Welcome back to the monthly strip club adventure known as affectionately as," From Club to Club: The Search for Strip Club Nirvana."

It's been quite a busy month for things 'round my camp. Between finishing up production on my second independent album (The Species Protector LP, which drops in August) and catching up on my degree program with a couple of summer classes, life has been hectic. Alas, nothing would keep me away from providing the "masses" with the newest attempt to find Nirvana.

This month we take a trip to The Glass Slipper, located in historic Boston, MA.

I'll start the review with a few questions:

1. Have you ever had a friend or knew someone who continually failed at everything that they tried to do despite valid and noble attempts to succeed?

2. Have you ever seen your 75-year great aunt in silk stockings?

3. Have you ever seen your mother naked?

4. Do you remember the Wendy's commercial from the 1980's where an adorable elderly woman asked, " Where's the beef?"

5. Have you ever seen the movie, "Judgment Night"?

6. Have you ever wanted to kill yourself immediately upon entering a gentleman's club?

7. Have you ever seen a VD clinic on wheels?

If answered yes to any of these questions, then you partially understand where this review is going. Allow me to expound on a somewhat unsettling opening.

I rounded up the friends into the ole' sedan and headed off toward the destination at about 8:00 pm. For many not familiar with the Boston area, we are smack dab in the middle of the biggest public works nightmare in the history of the universe-- The Big Dig.

Now, a trip into Boston from my house SHOULD take about 30 minutes at about 8 pm. Not the case due to the mindless re-routing, so we arrived at about 9:45. I should have known that the evening would be, well tough, when an on-duty traffic cop provided us with directions and the advice of "watching our backs", while enjoying our night.

Upon reaching the area of the club, we attempted to find the only secure parking lot, the entrance to which was partially blocked by a VD clinic/needle exchange program on wheels. I joked to my friend that maybe he should get a check-up due to his exploiting of Mexican prostitutes while driving 18-wheelers in Texas. He wasn't amused.

How bad could it get, right? Read on.

The toughest area of violent crime in the United States, the infamous Combat Zone, or China Town to the less adventurous, we arrived at the door of the club. There was no cover charge for admittance into the club, so we thought that it was going to be okay after all. We couldn't have been more wrong in assuming that.

Upon walking into the club, I noticed a quasi-attractive black dancer somewhat singing/screaming (?) an obscure Aretha Franklin song while onstage. It was quite possibly the most obnoxious thing I've ever endured in my life. You see the club seems to encourage and appreciate stripper-out-of-tune-sing-screaming-versions of songs. I was treated to the following songs while observing: "Crazy in Love", by Jay-Z, a Prince B-side, A song that I believe to be either Barry White (R.I.P.), or Billy Ocean, despite not sounding anything alike, Some crappy local band's demo tape, and The Devinyl's classic, " I touch Myself", among others; the latter of which was presented by a woman, clearly in her mid to late 50's. I have to say though it was the most humorous thing that I've ever seen in my life looking back, due to the fact the older woman was dancing like frumpy baby-booming Janet F-ing Jackson. She performed her routine while you guessed it-- touching herself.

In all fairness to the club, there were a couple of pretty woman there. One of which, was a very intelligent brunette who had a beautiful face, nice personality and very pleasing body. In other words, she wasn't model thin but she was pleasing to talk to and she was pretty in her own way. Aw how sweet. that is where the flattery ends.

The overall layout of the club is that of a basement in some cheesy low-income housing building. It has a kind of sleeze bag sheen about it; complete with weak DJ, a rude elderly waitress and the smallest tables ever manufactured in a sweatshop from Pakistan.

Speaking of small, I was informed of the mandatory drink policy, of which I obliged. The waitress promptly returned, carrying a 3.2 oz. Pepsi, which was neither Pepsi nor worth the $9.00+plus tip it cost me. At one point, a dancer wanted to "sit and talk", to the tune of a $30.00 cocktail, of which we did not oblige. Oh yeah, the stage, which is built into the bar somehow, is equipped with a 1940's era cash register which is used to ring up drinks while the dancers perform. Call me crazy, but an elderly bartender ringing in drinks to the sound of screaming dancers is kind of distracting and so damn disrespectful it is sickening. Think about it, there you are on stage (screaming a horrible version of "Kick Start My heart", by Motley Crue) trying to make the best of your night, and your crappy club, and are subjected to the sound Nazi-era technology for bar tab accounting. You know, the sound of the old cash draw opening with a loud bell and the numbers being pushed into the ribbon with a startling crunch. Move the damn register off the stage please!

We decided to spread out, which is damn near impossible given the layout of the club, and we tried to capture even mild interest if not Nirvana this time, to no avail I might add. The Glass Slipper is quite possibly the worst club I've ever seen in my life. My advice to the dancers I favored there is simple, go to another club; you are worth more than the place you subject yourself to.

Our exit cue came when the waitress told me to "move" because she "needed" the seats for other customers. My reply: " You have other customers?"

Check out Don's witty diatribe every month here in The Looking Glass.

Email him at: DADJ112@aol.com