Alaska Journals
Part 8: The Happy Room
Date: September 21

”As I have said many times, Half-Ass was a spectacular guide. He knew as much about the land, the history, the people and the politics of the Kenai Peninsula as any long term resident I met. And, we had fantastic arguments about this or that governmental corruption issue, or ecological tragedy that was in the headlines. At the time, Bush was running for office and H.A. HATES Bush. After all he’s a born and bred oil guy and oil guys want to yank the guts right out of Alaska and H.A. adores Alaska.

Anyway, one of the first things H.A. told me, upon my arrival in Anchorage, was that Alaska has the highest quantity, per capita, of churches, bars, and brothels and (if you can believe this) ice cream consumption.

The reason, Half-Ass explains, that brothels are so common in Alaska, is because of their whorehouse politics. He said that, though it is technically illegal to operate one, it is more illegal to violate the privacy of its citizens. And so the cops don’t have the tools to bust them – they don’t even try.

In saying so, Half-Ass unwittingly planted the seed of depravity into my amoral head.

Our Anchorage home base was a house on Spenard Avenue. Spenard basically consists of strip malls, bars, eateries, and -- on the other end of the avenue -- a small cluster of well-kept, rustic brothels. Or, as I call it: The Village of Vagina Villas.

When H.A. pointed them out, I was immediately stricken with the notion that this was an experience I needed to pursue. It sounded like such an amazing idea! I mean, here I was in Alaska with a distinct travel credo in mind to seek adventure. Yet most of the adventures required hard work, cold nights, and naked fear. In short, they were more fun afterward, in the recollection.

Yet, here was an enterprise that would be fun while I was doing it. And not just “fun.” This would be “really fucking fun!”

And so I began to run the idea through my head. “How did the process work?” Is there a secret password? Is there a whorehouse rush hour, because I’d really like to avoid that? Can I bring my own condoms? (‘No offense miss, I just prefer my brand: Holocaust Prophylactics -- equipped with a silo of guided nonoxyynol-9 missiles programmed for viral defense.’)”

I had no idea what to expect. It was clear, a reconnaissance mission was required.

I selected The Gentleman’s Lounge because it looked comfortingly like my own home: a freshly painted, white cottage with red trim. The problem was, it was rumored to be operated by Hell’s Angels, and the word “Altamont” kept ringing in my ear. But I figured it was probably bad business to kill your customers, and since I had not planned to start any shit, there would be no reason for a gangster biker pimp to stab me repeatedly.

So on a cold, rainy Saturday, I slowly surged up Spenard Avenue -- stopping in every bar along the way for the warmth and composure of sweet blue agave -- until I stood before the glowing red front door of the Gentleman’s Lounge.

Shivering from terror, awe, and a harsh wet Alaskan night, I pressed the small red buzzer. A short, chubby, fifty-esque, woman -- drowning under her mascara -- emerged.

“Please Lord,” I thought, “don’t make for me to have sex with this woman.”

“Come in, Come in,” said the madam.

Inside I could see the cozy, burnt-yellow glow of candles and could feel the heat of the room as it uncoiled out the door and seduced me. So, in the interest of adventure, I entered the Mansion on the Pill.

The bawd escorted me into the living room where a lanky, leathery Hell’s Angel in uniform reclined on the couch. He surprised me when he nodded and pointed a gracious, fallopian-wide smile at my person (as if to say, “Welcome to our den sir. I won’t kill you unless I have to.”)

She led me by hand down a hallway with faded red carpet and bright yellow walls.

“Come, come,” she insisted

“Look,” I stammered, “I’m not staying. I only want to ask some questions.”

“Like what?”

I hesitated to ask the cost, but knew (from late-night HBO) that hookers are sensitive about money-talk because undercover cops can bust them as soon as price is mentioned. So I talked in code.

“How many artichokes?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“You know, green?. . . deneiro?

It’s “One hundred dollars,” she responded, then knocked on one of the doors in the hallway.

The bedroom door opened and a powerful waft of skin lotion -- followed by a sultry, nut-brown-haired, demure, stoic, coal-eyed, omniscient, Cyprian, goddess -- drifted into the hallway.

She stole me from the madam and led us, with her soft, delicate hand, to the end of the hallway and opened another door.

“100 d...d...dollars?” I kind of stuttered unbelieving “for Bingo-bango?”

“Huh”

“You know, Shamma-lamma, ding-dong?’”

“It’s called sex, sweetheart,” she answered, with wide, warmy eyes.

“With me?” I whimpered.

“Yeah baby, with you.”

I looked over her shoulder and into the bedroom. There was a playground-sized canopy bed; a Victorian style dresser; and a table with various oils, powders and shiny, gold, blue, and silver erotic electrical devices shimmering like a bag of marbles in a tide pool: I had discovered the Happy Room.

Instantly, I knew what was wrong with the Happy Room -- I wasn’t in it!

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a heap of crumpled singles, (as if I were paying for a pitcher of Pabst instead of the provocative company of an actual breathing person).

Suddenly, a horrible realization: I didn’t bring enough money!! What a buffoon.

The Madam returned and asked if she could help.

In a grotesque lapse of cognizance -- like when you say something stupid, and your brain realizes you are saying something stupid before you finish saying it, but you finish saying it anyway, because to not finish makes you look even more stupid -- I asked if she took Visa.

I expected a laugh, or worse, the biker-gangster-pimp to leap off the couch grunting, “I’ve had enough of this nerd,” and pitch me outside, as though the great warmy womb had miscarriaged me into the wet, Alaskan night.

Unbelievably, however, she said that they did accept credit cards, but there was an extra charge. (Note to self: whorehouses accept credit cards -- move to Alaska immediately!).

Not surprisingly, the extra charge was outrageous. Fifty dollars to be exact. So, thinking I would rather save money, I asked if they knew of an ATM nearby. The biker gangster pimp, who was still polite and warm, smiled and said PJ’s would have an ATM. (One thing I learned about the Hell’s Angels. They’re very helpful when they aren’t stabbing you!)

“I’ll be right back,” I said, opened the door and stepped back out into the cold rainy night.

Now I had already heard of PJ’s. In fact, I had already made a mental note to visit the place. From what I am told, it is the ugliest, nastiest, shittiest, pukiest, titty bar in all of Alaska. And it was less than a block away!

I took one step inside PJ’s and instantly knew it was out of my league. A small group of bikers were shooting pool, while a “Tweaker-crackhead-boozer-hooker-tramp” dancer wiggled her fleshless ass against a brick wall. She was skinny and curveless (if you don’t count crescent-shaped black bags under your eyes as curves). Old men and bikers huddled like conspirators and spat giant wads of chewing tobacco onto the floor. They were frequently visited at their barstools or tables by the various breeds of tweaker-crackhead-boozer-hooker-tramp waitresses, who walked around in lingerie that was either too tight on them because the girl was too fat, or the lingerie was too loose and ready to fall off their ass because the girl was emaciated from crack.

I ordered a Budweiser and watched the dancers. (I wanted a Heineken, but know better than to drink from uppity green bottles in a strictly brown bottle bar)

Good God the place was disgusting. The countertop was sticky, the rug was moist, wads of slimy chew were careening around the room, and you could smell the semen churning as each new strung-out stripper donned the stage.

I wanted desperately to pull the blue journal from my backpack, but knew that would be a terrible mistake. Nobody in this bar will take too kindly to some outsider writing notes about their skank bar. But the stimuli was overwhelming – thoughts and poems were flying through me like poisoned daggers and tyrannized me so badly I took my backpack into the men’s room stall, sat down, and composed this bit of trash:

PJ’s Strip Club
September 21, 2000
Anchorage, Alaska

She used to find purpose in her bullshit job.

when she danced with astounding grace

before gentleman who seemed to care.

Now she’s older

and they just drink beer

And, spit lumpy,

black wads of tobacco – tumbleweeds of the soul --

onto the floor.

And she is thinking,

“How?

How?

How could it be any worse

than this?”

After composing the stripper poem and admiring my genius from the toilet ( “Ahhh, stripper poem, I have finally found you.”) I returned to the bar and ordered another beer. The moment of truth was drawing near.

I guzzled the beer.

I withdrew 200 dollars from the ATM.

I said good bye to no one, and. . .

I walked out of the club.

Flash forward: Once again I find myself at the door of the Gentleman’s Lounge -- rain pounding -- staring at the buzzer of a brothel, wondering what I am capable of.

These were my thoughts, paraphrased of course:

1) What if my Cyprian Goddess had gone home, only to be replaced by Gingiva -- the goddess of poor oral hygiene who leads me into the Dungeon of Degradation rather than the Happy Room?

2) What if I am Harvey Keitel and this was an elaborate scheme by prostitute vampires to capture their victims?

3) What action am I about to take that may irrevocably change my moral landscape forever?

I thought of a million reasons not to go back in there. I rationalized that this was only supposed to be a reconnaissance mission and that I still had two weeks to return if I so decided, and that would give me the time to really consider it.

And so I stepped off the stoop, and wetly headed down Spenard Avenue toward home base, thinking, “Yes Happy Room, I shall return.”

Later, I will tell you exactly what happened when I tried to come back

“ESKIMO HAPPY ROOM”