Nightcrawler - Crawl for your life

Nightcrawler

“This ain’t no bikini contest. This is the A-T-muthafuckin’-L!” belts the DJ at Club Blaze.

While getting thoroughly frisked, I realize I’ve wanted to do this for years – not getting felt up by a large black man, but crawling the bars of Moreland Avenue. I’m not talking Little Five Points and East Atlanta here. That’s laughable. Keep riding past the Starlight Six Drive-In and Thomasville Heights, and you get the idea. I’ve driven past these places hundreds of times, always curious what it would be like to throw down inside. There’s no turning back now.

With me, a solid crew of three guys and one petite designated/get-away driver rolls in a pickup down Moreland like it’s Thomas Drive in Panama City Beach. Just beyond the city limits, we stumble upon the gentleman’s establishment, Club Blaze.

We’re the only white people here. Like dipping our toes into the water to check things out, we have drinks at the bar near the entrance. Things are cool, so we move our party to seats at the stage.

I’ve always been fascinated with strip club DJs, but the guy at Blaze owns it. When he notices some of the guys aren’t tipping, he cracks, “I know some of y’all here playin’ pocket pool, but we got pool tables in the back, muthafuckas!”

We’re having a blast, but it feels a little uneasy being the only ones seated at the stage with the entire club at our backs. Not that I feel we’re in any danger; if anything, it feels like we’re intruding. We’re on their turf, but on whose terms?

My paranoia washes away when I meet Diary – a stripper who writes poetry. She’s a light-skinned dream with soft brown hair. Yes, I fall in love with a stripper. After she gets my number, I imagine us headed to wedded bliss (as of press time, Diary hasn’t called).

As we head past our boy in the DJ booth, he gives us one last shout on the mic: “Ohh no! Don’t leave. I’ll buy ya a beer, I’ll give ya 150 dollars!” Then, as the door closes shut, I hear, “Awwww, fuck ‘em!”

Classic.

After shooting some straight tequila with a gentleman named Big Booth in a Moreland sports bar called Driftwoods, things get a bit blurry. We’ve got one more stop, and luckily it’s in crawling distance.

Before tonight, I was never really a fan of strip clubs. But from what I remember about the Foxy Lady on Moreland, I just haven’t been going to the right joints. Either the place is smaller, or the booties are bigger. Like the Pointer Sisters, the ladies work hard for the money.

I’m not sure what I was expecting with the crawl. We ventured into unfamiliar territory with open minds and were welcomed with open arms (and legs, among other things). I don’t know why I thought it would be any different.

“This is the A-T-muthafuckin’-L!” And I love it.

For more on J. Winter’s Moreland Avenue club crawl, including a hand-drawn map, visit www.clcribnotes.com.