's stressful to travel even a short way during these holidays, and it's often nice to stay in town. New York City is particularly nice on Thanksgiving, what with the parade and the general good feeling in the air. I have always enjoyed staying in the city on that day, whether or not I had a turkey dinner invite. So what I wanted to say to my cousin and his wife was, "If you lived in the city and asked me, I would have accepted right away, because I would be happy to see you if I could also remain in the city." Instead it looks as if I am the one being distant, when it's not a matter of not wanting to accept their invite but preferring to remain in town! I told them that even if I didn't come on the holiday that we could get together another time. I said I was available almost any time, really, and it didn't have to be a big deal--just to go have a beer was fine. All they have to do is call me!

If I don't hear from them, I'll call and invite them into the city myself.

I come from a very small family, and I guess my East Coast relatives want to keep me a viable part of it. (My immediate family is the Midwest, but my father was originally from New York before moving to Chicago and meeting my mother.) If these relatives are willing to meet me halfway and see me in the city sometimes, it might work. It's the feeling that I have to be the one to travel out to them all the time, that I have to be the one to call them, that I absolutely MUST attend things like Thanksgivings, that has made me feel distant and distrustful about their feelings, that they mean what they say about wanting to be closer to me.

Part of the problem is that our lives are so different--I live an eccentric life in the city as a freelancer, and they have very stereotypical suburban lives. We don't have a lot in common, and our conversations don't seem intimate or even interesting. But I don't want to be alone and isolated, and maybe it's been partly my doing, so I'm going to see if I can have a more ongoing relationship with them.

These huge parties aren't fun for me because I don't enjoy small talk with people I don't know, and I can't seem to enjoy the dancing and music. I don't even enjoy parties like this with people I'm closer to. But I played it amiable, drank my white wine spritzers (because I really did not feel like getting drunk in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, an activity I left behind quite a few years ago), and instead tried to find what was enjoyable for me at the party. Fortunately, this came in the form of the twentysomething girl who was in leading the dancing among the children and adult guests. This girl was not only a terrific dancer, but she had one of the prettiest faces I've seen in a long time. The best way to describe her is to say she had "laughing eyes," always lively and full of fun. Yes, I know that's her job to promote such happy feelings, but she sure didn't look like she was working at it. It came naturally to her apple cheeks and exuberant body language and long, tossing black hair. The various expressions she would make while dancing amidst the guests were so entrancing I could barely take my eyes off her, but I forced myself to because I didn't want to look like some staring creep. I suppose I could have gotten up and danced near her or with her myself, since she was hired to dance amidst the guests and that was what I was--a guest--but I got more pleasure just watching her. The band went into the old classic "Disco Inferno," one of my fave numbers from the good ole days almost thirty years ago when I was going out to clubs three times a week and my buddies gave me a t-shirt with the logo "Disco Cranky." It was definitely the high point of this girl's performance. Thank you, sweetheart (whatever your name was) for making the party not only bearable, but memorable.

Maybe last evening's visit to the club wasn't a total washout. When I was trying to get to sleep last night, Anita's image hovered over me, in my mind. I contemplated with zeal her energetic, strapping body...her aggressive movements, her battering my face with her large breasts, which had felt too frenetic during the dance (or maybe simply too un-Margie-like) suddenly seemed appealing in retrospect, as I lay under the covers on my futon bed...I imagined her flipping me over on HER lap for a spanking, to cure me of my whiny attitude! She certainly seemed strong enough for it.

Hmm, definitely a subject for future research...

And now, off to New Jersey and the folks.

I wasn't going to post again until tomorrow night at the earliest, but I need to vent.

I sometimes forget why I named this blog "strippersversusdvds."

Tonight I went out for about an hour. I saw Margie at the club but one of the first things she told me is that she was sick, she was getting over (or had gotten over) a cold. I hate it when dancers tell me this, because I'm afraid I'm going to catch whatever they have--which has happened in the past. I'm somewhat hypochondriacal--not fanatically so, but enough to sour my spirits. When she told me she hadn't been feeling well, I automatically didn't want her dancing over me, breathing on me. It's not like she's my wife or girlfriend with whom I sleep. She's just a dancer I pay for easy thrills.

I wish they wouldn't tell me they're not feeling well, if it's not obvious. Because I then want to say, "Dance for me another time," but I'm afraid of what their reactions will be. One time a dancer I'd patronized frequently was insulted and stormed off.

So there I sat, thinking, "I'll probably be okay," but also angry at myself for not just saying, "No, not tonight." And angry at Margie for setting off this spiral of thought in my head.

The old axiom from the opera Pagliacci applies: "Laugh, clown, laugh--you may never show your tears."

Likewise, if you're dancer, don't say you're sick, unless you're also willing to forgo dances graciously...in the event you have a customer with the courage to stick by his hypochondriacal convictions.

I should've been a "mensch," or a man, as we Jews say in Yiddish, and passed on the dances. But nooooo....I tell myself I'll be okay, and then stew later.

And write this rant.

The lapdance was a turn-on, and that's not a paradox--I guess I figured I might as well enjoy it in case I end up getting a head cold out of it. On the other hand, because these dances are usually just a tease, my frustration was less tolerable tonight. I thought to myself, "Wait a minute. I could have used this money to buy at least two other DVDs I'd wanted at the Chiller show, or that book about Japanese erotic movie melodramas..."

What also added to my frustration was my honesty with myself that the conversation between me and Margie is kind of stilted; I fooled myself about it last week, but I knew then. And so tonight I thought, "Was any of this worth eighty dollars and the chance of getting a cold?"

Because I had a cold three weeks ago and it messed up my work schedule and I fell behind.

Ah, Cranky, Cranky!

No "Sir" for you tonight, thou wimpy knave!

After the dances, Margie politely moved along. She seemed to sense that I wasn't going to spend anymore on her. I moved from the lapdance couch to a table, and tipped a couple of other dancers. I wasn't ready to leave. I let one girl dance a song for me, but it was just ordinary, going through the motions. At least I'd been turned on by Margie. Then I went back to my table and another girl came over. Let's call her Anita. She was friendly and vivacious and had quite a sexy body, so I said okay to her too. Her dancing was a little too frenzied and unsensual, though. I had her dance twice, and I wouldn't mind her dancing for me again, but I'll have to tell her to slow it down a little, to move more subtly, more caressingly--like Margie does.

I enjoyed talking to Anita--she seemed kind of fun, kind of spirited--whereas Margie is always more serious, almost melancholy. Margie was onstage when Anita was dancing for me, but I didn't really feel anything about it. I was just feeling the waste of money, the lack of fun--

I know Margie hadn't been feeling well, but that's not why the conversation seemed stilted. It had felt stilted to me before, but I was weaving these romantic daydreams when she stroked my hand and looked into my eyes. Not serious daydreams, but just pleasant distractions, warm moments.

Another reason why the conversation irked me is because at the Chiller show, I had a very cool chat with a middle-aged gal, a DVD dealer, way closer to my age than Margie, and as I was talking to this dealer, I thought, "This is nice, this is plausible, I'm on the same wavelength with this person at least on the surface, and the clock is not ticking, the flow of words is not dependent on my money running out." When I'm reminded that in the world outside strip clubs I sometimes meet sweet people who seem genuinely interested in me, I feel a greater dissatisfaction with the dancers.

Yet this dealer was clearly unavailable, her boyfriend was working the booth with her; it wasn't a situation I could act on.

I've known some sexy and passionate women in my life outside the tittie bars, and I was reminded of this today.

Another reason why the bar was unsatisfactory tonight is that I'm still pretty ambivalent and anxious about going to the family thing tomorrow, and I was hoping for a very fun time in Tittieville to counterbalance my anxiety. So I put way too heavy expectations on my visit to Lapdance Land, and on Margie. I know it; I'm so self-trained in seeing through my own bullshit that it doesn't take me long to dissect it and serve it up, piping hot, in this post.

Well, I'm glad we turn the clocks back tonight. At least I'll have an extra hour to sleep, and not listen to my negative thoughts, before getting up in the darkness to get dressed and climb onto a bus for New Jersey.