The Classy Lady was a valley institution for decades. It would be difficult to imagine a sadder strip club. There was no cover, which should tell you something right there. There was no VIP room. You could buy a pitcher of Coors Light for $8. Cheapskates would hang out by the pool table in the back, pretending to play while taking in the view free of charge. Management didn’t seem to mind. The ladies would wander by with a tin cup and ask for money for the jukebox, and by money I mean coins. They would clomp the two steps up to the pole and grind it out for a couple singles on the tip rail, or frequently nothing at all. There were women working with fresh C-section scars and moonscapes of acne on their derriere. The place was annexed to a gas station and a store which sold rims. I can’t believe it’s actually a strip club, was the instinctive reaction. Sort of like wandering in to your own private David Lynch film. For the women it was not even a waystation on the road to perdition, but perdition itself, in which one panhandles naked without remuneration.
It shames me to say this, but a couple years ago, after regaling dinner guests with a description of The Classy Lady, they demanded to ‘see the ugly strippers’ for themselves. Off we went. Only now the strippers were of an entirely different quality. They were thin. They were tone. They had skills. There was still no cover, and no one was putting money on the tip rail. In the depth of the recession.
But you do what you have to do, when you’re a working mother.
That’s all done with now. Sort of. Classy has been gutted, expanded and replaced with Synn. In keeping with Nury Martinez’s self-promoting ’45 day ban’ on adult business, all the strip clubs on the boulevard have renovated and enlarged, like the cup sizes no doubt, in the new, improved Synn Gentlemen’s Club.