My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

There’s a radio tower I can see from my window. At night red lights flash along the steel tines. Most of the time the shades are drawn. I don’t care to look.

It’s beautiful. I have seen it. By now television, cell phones and satelites are hitched to the structure and radio still matters but it’s a way to relax, it isn’t vital.

I don’t know what to write anymore. I led a crew of 5 men on an office move, and I’m no longer the bumbling junkman I once was.

I miss it. How can the past be a fantasy? Why did I leave it behind for days full of telephone scheduling and dueling deadlines?

As my business grows I don’t care to write about it. The men I hire are the old me. Artists by nature. Dreamers who have to work so do it as little as possible because they choose not to volunteer for punishment.

Six of us downtown San Francisco moving a video editing company a few blocks…from a sunny street corner to a windowless recess down a hall.

It was a $2000 move but they insisted they would do all the little boxes themselves, have everything ready for the weekend. But who can run a business that is packed in boxes?

It was a long day stacking what they thought they could do and it was clear Sunday was gonna get involved. Downtown is close to North Beach, and North Beach is for strippers. I took the boys to the Hustler Club. I’m a leader. That’s how I lead.

A beautiful mulatto was onstage in pink lingerie and I don’t think people use mulatto anymore. A mix baby about 20 that was light as cream but with kinky hair and the body of an African had the blue tinted stage lights on her.

We sat down and ordered a round. There were more women in their underwear standing around in high heels holding their little tip boxes, small handled grips with a slit cut in for dollars to drop, there were more women than men in there on a Saturday at 1 pm.

A few came and sat with us. The private detective we all know had a girl in his lap without asking, he’s the oldest in the bunch and the girls need a daddy figure.

The women dance to 2 or 3 songs, and never take their panties off, although their bras do come undone. This is the day shift on the weekend when the business clientele is home with the family so the benchwarmers were up. One gal struggled up the pole, losing 6 inches for every foot her hand grappled above her. Bends were truncated, spread eagles were more pigeon like than a Friday night girl.

The waitress came by and said, “There’s a tri-tip sandwich special for $8 we recommend,” but the boys and I agreed eating in a dark strip club sober would be more depressing than the last supper.

A tall woman approached the 4 steps to the stage, she set her tip box down near the edge in the bright light and had a Wet-Ones in her hand.

The hardest part of stripping is making it look sexy to wipe the brass pole down so the last girl’s thigh streaks don’t intermingle with your own.

“Gotta get rid of the stripper smudge”, the woman on our private detective’s knee explained.

I felt like a man. My back hurt. I’d whored myself out to a business man who wanted to be back to work Monday. The girl pushed her tits together, she climbed the pole and controlled her own fall.