Strip Club Flag Wars

n the days since the National Tragedy of September 11, when real estate prices in lower Manhattan took a tumble, every business and home in the U.S. has been displaying the American flag in an effort to show their patriotism and shame anyone without a flag into running to their local Wal-Mart or Raley's in hopes of finding some cheap Taiwanese facsimile of the Stars and Stripes. Here in San Francisco, the Flag Wars have erupted between two competing strip clubs within a block of each other, and the fighting promises to get nasty as the weeks wear on.

At the Mitchell Brothers O'Farrell Theater, three full-size flags have been flying proudly above the marquee, which announces the latest show as "Red, White and Nude." We spoke with owner Jim Mitchell, who said "Actually, it's more correctly known as the Mitchell BROTHER Theater these days, ever since I shot ol' Artie back in the early '90s and spent a few years in the joint for it. But anyway… yeah, we figured the right thing to do was to fly the flag in honor of all those potential lap-dance patrons that will now never know the pleasure of having a fine peroxided blonde with silicone hooters sit down and try to cajole twenty-dollar bills out of them for a minimum of sexual contact. It seemed like the least we could do, given the circumstances."

To that end, Mitchell installed two flagpoles on either side of the existing one above the marquee, and is now flying the flag in triplicate. "We've got three," he pointed out, standing on the sidewalk in front of the theater, where two of his surgically-enhanced bimbos and a male bouncer were taking a cigarette break. "That club down on Larkin," he added, referring to the New Century Theater, "only has two."

At the New Century, no one would comment, except to say that they were "just as goddamned patriotic as that bastard Jim Mitchell, who can come down here and kiss my red, white and blue ass." This reporter did note, however, that there were only two American flags flying above their marquee, which advertised "Girl on Girl Shows" and "Bachelor Parties Welcome." It also appeared that one of the dancers at the New Century was wearing a G-string with a stars and stripes motif, but it was extremely dark, so it could have been something else.

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I don't know who passed the law saying you've got to love old movies or else you're a shithead, but I think they suck. Christ, half of them aren't even in color. It's just a bunch of pasty white guys standing around saying shit like "That was the last monkey in Montenegro," and drinking bourbon.

Now you know Omar Bricks is down with drinking bourbon. I don't even need an excuse like my son died or it's Tuesday or whatever, like most guys. I put bourbon in my soup, 'nuff said there. But watching some old dude who's been dead for fifty years drinking bourbon while he looks serious and silently works on forming a hemorrhoid isn't exactly my idea of a great way to spend a Saturday night.

The problem with most old movies is that jack shit happens in them. People just stand around and talk about things they should do. "We should hijack a blimp and have a gun fight while being dragged behind a train by our shoelaces!" "No, I'm too old and slow for that. Let's just drink some more bourbon." "Good idea." I don't know what in the hell was up with people back then, if they were too worn out and lazy after World War II or what, but they were pretty boring to watch.

And the directors back then didn't help either. Nowadays if you shoot some pregnant chick in a movie, they zoom the camera right into her belly to show that there's some gnarly animated fetus in there. Nice! In old movies they'd just have some white guy say: "You've shot my wife, who was with child. I am understandably upset." And then some other chick would get hysterical and pass out.

That was basically the only role for women in old movies, spazzing out when shit went wrong. Like if war broke out or it rained. And then some bland guy with a paralyzed colon has to get the shit done, by way of talking. You'd be forgiven for dropping dead from the excitement.

Tight-asses can complain all they want about shrinking attention spans these days, but Omar Bricks says the attention spans of yesterday were overrated. Retards have long attention spans too, you know. Moviemakers cashed in on this by padding their movies out with scenes that dragged on for days. People would talk, and then the camera would hang around for a few minutes in case they had anything else to say. And there was no music unless the credits were rolling or people were dancing. If people were dancing they'd dance so long you'd feel like you went to the prom with a broken leg.

The basic lesson of all old movies was that all white people are claymation robots. No wonder minorities don't trust us; they probably think we run on D-cells. It's hard enough for the rest of us to tell the real white people from the actual claymation robots, like Dave Thomas from Wendy's or Ernest Borgnine. Without inborn cauca-dar, I bet it's nearly impossible.

Not that I think old movies should be banished forever or driven off a cliff in a clown car or anything hilarious like that. If we didn't have old movies, film critics would have to start liking modern movies, which would piss them off for sure. Then those fancy pricks would be no better than the rest of us, and they'd have to join a comet cult or something. Or else find new ways to complain about modern movies, like saying they're not as much fun as going ice-skating or kayaking.

I just want people to get off my jock when I suggest that the original Ocean's Eleven can suck my brat pack or when I say I prefer Marky Mark getting his funkies in a bunch in the new Planet of the Apes over the saggy-assed rubber apes of the original. Nobody complains when I pick my cousin over my grandpa as a partner in the Bricks Ultimate Family Reunion Fighting Challenge every couple of years, but I guess it's cool to like old movies more than you like old people. Hypocrites.

Bricks out.

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In the world of show business, things go from boring to frenetic overnight. This also applies to my life as of recent. One minute I'm volunteering at soup kitchens just to get out of the house, then my phone is ringing with work and so on. Which is great, the soup kitchen thing wasn't what I thought anyway—you believe people volunteer to serve the soup? They tried to tell me they already had more than enough people to eat it all.

But the work, the work! It's true what the Fixx said, one thing leads to another. I get a call from Vic-O Smith-Smith, one of the convention geeks who kept trying to get me to read his script last year. I told him I would, then when he asked me what I thought of it, I told him I thought it had its moments—he totally fell for it. Anyway, Vic-O asked me if I'd be in his movie if he ever got the money to do it, and I said sure, thinking no one would give this chunk money. Well, I was right, but it turns out he got hit by a Brinks truck and sued for big-time bucks. Vic-O called last week, as I said, and said the part was mine if I wanted it.

I played it cool and told him I would do it, only on the condition he gave me money for the role. It paid off, 'cause he offered me even better than money—a percentage of the movie! Usually that spells disaster, just ask anybody who's ever financed a bomb movie for percentages, or internet investors. This one's a sure-fire hit, though, because it's a sci-fi movie. Sci-fi movies are like oil spouting up through your bathtub. Money city.

The gig is all set, though. I'll be playing Clemenstra Raygun, the star of the movie, and it ought to be kick-ass. It will take about two weeks of shooting and then a long post-production time while all the special effects are computer-generated. It's a low-budget movie, but Vic-O says he can CGI all the effects with a special movie-making program known as Photoshop. The movie is about… okay, I still haven't read the script or anything. I'm putting money down it will involve me in some sexy space outfit shooting a laser and riding around in a rocketship. Something like LSD but it costs less and helps move my career along in inches.

I didn't even tell you the best part yet! Vic-O, he's a good friend with another guy, and this guy (whose name I didn't bother to write down) is publishing a comic book. I know, nerd city, but check this out: It's a comic about a super-freak sexy heroine, and guess who they wanted to play her on the covers? Victoria Principal. But of course she wants ridiculous money and has a busy schedule doing make-up commercials or whatever. Her loss, my gain. I'm going to be Metallichick!

Not much involved as far as the covers go or anything, they basically have me stop by the "studio" in his mom's house ever couple months and take a couple of promotional photos and some shots for the cover. Then people see a real chick on the front of the book and want to buy the book, then get home and get pissed to see it's all drawings inside. Maybe they recognize me from TV or the Brady Bunch reunion special where I told everybody I was Cindy, who knows, but people buy the book and I get money to come back and do more. It keeps me busy, that's what's important. That and the money.

I didn't even mention the big stuff, that I'm off to a sci-fi convention next week. I was planning on going back to sign autographs at the Orgasma table anyway, but the guy whose name I can't remember also wants me to do some promotion for the Metallichick book. I might even help Vic-O promote the new movie. It's feast or famine, as the old saying goes, and I'm going to gorge myself while the gorging's good.

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