About The Club Rules


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If you are a 40-year-old male and wake up on a Sunday morning at Motel 6 next to a 23-year-old girl who has three children and is most likely working at the corner Kinko’s for minimum wage, you messed up somewhere along the line. Never finish after midnight what wasn’t started before midnight!

This is one tidbit of advice (a rule you might say) for living your life in the wild world of social singles. There are specific guidelines that, if followed, assure enjoyable evenings without worry or regret. (Sorry, there are no assurances of not having a hangover the following morning.)

To delve deeper, there are six rules to which one should adhere when hitting the scene, whether one’s destination is the hottest club in LA or the smallest dive-bar in Chicago. If you’re one of the 50 million single and social Americans, you just may want to keep reading. Maybe you’ll pick up a new piece of information. If you don’t see anything you don’t already know and/or practice, at least you can congratulate yourself for being so intelligent that you already know all of The Club Rules.

Not to stop there, we also discuss some Pearls of Wisdom. While these may not rise to the level of rules, they are nonetheless sage advice to be minded. These may or may not pertain to both sexes. Hey, what can we say? Wisdom is wisdom. It is timeless and timely. If you pay attention to some of these gems, you just may keep yourself out of trouble.

Excerpt From The Book

Pearls of Wisdom


  • Balance is the name of the game
  • Nice guys do not need to finish last.
  • Do not expect what you cannot give
  • Do not be needy.
  • Always be willing to say “Fuck You”
  • Always be willing to say “Fuck Me”

Excerpt from Chapter: “Never Finish After Midnight, What Wasn’t Started Before Midnight”


If you are 40 years old and wake up at a Motel 6 on a Sunday morning with a 23-year-old girl who has three children and is probably working at the local Sonic as a carhop for minimum wage, you fucked up somewhere along the line. Never finish after midnight what wasn’t started before midnight.

I wish I could pawn this story off on DJ or Greg, but, sadly, I cannot. It definitely has the makings of one of Greg’s stories, due to the poor decision making only furthered by the copious alcohol intake. If I were not so damn honest about my mishaps, I’d surely attribute this baby to Greg and, thus, not have to worry if my Mother made it this far in the book. Sadly, this particular mishap is all me, baby. But hey, even bad stories have a silver lining: it gave me this wonderful lesson and served to supply my part of Rule # 3.

It was Saturday night and I really wanted to get out of the house. No… I NEEDED to get out of the house. I had worked a little in the morning, ran errands, done laundry, cleaned…you know. All those grown-up things that nobody should ever have to subject themselves to on a beautiful Saturday. So I was really antsy for some company and adventure. I had touched base with Greg earlier in the day via cell and he was all for some partying. The tentative plan was the usual – he’d come by around eight-ish (Phase 1) and we’d have a few drinks before heading out around ten (Phase 2). The plan was to hit one of the West Side establishments, most likely Hurricane Bay.

While I was busy all day, Greg was lounging at the pool, drinking and tanning. This habitual behavior earned Greg a nickname around the pool: “tan man.” Greg is usually at the pool from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. No kidding. He loves the sun almost as much as he loves his women and liquor. Not quite as much as he loves himself, mind you, but a love that deep is difficult to match.

Unfortunately, the sun and liquor got the most of Greg this particular Saturday, because when I called to check in on him and finalize plans, he was basically passed out. It seemed the best he could do was answer the phone and make some grunting noises. Thanks to his “rough day” at the pool, I was flying solo that night.

I do prefer having a buddy to hang out with at the club, but, by this time, I had gotten used to and even become comfortable with going out solo. My feeling is this: if I stay home, I know what the evening will look like – same stuff, different night. If I go out, on the other hand, who knows what possibilities will arise. Thus, with this logic, out I went.

Hurricane Bay is a large bar, complete with a karaoke room on one side, an extensive bar and pool tables in the middle, and a big dance floor on the other side. There are a couple VIP sections located on either side of the dance floor. My plan of attack is usually to hang in the karaoke room for a little while, then head over to the dance floor.

This evening started picking up around 10:30 to 11:00 (as is usual). The club had a decent crowd that evening, but it wasn’t really up to my liking. I’m typically fairly particular, so, at a club like Hurricane Bay, I may see just 5-10 gals I find attractive the whole evening.

Unfortunately, this evening was worse. Maybe one or two gals were my speed, in a country cute kind of way, and they weren’t biting. I was still glad I went out, but the evening was quickly turning into a dead end.

I was quite buzzed by midnight and was having fun, though still no action. I contemplated leaving, but, with the infinite wisdom provided by buzzed logic, I decided to stay.

Before I knew it, it was around 1:30 and the club was about to close down. A few more songs, then the lights would come up and the place would clear out. I once again looked towards the door, but decided against making my exit. What the hell. I had stuck with it this long. I might as well see if there was any trouble to be found in the last half hour.

Keep in mind, I mentioned previously that the dance floor was big. With the size of the floor and the lighting, it was often hard to see exactly who was out there. So, on my solo outing, absent of resources to send a search party for a “rescue” mission, it was up to me to survey the waters. Personally, I hate guys who do this, but it was do-or-die time… time to man up.

I proceeded to wade out across the dance floor on my own to see if there were any prospects.

I was about halfway across the floor with no sign of any potential love interests for the evening when I felt someone rubbing against my ass. At first I did nothing, as it’s a dance floor. Things are tight and can get wild, so I didn’t want to get my hopes up. With the way my luck had been going that evening, it could be an accidental rub from a short bald guy with a mean comb-over.

I continued wading through the choppy terrain for a few more seconds before turning, ever so casually, to see where my fortuitous rub had come from. There was a cute brunette nearby, and it seemed that with her was a large older blond woman with a large man whose multiple tattoos caught my attention. The younger brunette had some potential, but it was definitely a rag tag crew.

She made eye contact with me and it was game on. Clearly, she was the one who rubbed my rear (brushed my butt, fondled my fanny, tickled my tucas…I could go on for days!) and, clearly, it was intentional.

This girl was dressed in plain jeans that were nothing special. Her outfit was something you would expect one would wear while shopping at Target on Saturday. (It was a Saturday, so at least she got that part right.) They definitely were not the nice pair of fashion jeans or sexy dress jeans you’d wear to a club. Similarly, the rest of her clothing was casual, at best. Not to sound materialistic, but whether it was her attire, her make-up or the way she carried herself, she was basically just one step out of the trailer park. No hard feelings, but it is what it is.

She had some basic features that were OK, and she was sexy dirty dancing with her friend. At least, she was trying to “sexy” dirty dance. She wasn’t doing too shabby considering the scene was a thin brunette grinding with a heavy older woman. All right, even I can’t make that sound halfway decent. It wasn’t sexy in the slightest. But hey, “A” for effort.

Despite the circumstances, after too many beers and no action, a quick glance at the clock informed me it was 1:45. This Jerry Springer “Who’s My Baby Daddy” potential starlet was my last chance at some wild fun this particular night. She was acceptable.

A couple songs later, after minimal chit chat, the lights came up and the announcement came on to get the hell out of the club. Minutes later I was giving her and her two other friends (whom I learned were a couple) a ride “home” to their hotel. From what I cared enough to listen to before I just kind of tuned them all out, the three of them worked together on some Indian reservation outside of Phoenix, and they made it a habit to come into town on occasion to party.

The short drive landed Cindy, myself and her other friends at the Motel 6. I cannot remember the last time I was at a Motel 6 (for fear of bed bugs, murders and an array of other obvious reasons), and I can assure you, I won’t be returning anytime soon. This place was like a who’s who of deviants. I may sound like a judgmental prick writing this, but let me tell you, it was scary. And I’m a grown man!

There were two floors of rooms overlooking an inner courtyard with a pool. (Sound like a Motel 6 near you?) I use the term pool loosely, as I doubt it had been used in well over a year. And, whereas most regular hotels would be quiet at this time, about every forth room had the door open and someone, or a group of people, hanging in the doorway. Not sure if this was drug activity or prostitution, but I am confident in my assumption that this was no 2 a.m. Bible study session.

On this particular evening, however, none of this bothered me. I wanted action, and nothing, not even screaming crack heads two doors down, was going to ruin this for me.

The four of us were cramped in a dingy, tiny room equipped with two twin beds. You know the beds I speak of… they’re the same ones you had when you shared a room with your brother or sister when you were ten. The older couple was on the far bed, and Cindy and I somehow found ourselves on the bed closest to the door, directly underneath the window.

I started kissing Cindy and remember, with fondness, how she told me that I kissed great for an older guy. Is that a compliment? Remember, this girl was 23 years old, and, at the time, I was probably 39 or 40. I am sure I must have lied and told her I was 35 years old. Regardless, I was an “older guy”.

Well hell, there is no stopping me with that compliment and the wind at my back. The odd couple on a bed a few feet away, the distant sound of what seemed to be a gun shot, strange noises abounding (from outside the room – get your head in the game)… I think it’s fairly safe to assume nothing has quite the ability to fully capture the ambiance of a Motel 6 on a Saturday night.

And as for Sunday morning – never wake up at a Motel 6 on a Sunday morning! No, wait… just in case you think I’m kidding or don’t mean it, I’m going to tell you once more: NEVER WAKE UP AT A MOTEL 6 ON A SUNDAY MORNING!

Upon waking, I realized that I probably did see Cindy at the club the previous evening many times, but I had just passed her by. She clearly wasn’t the right gal for me. I absolutely recognized that when I was sober(er) and in my right mind. The night before, however, I had lost my objectivity as the evening wore on. I lost control and began to make poor decisions.

From this came the ever important lesson about staying in control and knowing that if she was not the right gal for me at 10 p.m., she surely wouldn’t be the right one for me at 2 a.m.

It reminds me of what comedian Chris Rock says: there is no good reason to pull more than $200 out of an ATM between midnight and 6 a.m. He thinks each ATM should be equipped with a pop up “Dr. Phil” that automatically kicks in during these hours if you request $200 or more from the ATM. Surely some late night counseling would help in these situations.

In my mind, if you do make such an outlandish withdrawal at such an outlandish time, it would sound something like this: “You buying drugs or you buying a hooker? Fool! Do not even THINK about doing what you are about to do. Here. I, as a responsible ATM, will give you $20. Take a cab home. The $120 fee for this emergency late-night therapy session will automatically be deducted from you’re account as well. Thank you for being an idiot. Have a nice day.”

You know, Chris Rock is absolutely right. I searched the depths of my soul and remembered the few times I pulled that kind of money out at those odd hours. Trust me, it wasn’t to donate to a local charity.

There is no good reason to pull over $200 out of your ATM after midnight and there is no good reason to wake up at a Motel 6 on a Sunday morning with a girl named Cindy who is 17 years your junior.

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