I was at a seedy strip club on Ventura. The women danced on stage, wrapped themselves around poles, ground themselves into the laps of lecherous businessmen unwinding after long hours at the office. I had a rum and Coke and was sitting at the bar, peering up every so often at the naked women, with Danny, my former college roommate who was going through a bitter divorce. His wife, Manda, was divorcing him because he frequented too many strip clubs.

“It’s just tits,” Danny said. “It’s just ass.”

“I guess Manda doesn’t see it that way,” I said.

“That’s because Manda doesn’t have tits or an ass. Have you seen her?” Danny waved to the bartender for another refill.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Her tits are as small as figs. Her ass as lumpy as cottage cheese.”

“Yeah,” I said. I always hated when Danny did this, found things to say about his wife just to bring her down, always belittling her not just to be but to her face. No wonder she was getting a divorce. I love Danny, I do, but he’s a prick. “Listen,” I said, wanting to get out of the conversation, not wanting to talk about Manda’s cottage cheese ass, “I’m gonna’ go pee. I’ll be right back.”

I went to the bathroom and saw Walt Disney in there snorting some coke. He didn’t look like the guy who hosted those Disney TV shows. For one thing he wasn’t standing in front of a fairyland castle. For another he was doing blow with a toothless hooker.

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