When you’re 21, a debaucherous night with the fellas at a strip club is the ultimate party-time go-to, roughly the Axe body-spray equivalent of a trip to Enterprise Square but with far more well-timed speedballs and just enough pernicious attempts at mischief in a dank, dark corner to make the night truly memorable.
But when you’re disastrously pushing 40, however, reality hits you in the face and it can easily be the saddest experience of your life.
This past week I managed to get down to where even the horniest angels often fear to tread, the Red Dog Café at 6417 NW 10th St., in the heart of the Used Seadoo District, to sample their legendary cuisine.
Widely regarded as alternately the best (if you’re a sleazebag) or worst (if you’re trying to convince yourself you’re not a sleazebag) gentleman’s club in town, the Red Dog has been many a young man’s entrance into both manhood and HPV-awareness for well over 40 years—this visit was the first time I had been there in nearly 20 of them.
As a matter of fact, here’s an honest-to-God picture of the last time I went to the Red Dog, about 20 years ago. I’m not eager to relive those days. At all...