I stood at the urinal of a men's room on the fourth floor of Northrup Auditorium, the University of Minnesota's coliseum, wearing a blue gown, mortarboard cap and ornamental fibula in preparation for a graduation ceremony that was being conducted in the hall. My ruminations about being a third-time graduate, who was adding a degree from Minneapolis Community and Technical College to a BA he earned from San Francisco State University many years before and a high school diploma earned from Saint Paul Academy many, MANY years before, were quickly smashed to bits by the explosion of feces released by the occupant of a nearby stall. As revolting as this interruption would normally be, I found some relief in this similarly attired gentleman's detonation, as it temporarily distracted me from the suffocation and sweat I was enduring from the lack of air conditioning, as well as from the robe and clothes I wore underneath it. More significantly, it also brought forth memories of my attendance of a book signing a few days before by City Pages columnist and book writer Diablo Cody.

Diablo Cody, a stunning woman of twenty-whatever who is the author and subject of “Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper”, a gonzo journalism exploration of Minneapolis and Saint Paul's surprisingly vigorous sex industry via employment as a stripper, peep show girl and obscene phone receptionist, is hardly someone to call in mind fecal eruptions. However, during the entirety of her appearance at a Borders Bookstore in downtown Minneapolis, I was nagged by an urge to purge myself in a manner comparable to my fellow graduate's. The fault for my own feculent pickle lay entirely with my disregard for the available men's restrooms I passed in downtown's skein of a skyway system. I did not want to miss one second of this rare appearance by this Hemingway in a G-String, whose first name is Spanish for (though not necessarily synonymous with) “devil.” More importantly, I was curious to see the author in the flesh, after enjoying her funny, sexy and at times quite disturbing book, as well as her brilliant commentaries in City Pages on equally provocative corners of pop culture like “Desperate Housewives”, “Sex in the City”, “The L Word”, dental dams, porn shop bouncers and, raunchiest of all, the Minnesota State Fair. As for my hurried passing of so many beckoning baños, it was also the result of my presumption, based on previous visits, that Borders' own lavatory would be available for the push of a door.

When I arrived at this door, though, I found it armed with a lock the size of a chastity belt, and with a coin slot much like those found in most porno booths. For a moment, I thought this otherwise progressive bookstore was bringing back the days of railroad station and other public restrooms that charged a dime or more for entree into their stalls. I almost expected to see, hobbling behind me, one of those cranky, gnarled old attendants who made sure nobody climbed over or crawled under the stall doors for a freebie. Instead, a far from cranky and and very young filly, who worked for the store and who sported a beguiling head of military-style hair, swung by and informed me that I could a get a token, free of charge, at the counter that would allow me into paradise. Unfortunately, after receiving this supposedly magic coin, and attempting several times to insert it into the lock's slot, it became clear to me that it would not open sesame in this “poo” corner. Seeing as the star turn I came rushing to experience was about to start, and my load wasn't in immediate need of elimination, I figured I could enjoy at least part of the doings before heading to greener pastures, and slid the token back to the baffled clerk who tendered it to me.

Indeed, the function turned out to be well worth one or even two damaged kidneys. Diablo, who wore a charming if rather unrevealing garment with a Japanese design, and whose girlish voice matched the pig tails dangling from her head, began the show by noting, “Now, I've had a lot of fun on this book tour. But I notice most of the crowds are really stoic during my readings, like they think stripping is evil, or something. So, if it'll warm you guys up, we can go visit one of the clubs described in my book!” Even if this offer, in regards to the half-dozen (and counting) “gentleman's” lounges in the immediate downtown area that were among the settings in her journey, were a serious one, it was probably unnecessary. A number of the chuckling eggheads in attendance had no doubt conducted their own junkets under more dissolute circumstances (and to any owners of those lounges who might be reading this, could you please get rid of the annoying M.C.'s and stop playing Prince on the sound system?).

A constant among the strip cabarets Ms. Diablo read to us about - indeed, a constant in her brief career as a stripper, altogether - was how seldom, if ever, the term “stripper” was actually used by the employees, owners and other people connected with the arcades. Instead, more beguiling appellations like “dancer”, “performer” and, especially, “entertainer” were preferred. Another shared attribute was the ease with which she gained employment at most of the nighteries she applied to. All she needed to do was show up and be a woman - or, at least, a woman who looked, within reason, like the centerfolds of most upper-echelon men's magazines. The flexibility on this issue was made possible by the fact that the lighting at the hovels was kept low enough to hide the blemishes, folds, flab, surgical scars and other imperfections of the vast majority of humanity outside of the modeling industry. A final commonality was the near-freezing temperatures the salons were kept at. In addition to inducing helpful visual effects upon the performer's physiques, the coolth encouraged the women to embrace one another for warmth on stage and off, thus throwing a few lesbo bones in the direction of the hungry - if not ravenous - patrons.

Luckily, the spot Diablo offered to take us to, Dream Girls, did provide heat in the water the women showered under. The showers, our visiting scribe noted, were not ones located off-stage for quick mop-ups between gigs, but in the basement for entertainers to lather, frolic, introduce creative uses of soap in and presumably hug one another for the benefit of inquisitive customers. Bizarre, and not a little scary, as such a performance venue might be to those of us used to drier surroundings, it was evidently easier on the gonzo dancer's sensibilities than the interior of a competing showroom, Sheik's. At the time she conducted her research, this former (and, perhaps, current) spaghetti house perpetually reeked of smog from the cigars the joint offered for sale at airport prices. Thanks to the anti-smoking laws enacted in the city's bars and restaurants since then, this is one veil of vulgarity that has since been lifted from most metro area strip - eh, “dance” - palaces. In fact, one veil most of these bistros never burdened themselves with in the first place with was that in regards to serving alcohol. While this lack of liquor licensing at most such venues may encourage the moneymakers and money spenders to be temperate and on their toes, its aim, of course, is to allow the women to interact with the customers as libidinously as possible without being touched by them or giving the impression that the patrons want to make them vomit. The absence of booze also, as our Candy Girl put it, allowed for the ample display of the young ladies' “birth canals” (I told you the book was disturbing).

Closing the otherwise funny book in her hand, Diablo then offered to answer questions from the smoke-free and only slightly ravenous patrons in the room - some of whom might have had an opportunity to ask her these same queries years earlier while she writhed upon their laps. In the process of responding to the generally on-target questions, this “Devil” Cody revealed the surprising fact that she not only was raised Catholic, but enthusiastically remains so. Though she confesses she would probably not be considered a model member of the flock by most members of the clergy (who, for the most part, seem to prefer private dances from those too young to work at or visit dance clubs), she harbors none of the anger one would expect a sex worker - and, especially, a writer - to have towards being reared in the Church of Rome. She also discussed a movie script she successfully steered towards a production now in progress, a film called “Juno” whose subject - a teenage girl's struggle with how to deal with an unplanned pregnancy - sounds like it is connected with the sex industry, but according to her is not. In the world of books, her follow-up to “Candy Girl” is, strangely enough, a book about her experiences trying to sell the script in Hollywood, a place which, strangely enough, she described as making her feel “more exposed and exploited in than I ever did in the sex industry” (is someone ever going to have something nice to say about Tinsel Town?).

With that, she called the literary lap dance to a close and offered to sign books for those who brought copies or wished to buy them on site. I foolishly forgot to bring my copy for her to sign, thus robbing me of a chance to mention to her that at least one of the leading ladies of my three non-Hollywood film productions also got acting experience at one of her investigative locations. Truth be told, even if I had brought my copy, I probably wouldn't have been able to wait in line for her to put her Jane Hancock on it, as my bowels by this point were losing their commendable patience. Walking in a near-squat back into the skyway, I headed towards a locale whose rest room I knew would not let a lock or token slot impede my entry. This, interestingly, was at the downtown branch of Saint Thomas Academy, a very Catholic institution whose homophobic policies were recently the subject of a cover story in our visiting author's weekly pump, City Pages. It was nice to know that my holding off on my evacuation not only afforded me an opportunity to catch this live show by the Pages' coolest writer (apologies to their second coolest writer, Peter Ritter, who wrote a great article, “Catch a Shooting Star” about me and my film, “Proinhibition”), but also to, in effect, dump on an institution that practices intolerance.

As for my graduation ceremony a few nights later at the enormous opera chamber of Northrup, I was doubly glad to earn my latest degree from an institution that, based on the 1,350 graduates in attendance, clearly did not practice intolerance of any kind. This particularly applied to one fellow degree holder whom, at first, I thought was wearing an ascot with his robe, but turned out to have a tattoo smeared across his neck (though, admittedly, the tattoo might have been in the design of an ascot). In fact, considering the way many among this wide array of licentiates skipped, strutted, boogied, shimmied and even undulated across the stage as they received their degree covers from the college's President, it would not have surprised me if a few of these folks had paid their way through school by working as ecdysiasts in revues like those depicted in “Candy Girl.” Regardless, as I did my own dance across the stage - which, thanks to my formality and the peace signs I flashed, owed more to Richard Milhouse Nixon than Gypsy Rose Lee - I could not help but think that while the world may not be a better place for brilliant, beckoning and, above all, brave souls like Diablo Cody, it is a little more flashy and lots more fun.

And as I paid tribute to a President whose place as least popular Chief Executive will soon be taken by a man who probably enjoyed more than his share of burlesque rodeos in earlier days, I could not help but wonder: which one of these guys I'm graduating with was the poor schlub in the stall?

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