published in the217.com for Buzz Weekly on 12/6/07
Winter has arrived, but sadly, I did not harvest. Push came to shove about two days before the pseudo-holiday “break,” when suddenly faced with despair from another round of bureaucratic persecution, I sought the comfort of my old friends: Ben and Jerry. Except my sweet pals bounced ages ago around the time I ran out of money and had to start living off of tears. However, wedged behind a rotting cucumber and expired carton of milk lay what could only be classified as a divine intervention: an overlooked brick of tofu that would surely be of some use.
Now, let me make this very clear: I know very little about how to prepare tofu. I have eaten tofu before and could even call myself a fan, but as it is not an essential part of my diet, I have not spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to prepare and perfect it. Hence, why it was sitting innocuously in the depths of my fridge.
Being that I know nothing about tofu, I decided to consult my roommate who is a vegetarian. He handed me an aging, tofu-specific cookbook that he has turned to once or thrice in the past during his own times of need. Flipping through the book, I found many delicious recipes—none of which I had any ingredients for.
However, I once heard a rumor somewhere that making tofu scramble is really popular with vegetarians. So, I decided to give it a whirl. Putting on my brand new gold kicks and setting my iTunes to “September,” by Earth, Wind and Fire, I lit the stove excited for my attempt at a home-cooked meal.
Slicing the brick in half, I wrapped it in paper towel, placed it on a plate and clumsily smashed a book over it, per my roommate’s suggestion. I assured myself that it looked about right and threw it in a pan with some olive oil, cumin, and salt and pepper. Being that I had nothing else to eat, I ate the entire contents of the pan. Unsurprisingly, I was hungry again an hour later.
Fortunately, my fridge happened to have a nearly finished package of shredded Mexican cheese and some stale wheat tortillas. Turning to my cupboard, I found one package of taco seasoning. It was my lucky day. Warming my tortilla and shredded cheese in the toaster oven, I prepared my remaining half-brick of tofu. Much like my tofu scramble, I dumped in the entire contents of one package of taco seasoning and mashed it around for a bit.
After awhile (maybe five or ten minutes), I became impatient and removed it from the heat. My tortilla had finished baking, so I poured the contents of the pan and half-heartedly rolled it up. As you can imagine, it was the most nauseating crap I have ever made. But I ate it all, and then proceeded to ask everyone I know how much tofu it takes to kill a person. However, when push comes to shove, always turn to my idol, competitive eater, Takeru Kobayashi, because if he can eat 63 hot dogs, it’s OK that I ate a whole brick of tofu.
Read the article here.
Dec 9, 2007
Nov 13, 2007
Etiquette For the Uncultured
Published in the217.com for Buzz Weekly on 11/15/2007
Because my daddy is a truck driver and I was raised with an aluminum spoon in my mouth, I will be the first to admit that succeeding Ms. Manners has never been my destiny. After all, engaging in lowbrow activities ranging from begging to eating condiments for survival has never been beneath me (consider it an endearing product of spending a good portion of your life in abject poverty). However, as I get older and have to start pretending more often that I have class to avoid surviving off of condiments, etiquette does become a bit of an issue.
This realization became crystal clear just a few weeks ago when I had a bit of a dining faux pas while wining and dining (perhaps wining more than dining) with a curator and some visiting artists from the Springer Cultural Center at Escobar’s, an upscale Spanish restaurant in Champaign. I suppose by “a bit” of a faux pas, I mean I suffered a major embarrassment. However, much like C-list celebrity Mystery of VH1’s charming self-help show, “The Pickup Artist,” I hope to share a few pearls of wisdom so that you can still be the queen or king of your social pecking order when Lindsay Lohan-esque traumarama moments kick in.
You see, there was this piece of steak sitting just a reach away from me on the plate of a person I was dining with. After glass or three, I became more and more enamored with the idea of taking this juicy little left over. I rationalized that it would be shameful to let this finely prepared meat go to waste, which I figured was a good enough reason to elegantly stab the isolated meat and shove it in my mouth like a proper lady. Long story short, I didn’t fully chew the steak, began choking and then let out the most horrible sound as I violently threw up the undigested carcass into my napkin.
Of course, when you throw up a partially chewed piece of steak at a table at a fancy restaurant, quick thinking is in order. So, how do you go about it? The most effective method I’ve found is to simply laugh it off—but with finesse. During a time when keeping it real is the status quo, most people crave awkward moments because it’s a reflection of humility—and let’s not forget hilarity! If you’re like me and your life is constantly in shambles, this should come easily. My route is to profusely apologize and draw excessive attention to the awkward incident at hand until no one wants to talk about it—an irritation that is most likely a result of blatant disgust from having to consistently remember the atrocious sounds of regurgitated food at the dinner table.
However, this method doesn’t necessarily work for everyone. Let’s say you happen to be a burly and hardened man. Allow for an extra moment of silence while everyone contemplates what has just happened and then just let yourself go! Your vulnerability from suffering a soul crushing social anxiety will be an unexpected, but a welcomed change of pace. For the decrepit, there is no need to apologize at all! You served your country well throughout the years, most likely with an agonizing 9-5 or with service during one of the great wars. I say choke that steak right back onto the plate and pass some gas while you are at it! It’s your right as an American!
On the other hand, if you happen to be a sophisticated lady, let’s face it: you’re pretty much screwed, as your reputation will be undeniably tarnished. Then again, you probably have enough inherent manners and class that this type of humiliation would never happen to you. But if you happen to be reading this article, chances are that you have about as much or even less etiquette than I do. Ultimately, you probably don’t care too much for the opinions of those you are dining with as they will never sleep with you, let alone buy you a drink. So let your creativity and half digested food run free!
Read the article here.
Because my daddy is a truck driver and I was raised with an aluminum spoon in my mouth, I will be the first to admit that succeeding Ms. Manners has never been my destiny. After all, engaging in lowbrow activities ranging from begging to eating condiments for survival has never been beneath me (consider it an endearing product of spending a good portion of your life in abject poverty). However, as I get older and have to start pretending more often that I have class to avoid surviving off of condiments, etiquette does become a bit of an issue.
This realization became crystal clear just a few weeks ago when I had a bit of a dining faux pas while wining and dining (perhaps wining more than dining) with a curator and some visiting artists from the Springer Cultural Center at Escobar’s, an upscale Spanish restaurant in Champaign. I suppose by “a bit” of a faux pas, I mean I suffered a major embarrassment. However, much like C-list celebrity Mystery of VH1’s charming self-help show, “The Pickup Artist,” I hope to share a few pearls of wisdom so that you can still be the queen or king of your social pecking order when Lindsay Lohan-esque traumarama moments kick in.
You see, there was this piece of steak sitting just a reach away from me on the plate of a person I was dining with. After glass or three, I became more and more enamored with the idea of taking this juicy little left over. I rationalized that it would be shameful to let this finely prepared meat go to waste, which I figured was a good enough reason to elegantly stab the isolated meat and shove it in my mouth like a proper lady. Long story short, I didn’t fully chew the steak, began choking and then let out the most horrible sound as I violently threw up the undigested carcass into my napkin.
Of course, when you throw up a partially chewed piece of steak at a table at a fancy restaurant, quick thinking is in order. So, how do you go about it? The most effective method I’ve found is to simply laugh it off—but with finesse. During a time when keeping it real is the status quo, most people crave awkward moments because it’s a reflection of humility—and let’s not forget hilarity! If you’re like me and your life is constantly in shambles, this should come easily. My route is to profusely apologize and draw excessive attention to the awkward incident at hand until no one wants to talk about it—an irritation that is most likely a result of blatant disgust from having to consistently remember the atrocious sounds of regurgitated food at the dinner table.
However, this method doesn’t necessarily work for everyone. Let’s say you happen to be a burly and hardened man. Allow for an extra moment of silence while everyone contemplates what has just happened and then just let yourself go! Your vulnerability from suffering a soul crushing social anxiety will be an unexpected, but a welcomed change of pace. For the decrepit, there is no need to apologize at all! You served your country well throughout the years, most likely with an agonizing 9-5 or with service during one of the great wars. I say choke that steak right back onto the plate and pass some gas while you are at it! It’s your right as an American!
On the other hand, if you happen to be a sophisticated lady, let’s face it: you’re pretty much screwed, as your reputation will be undeniably tarnished. Then again, you probably have enough inherent manners and class that this type of humiliation would never happen to you. But if you happen to be reading this article, chances are that you have about as much or even less etiquette than I do. Ultimately, you probably don’t care too much for the opinions of those you are dining with as they will never sleep with you, let alone buy you a drink. So let your creativity and half digested food run free!
Read the article here.
Nov 10, 2007
Quiche For the Inept and Lazy
published in the217.com for Buzz Weekly on 11/7/2007
Yesterday, I finally made quiche. For those of you who don't know what a quiche is, it's basically a delicious savory egg pie. If you don't like egg, pie or delicious things, you probably won't like quiche. Being that I like all three of these things and also since I have only been talking about it for something like six months now, I finally decided that yesterday was the day that I was going to blow off all the work I needed to do and take 15 minutes to throw a quiche together. If you're lazy like me, but have just enough motivation to procrastinate, you can make quiche too.
How to make quiche:
1. Steal as some of your roommate's eggs and hope they don't notice. In this case, I stole four.
2. Break open some of those eggs and toss them in a bowl. Throw whatever milk product you have lying around. I chose soy milk because it's all I have since milk costs something absurd like $4 a gallon now. Now whip it up like you're going to make a delicious Sunday morning scramble and place aside.
3. I hope you had defrosted some spinach and a pie shell. You have pie shells, right? If not, you really can't make a quiche.
4. Did you remember to pre-heat your oven to 400F? I bet you didn't. Better do that now if you haven't already.
5. Chop up some cheese you have lying around. Traditionally, a good Swiss or Edam is preferred, but I only had muenster in the fridge, so that's what's goin' in the shell. Layer that on the bottom of your thawed shell. By the way, you should do that 15 minutes or so after taking it out of the freezer.
6. Hey look at that, we have some tomatoes. Slice those suckers up and stick them in! Turkey bacon?! Don't you hide away in the back of that fridge edging ever-so-close to the expiration date! You step right on up! Microwave 2 slices and slice them with your only clean, dulling knife. Stick it in on top of the cheese-tomato layer.
7. Add your spinach to your egg mixture and fill the rest of your pie shell with it. You'll probably have to spread it at this point since it will be kind of lumpy. Then, stick it in the oven.
8. Ten minutes later, you'll be talking to your friend about your delicious quiche, wondering if you should have put garlic in it. He'll tell you, "Yes, you should have. Garlic makes everything better." You'll agree and pull your quiche out to stick in some garlic, burning your hand in the process and then put it back in.
9. Now, preoccupy yourself with a meaningless task such as reading a Wikipedia article or three, mopping your floors or staring at your ceiling for a while until you suddenly remember you have a quiche baking. This should be maybe 30 minutes later.
10. Pull it out and take a small slice. You might be horrified or delighted with your attempt to make quiche.
In my case, I was pleasantly surprised, but didn't feel temptation to cut another slice as I had already filled up on hummus and pita while I waited for it to bake. Afterwards, I felt good about my efforts and also felt like a domestic champ, ready to display my home-ec skills to potential suitors. Are they lining up at the door yet? No? I'll check after I mop my floors.
Read article here.
Yesterday, I finally made quiche. For those of you who don't know what a quiche is, it's basically a delicious savory egg pie. If you don't like egg, pie or delicious things, you probably won't like quiche. Being that I like all three of these things and also since I have only been talking about it for something like six months now, I finally decided that yesterday was the day that I was going to blow off all the work I needed to do and take 15 minutes to throw a quiche together. If you're lazy like me, but have just enough motivation to procrastinate, you can make quiche too.
How to make quiche:
1. Steal as some of your roommate's eggs and hope they don't notice. In this case, I stole four.
2. Break open some of those eggs and toss them in a bowl. Throw whatever milk product you have lying around. I chose soy milk because it's all I have since milk costs something absurd like $4 a gallon now. Now whip it up like you're going to make a delicious Sunday morning scramble and place aside.
3. I hope you had defrosted some spinach and a pie shell. You have pie shells, right? If not, you really can't make a quiche.
4. Did you remember to pre-heat your oven to 400F? I bet you didn't. Better do that now if you haven't already.
5. Chop up some cheese you have lying around. Traditionally, a good Swiss or Edam is preferred, but I only had muenster in the fridge, so that's what's goin' in the shell. Layer that on the bottom of your thawed shell. By the way, you should do that 15 minutes or so after taking it out of the freezer.
6. Hey look at that, we have some tomatoes. Slice those suckers up and stick them in! Turkey bacon?! Don't you hide away in the back of that fridge edging ever-so-close to the expiration date! You step right on up! Microwave 2 slices and slice them with your only clean, dulling knife. Stick it in on top of the cheese-tomato layer.
7. Add your spinach to your egg mixture and fill the rest of your pie shell with it. You'll probably have to spread it at this point since it will be kind of lumpy. Then, stick it in the oven.
8. Ten minutes later, you'll be talking to your friend about your delicious quiche, wondering if you should have put garlic in it. He'll tell you, "Yes, you should have. Garlic makes everything better." You'll agree and pull your quiche out to stick in some garlic, burning your hand in the process and then put it back in.
9. Now, preoccupy yourself with a meaningless task such as reading a Wikipedia article or three, mopping your floors or staring at your ceiling for a while until you suddenly remember you have a quiche baking. This should be maybe 30 minutes later.
10. Pull it out and take a small slice. You might be horrified or delighted with your attempt to make quiche.
In my case, I was pleasantly surprised, but didn't feel temptation to cut another slice as I had already filled up on hummus and pita while I waited for it to bake. Afterwards, I felt good about my efforts and also felt like a domestic champ, ready to display my home-ec skills to potential suitors. Are they lining up at the door yet? No? I'll check after I mop my floors.
Read article here.
Why Can't I Drink A Beer On The Quad?
Published in Buzz Weekly on 5/31/07
After several agonizing months of trekking miles through the cold, bleak winter, global warming decided to work in my favor during the equally agonizing week of finals. Pushing our despair to less fortunate places (I'm guessing ... Mississippi?), the Midwest declared, "NO MORE!" The clouds parted; the sun shone and I was finally able to catch up on a minor tan amid the throes of countless shirtless frisbee throwers and bikini bathers (I was not one of them though. I dislike competition/I'm too fat to wear a bikini).
As I lay on my blanket, disguised by some pretentious book in hopes that no one would notice that I was actually people-watching, I feel something is missing. Such an enjoyable afternoon deserves something cold and refreshing. Iced coffee? Nah. Water? Eh. Juice? Buh! Buh ... Buheer? ... Beer ... BEER! I need a BEER! That's what I need!
A deliciously cheap and malty beer would definitely satisfy me! I'll just go ... oh wait. I can't. I can't drink on the Quad because of some fascist "rules" that are trying to protect our morality.
Listen, I consider myself a responsible drinker. Okay, so maybe when I was 19 I told everyone at the gay karaoke bar that I loved them and that they were the nicest folks around. And I guess there was that time that I passed out wedged in a doorway, or on a stairway or in the middle of the floor. Who hasn't done that? I was young, impressionable and inexperienced with boozin' because that too was illegal. But now, at the ripe age of 22, I've had my fair share of spirits and feel confident that I can handle myself (I think we all know who is able to figure out which bus route to take home at the end of the night. Yeah, that's me). So why can't I open a cold one on a hot day, politely rocking out with earbuds in, as I patiently wait for a glimpse of the singing rollerblade dude?
When I first came to this University I had expectations of drinking. Not just from all of those college movies, but from the 12 bars that line Green Street, the John Belushi "College" poster that greeted me from Austin's Sportswear and the tables of beerpong set up among the five billion fraternities that the University of Illinois can credit for the largest Greek system in the nation. Why can the guy that calls me "sweetheart" and "babe" leave his red plastic flippy cups in front of his University-supported housing unit, but I can't drink a beer on the Quad? (By the way, I would fucking recycle that can too).
In Campustown it is a rarity to see children. Occasionally some school buses might show up for a play at Krannert or your professor's wife might decide to show up with their son to class to "surprise him" during the final class just as he's about to reveal something essential about your impending exam - but do we have parades? "Children X-ing" signs? The only "parade" is that of the drunken students going between bars during Unofficial St. Patrick's Day. A can of beer on the Quad is immoral, but an official unofficial holiday designed to allow students to get plastered while they're still on campus is in "good fun." This isn't hurting children or the community. You know whom this is hurting? Me.
Sure, I could take the subtler route of putting a brown paper bag over my 40 or tossing some Jack in my Coke bottle, but why should I? I already had to wait to turn 21 in order to harness 90% of my adult rights (I still gotta wait two more years to rent a car); why do I have to wait the extra hour to go home and drink a beer or pay $2 more to awkwardly sit alone in a dark, dingy bar?
The issue I have isn't just the blatant infringement on my rights as an American - No, actually that's exactly what I have a problem with. What is freedom if not to experience the joys of life on a hot summer's day? When I replaced my "No Fear" sticker with a yellow ribbon magnet on the back of my Hummer, I thought that stood for something. I am being deprived of enjoying a public space with an essential American pastime: drinking. What about the local liquor store that won't make the extra $6 because America doesn't want me to support capitalism? That's right, I said it. Drinking restrictions hurt capitalism, and no one likes a fascist.
After several agonizing months of trekking miles through the cold, bleak winter, global warming decided to work in my favor during the equally agonizing week of finals. Pushing our despair to less fortunate places (I'm guessing ... Mississippi?), the Midwest declared, "NO MORE!" The clouds parted; the sun shone and I was finally able to catch up on a minor tan amid the throes of countless shirtless frisbee throwers and bikini bathers (I was not one of them though. I dislike competition/I'm too fat to wear a bikini).
As I lay on my blanket, disguised by some pretentious book in hopes that no one would notice that I was actually people-watching, I feel something is missing. Such an enjoyable afternoon deserves something cold and refreshing. Iced coffee? Nah. Water? Eh. Juice? Buh! Buh ... Buheer? ... Beer ... BEER! I need a BEER! That's what I need!
A deliciously cheap and malty beer would definitely satisfy me! I'll just go ... oh wait. I can't. I can't drink on the Quad because of some fascist "rules" that are trying to protect our morality.
Listen, I consider myself a responsible drinker. Okay, so maybe when I was 19 I told everyone at the gay karaoke bar that I loved them and that they were the nicest folks around. And I guess there was that time that I passed out wedged in a doorway, or on a stairway or in the middle of the floor. Who hasn't done that? I was young, impressionable and inexperienced with boozin' because that too was illegal. But now, at the ripe age of 22, I've had my fair share of spirits and feel confident that I can handle myself (I think we all know who is able to figure out which bus route to take home at the end of the night. Yeah, that's me). So why can't I open a cold one on a hot day, politely rocking out with earbuds in, as I patiently wait for a glimpse of the singing rollerblade dude?
When I first came to this University I had expectations of drinking. Not just from all of those college movies, but from the 12 bars that line Green Street, the John Belushi "College" poster that greeted me from Austin's Sportswear and the tables of beerpong set up among the five billion fraternities that the University of Illinois can credit for the largest Greek system in the nation. Why can the guy that calls me "sweetheart" and "babe" leave his red plastic flippy cups in front of his University-supported housing unit, but I can't drink a beer on the Quad? (By the way, I would fucking recycle that can too).
In Campustown it is a rarity to see children. Occasionally some school buses might show up for a play at Krannert or your professor's wife might decide to show up with their son to class to "surprise him" during the final class just as he's about to reveal something essential about your impending exam - but do we have parades? "Children X-ing" signs? The only "parade" is that of the drunken students going between bars during Unofficial St. Patrick's Day. A can of beer on the Quad is immoral, but an official unofficial holiday designed to allow students to get plastered while they're still on campus is in "good fun." This isn't hurting children or the community. You know whom this is hurting? Me.
Sure, I could take the subtler route of putting a brown paper bag over my 40 or tossing some Jack in my Coke bottle, but why should I? I already had to wait to turn 21 in order to harness 90% of my adult rights (I still gotta wait two more years to rent a car); why do I have to wait the extra hour to go home and drink a beer or pay $2 more to awkwardly sit alone in a dark, dingy bar?
The issue I have isn't just the blatant infringement on my rights as an American - No, actually that's exactly what I have a problem with. What is freedom if not to experience the joys of life on a hot summer's day? When I replaced my "No Fear" sticker with a yellow ribbon magnet on the back of my Hummer, I thought that stood for something. I am being deprived of enjoying a public space with an essential American pastime: drinking. What about the local liquor store that won't make the extra $6 because America doesn't want me to support capitalism? That's right, I said it. Drinking restrictions hurt capitalism, and no one likes a fascist.
Pane Caldo Write-Up
Copy for http://www.stylechicago.com/Favorites.asp?ParentID=531&ID=9439">StyleChicago.com
Glimmering, refined and one of Chicago's most treasured historical neighborhoods, there is definitely a reason why it is called the Gold Coast. As one of the finest areas in Chicago, it is also home to some of the best dining in the city as well.
Take Pane Caldo, for instance. Comfortable, yet elegant, Pane Caldo's cozy interior is decorated with warm shades of amber and blue complemented with romantic touches such as white linen and fresh flowers (note: consider reserving a window seat facing Walden St. for a more intimate evening).
Read more http://www.stylechicago.com/Favorites.asp?ParentID=531&ID=9439">here.
Glimmering, refined and one of Chicago's most treasured historical neighborhoods, there is definitely a reason why it is called the Gold Coast. As one of the finest areas in Chicago, it is also home to some of the best dining in the city as well.
Take Pane Caldo, for instance. Comfortable, yet elegant, Pane Caldo's cozy interior is decorated with warm shades of amber and blue complemented with romantic touches such as white linen and fresh flowers (note: consider reserving a window seat facing Walden St. for a more intimate evening).
Read more http://www.stylechicago.com/Favorites.asp?ParentID=531&ID=9439">here.
Bin 36 Write-Up
Copy for StyleChicago.com
Sommeliers can finally say, "tcin tcin" to a restaurant that knows wine. As both a restaurant and wine merchant, Bin 36 provides knowledgeable service along with an ambitious menu of contemporary American fare.
Read more here: http://www.stylechicago.com/Favorites.asp?ParentID=527&ID=3259
Sommeliers can finally say, "tcin tcin" to a restaurant that knows wine. As both a restaurant and wine merchant, Bin 36 provides knowledgeable service along with an ambitious menu of contemporary American fare.
Read more here: http://www.stylechicago.com/Favorites.asp?ParentID=527&ID=3259
Nov 6, 2007
Dancing for Dollars
article for Advanced Reporting Class at University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana
Propping her half-naked body up against a table and wrapping her legs around the neck of a man on a Monday night, Brandy usually only has one thing on her mind: her three children.
“Sometimes you think about what groceries you need to get for the week or what bills you have to pay,” she said. “Other times you keep telling yourself to keep faking it in hopes that it will seem believable and they’ll pay more.”
Brandy, a 28-year-old dancer who prefers to be referred to by her stage name, is a topless dancer at The Silver Bullet Bar. With long blonde hair and a tan, chiseled body, she has worked for the strip club industry for the past three and a half years. However, her ultimate goal is to finish nursing school.
“The majority of us have a quota when we come in here with bills and things we have to pay,” Silver Bullet dancer Colleen Cook said. “That’s what makes it easier for us to come in and do it.”
With ages ranging between 18 and mid-forties, the dancers come to work for many reasons, but most said they hope to transition to something better. Cook, a 31-year-old dancer whose stage name is “Nadia,” has been working at the Silver Bullet on and off for the past ten years. As a mother of three girls, Cook said she enjoys working at the club because it provides her with more flexibility during the day. However, Cook said working at the club takes an emotional toll under the pressure of having to play different roles that cater to a variety of customers.
“I’m older, but a lot want the younger types. Others like having a conversation and don’t mind you showing your intelligence or your real self. Some people pay just to talk,” Cook said. “They want a counselor. They want you to sympathize and listen to their problems.”
Craig McFadden, a supervisor at SuperValu Warehouse, said he frequents The Silver Bullet 2-3 times per year, unless he is in a relationship because he considers it an infidelity. McFadden said he usually prefers to engage in small talk and tries to be as much as a gentleman as he can be with the women.
“You do try to touch, but it’s not like your girlfriend,” McFadden said. “I mean, it’s sort of a mutual thing because they need the money and well, I need…you know…”
The Silver Bullet owner, Ed Salfelder, said that this type of relationship is what makes his business successful.
“I think you will find that the dancers are just normal people needing to make money,” Salfelder said.
Located at 1401 E. Washington Street in Urbana, The Silver Bullet is open evenings on Monday through Saturday. Salfelder opened the bar in 1985 and now runs it with his wife, Tonya.
He said that the women who dance at his store are independent contractors. Making their own hours, dancers pay $20 to work at The Silver Bullet, but take home the rest. According to Salfelder, dancers usually take home $200 to $300 on most nights, but can make between $500 and $1000 in one hour for a private party. McFadden said that on an average night at The Silver Bullet, he will usually spend anywhere from $40-100.
“This is a place for them to make money. It’s fast money, but they’re well protected,” Salfelder said.
As one of only two strip clubs in Champaign-Urbana, Salfelder prides himself on what he calls a “clean business.” Abiding by the city codes restricting adult businesses to 200 feet from a residential neighbor and 1000 feet from a church or hospital, he said the problem has never experienced any controversy from the community.
Salfelder, whose father is a retired Champaign City police officer, said his club has strict rules about prostitution and drugs that he enforces having observed problems at competing institution, Malibu Club.
“You have to make sure not to let prostitution occur around your business,” Salfelder said. “The girls usually tell us when something isn’t right. If they don’t, it’s bad for their business too because they’re losing clients.”
Creating a safer environment for the women, most everyone agreed that there were rarely disrespectful customers. Jim Jones, a bouncer and doorman for the bar, said that in the three and a half years he has worked at The Silver Bullet, he has only had to lay his hands on seven customers.
“No one wants to call for bail money saying they screwed up at the strip bar,” Jones said. “Ed runs a very clean bar.”
Nonetheless, many of the dancers, such as 21-year-old Amanda Smith, try not to get too close to customers.
“It’s not really safe to give out your full name,” Smith said. “I’m very reserved. If you touch me wrong, I’m going to slap you across the face.”
Smith wears the same outfit every night because it is only one she has left: a red tube top and pair of matching pants. She said her father burned the rest of her outfits. Her parents currently think she is working as a waitress and said that she has no intention of letting them know she’s working at The Silver Bullet again.
“The money is much more substantial than waitressing. A lot more,” Smith said. “It’s kind of a, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ sort of thing.”
Before working at The Silver Bullet, Smith was enrolled in the Marine Corps before being discharged for anxiety problems. She said she has been working at the bar on and off for the past two years because of a suggestion from her abusive ex-fiancé. Though their relationship ended two months ago, Smith said she started again as a way to get back on her feet financially in hopes of finishing her degree in radiological technology.
“Some men respect that you’re here to work, other men look at you like you’re trash,” Smith said. “What I do doesn’t define me. I’m as classy as I can be.”
Though naked in flesh, the dancers at The Silver Bullet hide the complex reasons that bring them to work. Taking a break from soliciting customers and chatting over a cigarette, the women who work at the club said they treat their job like any other profession.
“A lot of people think we’re wild women that want to take our clothes off, but we all have goals,” Cook said. “All the girls that work here are good girls.”
Propping her half-naked body up against a table and wrapping her legs around the neck of a man on a Monday night, Brandy usually only has one thing on her mind: her three children.
“Sometimes you think about what groceries you need to get for the week or what bills you have to pay,” she said. “Other times you keep telling yourself to keep faking it in hopes that it will seem believable and they’ll pay more.”
Brandy, a 28-year-old dancer who prefers to be referred to by her stage name, is a topless dancer at The Silver Bullet Bar. With long blonde hair and a tan, chiseled body, she has worked for the strip club industry for the past three and a half years. However, her ultimate goal is to finish nursing school.
“The majority of us have a quota when we come in here with bills and things we have to pay,” Silver Bullet dancer Colleen Cook said. “That’s what makes it easier for us to come in and do it.”
With ages ranging between 18 and mid-forties, the dancers come to work for many reasons, but most said they hope to transition to something better. Cook, a 31-year-old dancer whose stage name is “Nadia,” has been working at the Silver Bullet on and off for the past ten years. As a mother of three girls, Cook said she enjoys working at the club because it provides her with more flexibility during the day. However, Cook said working at the club takes an emotional toll under the pressure of having to play different roles that cater to a variety of customers.
“I’m older, but a lot want the younger types. Others like having a conversation and don’t mind you showing your intelligence or your real self. Some people pay just to talk,” Cook said. “They want a counselor. They want you to sympathize and listen to their problems.”
Craig McFadden, a supervisor at SuperValu Warehouse, said he frequents The Silver Bullet 2-3 times per year, unless he is in a relationship because he considers it an infidelity. McFadden said he usually prefers to engage in small talk and tries to be as much as a gentleman as he can be with the women.
“You do try to touch, but it’s not like your girlfriend,” McFadden said. “I mean, it’s sort of a mutual thing because they need the money and well, I need…you know…”
The Silver Bullet owner, Ed Salfelder, said that this type of relationship is what makes his business successful.
“I think you will find that the dancers are just normal people needing to make money,” Salfelder said.
Located at 1401 E. Washington Street in Urbana, The Silver Bullet is open evenings on Monday through Saturday. Salfelder opened the bar in 1985 and now runs it with his wife, Tonya.
He said that the women who dance at his store are independent contractors. Making their own hours, dancers pay $20 to work at The Silver Bullet, but take home the rest. According to Salfelder, dancers usually take home $200 to $300 on most nights, but can make between $500 and $1000 in one hour for a private party. McFadden said that on an average night at The Silver Bullet, he will usually spend anywhere from $40-100.
“This is a place for them to make money. It’s fast money, but they’re well protected,” Salfelder said.
As one of only two strip clubs in Champaign-Urbana, Salfelder prides himself on what he calls a “clean business.” Abiding by the city codes restricting adult businesses to 200 feet from a residential neighbor and 1000 feet from a church or hospital, he said the problem has never experienced any controversy from the community.
Salfelder, whose father is a retired Champaign City police officer, said his club has strict rules about prostitution and drugs that he enforces having observed problems at competing institution, Malibu Club.
“You have to make sure not to let prostitution occur around your business,” Salfelder said. “The girls usually tell us when something isn’t right. If they don’t, it’s bad for their business too because they’re losing clients.”
Creating a safer environment for the women, most everyone agreed that there were rarely disrespectful customers. Jim Jones, a bouncer and doorman for the bar, said that in the three and a half years he has worked at The Silver Bullet, he has only had to lay his hands on seven customers.
“No one wants to call for bail money saying they screwed up at the strip bar,” Jones said. “Ed runs a very clean bar.”
Nonetheless, many of the dancers, such as 21-year-old Amanda Smith, try not to get too close to customers.
“It’s not really safe to give out your full name,” Smith said. “I’m very reserved. If you touch me wrong, I’m going to slap you across the face.”
Smith wears the same outfit every night because it is only one she has left: a red tube top and pair of matching pants. She said her father burned the rest of her outfits. Her parents currently think she is working as a waitress and said that she has no intention of letting them know she’s working at The Silver Bullet again.
“The money is much more substantial than waitressing. A lot more,” Smith said. “It’s kind of a, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ sort of thing.”
Before working at The Silver Bullet, Smith was enrolled in the Marine Corps before being discharged for anxiety problems. She said she has been working at the bar on and off for the past two years because of a suggestion from her abusive ex-fiancé. Though their relationship ended two months ago, Smith said she started again as a way to get back on her feet financially in hopes of finishing her degree in radiological technology.
“Some men respect that you’re here to work, other men look at you like you’re trash,” Smith said. “What I do doesn’t define me. I’m as classy as I can be.”
Though naked in flesh, the dancers at The Silver Bullet hide the complex reasons that bring them to work. Taking a break from soliciting customers and chatting over a cigarette, the women who work at the club said they treat their job like any other profession.
“A lot of people think we’re wild women that want to take our clothes off, but we all have goals,” Cook said. “All the girls that work here are good girls.”
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