Palm Springs– Where Strippers Go To Die

I have some family in the Palm Springs area so I used to go out there pretty often when I lived in San Diego.  My relatives there are cool as shit but they’re older (in their 70’s) and they aren’t exactly party people, so it’s usually just a quiet, relaxing couple of days in the desert; swimming with their dogs in the 110+ degree heat was about my only activity besides sitting around watching TV and catching up with family.  But one time when I was headed that way, good ol’ Tripod just happened to be out in the desert too.  He had all kinds of drama going on in his life and just wanted to get away from everything, so he got himself a motel room and drove out (yes, he can drive) by himself to spend a couple days in solitary.

Well, that shit went out the window once we both figured out our stays would overlap by one night.  We immediately decided to meet up and get royally fucked up in a strange town.

We started at a place called The Yard House to catch happy hour and Monday Night Football.  If you’ve never heard of The Yard House, it’s a chain of restaurants with an outrageous selection of beers on tap (usually well over 200).  They’re mostly located in Southern California but they’re slowly expanding nationwide.

The reason it’s called The Yard House is they used to sell yards of beer.  Well, as we discovered when we bellied up to the bar, they were discontinuing sales of the yard of beer.  Seems the giant glasses were just too cumbersome and they were getting so many broken it was turning into a money loser for them.  We had arrived during their last week of selling them, and they were even selling the glasses themselves to anyone that wanted to take one home.  But the cute bartender made sure to tell me they would still be selling half-yards of beer.

But I was offended by the whole thing.  “So,” I said condescendingly, “are you changing your name to The Half-Yard House?”

The cute bartender sneered at me.  “Yeah, I haven’t heard that one a million times.”

“I wasn’t saying it to be funny.”

So Tripod and I started drinking.  We actually stayed away from even the half-yards just because we wanted to sample a wide variety of their beers, so we just stuck with pints.  Lots and lots of pints.  I am not a beer connoisseur –I’m a hard alcohol guy all the way, vodka and gin are my staples of life— so the majority of my decisions were based on how cool the tap handles looked.  Tripod is a little more knowledgeable, but he’s hardly a beer snob either, so his choices weren’t a whole lot more educated.  So we basically turned it into a form of gambling; pick a tap handle that looked cool and order a pint without any other knowledge of the beer.  If we made a good pick we’d savor our choice, pretending like we knew what the fuck we were talking about –“Oh, this one has a really good hoppy flavor.”— and if we made a bad choice we’d chug it so we could roll the dice again.

But as the preseason football game got more and more boring, and as we chugged more and more drinks, we started harassing the snotty bartender.  I came up with the brilliant idea that, in honor of the death of the yard glasses, I should have a yard of Long Island Iced Tea.  Tripod thought this was a splendid idea.  For me, not for him.

I asked the bartender for one and she looked at me dumbfounded.  “No… I can’t… I can’t do that… No.  No!”

“Why not?”

“I just… No.  No.  I can’t do that.”

“What kind of bartender are you?  Ok, how about a half yard then?”

“You want a half yard of Long Island?  Do you know how strong those are?  No, I can’t… I just… No.”

Clearly it was time to find our way to another bar.

I had previously talked to my relative’s younger kids (by younger I mean in their late 40’s) and I thought I had a line on a decent spot.  The bar scene in Palm Springs is sketchy at best because of its huge concentration of retirees and gays, but they had assured me this would be a decent spot.


The place was called ROC’s Firehouse Grille.  And it did not disappoint.  No, it wasn’t hoppin’ like the hot spots in San Diego, but it was chill and relaxed with a good atmosphere, strong drinks, and attractive staff.  Our waitress in particular was a stunner.  I was in my mid- to late-20’s at that time, and this was my first legitimate encounter with a real life MILF.  She said she was 37; she didn’t look a day over 30.  She said she had a teenage kid, but her body showed zero signs of it.  She was tanned and blonde and had an amazing rack.

We started really pounding drinks at Firehouse.  The MILF waitress was flirting with us, upselling us to doubles, and we didn’t mind one little bit.  She somehow even talked us both into buying t-shirts, which I don’t think we actually put on right there at the bar to look like drunken retarded twins, but I can’t remember for certain.

Somewhere along the way, Tripod and I decided a strip club was in order.  So we asked our waitress, and she knew a spot.  Needed a little help from the bartender for exact directions, but she still knew it, which I found oddly arousing.  We invited her to come with us when she got off but she said she had to get home to her kid.  Too bad.  So Tripod and I stumbled out of the bar and drove off to find this strip club.

It took us about five tries to find the place, and not just because I was driving drunk.  The strip club was right off a major street, but at a point where the main road angled and became another street, so we couldn’t find the turn to save our lives.  Finally, after about five U-turns that could and should have landed me in jail, we finally found the place.

I wish we hadn’t.

It was the worst strip club I’ve ever seen in my life.  And I’ve seen a few.  First off, it should have been a sign that the place was almost deserted.  The only guys in the joint were bellied up to the bar chatting with the bartender; they were either friends with the bartender or dating the dancers, either way they were not what you would call paying customers.  But, not deterred, Tripod and I pulled up chairs right in front of the stage and readied our one dollar bills.

I’m not going to say all the strippers were ugly.  Some of them were almost tolerable.  But there were none that really should have been taking their clothes off for money.  I guess if you’re an average stripper and you work with hideous strippers it makes you appear better than you really are.  Tripod and I threw a couple dollars on the stage every once in awhile, more out of boredom and to amuse ourselves than to actually applaud a job well done.

And we kept drinking.

Finally, after I thought we’d seen the entire circuit of seven or eight girls working that night, one more girl came up on stage.  I won’t say she was hideous; hell, she probably wasn’t even the worst girl dancing that night.  But she sure wasn’t anything special.  She was the kind of girl that if you saw at the beach wearing the bikini she had on, you wouldn’t exactly be disgusted but you also wouldn’t give her a second glance.

It was boring.

So Tripod and I were barely even paying attention to her, just drinking our drinks and shootin’ the shit about whatever.  But remember, we were the only customers in the bar.  So we were not only this poor girl’s only potential source of revenue, but she was fully aware that we were utterly bored by her performance.

She took off her top and we still barely took notice.  We hadn’t thrown even a single dollar up on stage for her through the first song.  Finally, frustrated, she laid back on the stage, spread her legs, and slapped her thigh loud enough to get our attention.  Then, when she had our undivided attention, she rubbed her crotch over top of her bikini bottom and announced, “Seven dollar minimum if you wanna see my pussy.”

I looked at Tripod.

Tripod looked at me.

And I honestly don’t remember who said it first, but one of us said to the other, “I’m good.  You?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

I have never seen a stripper so angry.  She cursed and fumed and gathered her top and stormed off the stage, stomping her ridiculous stripper shoes as loudly as she could to make a scene.  Of course, there was nobody else there so it wasn’t much of a scene.

That made it all worth it.  The missed turns, the ugly strippers, the overpriced and watered down drinks, all of it.  One chubby stripper’s temper tantrum was all it took.

To this day, Tripod and I still resurrect that famous line most every time we’re drunk: “Seven dollars if you wanna see my pussy!”



  1. Damn, that’s some cheap pussy. I’ve been to some strip clubs like that and never understood how they even stayed open.

  2. “I’m good, you?” “Yeah, I’m good.”

    Quite awesome.

    She was probably used to lecherous old men that would slobber on anything that writhed.

  3. In palm springs she probably wasn’t used to having guys look at her pussy let alone rejecting it

    • As much of a reputation as Palm Springs has for being a gay community, I’ve never found it to be a problem the times I’ve gone out. Sure, there’s usually gays around, but it’s never felt like I was in a “gay bar” and there were always a decent number of straight females for me to at least ogle. That’s more than I can say for Utah!

      If you’re homophoic PS is definitely not the place for you, but if you’re laid back and tolerant you shouldn’t feel out of place or uncomfortable there. I’d move there in a second.

      As a side note, I have a cousin who was a school principal in Palm Springs for a long time. She always told me the only teachers she had on her staff were gay men and straight women. She always tried to tell me I would do so well picking up women there just because of the numbers. But the handful of times I went out I never saw the disproportion in action. Maybe I was just at the wrong spots.

  4. There’s a name for strippers like that…. The Day Shift.

  5. Was there an ad on this page for rehab?

  6. “The Day Shift”..sounds like a good name for a cheesy garage band. Or a racing horse.

  7. […] worthwhile.  Let’s be honest, there are few things worse than a bad strip club (see my story Palm Springs- Where Strippers Go To Die), when you find yourself staring at girls that just shouldn’t be taking their clothes off for […]

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