Every time the Catholic Church launches its sporadic campaign against immorality, also known as “The Rene Josef Bullecer Crusade,” I’m reminded of a feature story I’ve been itching to write about: bikini bars. So when a few days ago Bullecer started exorcising congressmen of their reproductive health demons, I knew I had to start my research already.

The plan was to write an objective description of what goes on inside bikini bars at a time when the Bullecer crusade was condemning whores, pimps and T-backs

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as the devil’s creatures.

I picked an inexpensive bar, the better for my pocket and for me to give Bullecer a more accurate picture of the middle class libido. The place was nothing to write home about: neon lights, cramped hall, a small stage with mirrors all around and a pole bar in the middle. I ordered light beer just when the next number was about to begin. Then I realized I was in for a big trouble. Abba’s “Dancing Queen” started to play.

You know something terrible lurks ahead when you hear the intro of any disco tune. It’s bad enough to hear “Dancing Queen” performed by almost every show band in the world; it is overkill to hear it in a place where music is supposed to be the least of your worries and in an age when disco is supposed to be dead. By the time Agnetha Fältskog and Anni-Frid Lyngstad, or whoever from the Swedish quartet recorded the vocals, were halfway through the first stanza, I started doubting my mission there.

Why can’t every place that serves beer seem to live without this song? I know it’s about a liberated 17-year-old girl who goes out on Friday nights to look for a ‘king’ to dance with. But the song was written in 1975. That makes the girl 50 by now! She could be a queen in Sweden already, but she’s definitely not dancing on a Friday night anymore.

I knew the girl on stage was exhausted too, because by the time Abba was singing “You’re a teaser, you turn ’em on / Leave them burning and then you’re gone…” she was holding on to the pole bar for support, probably wondering if Bullecer would ever save her from this hell.

Then finally the song ended. The hall went dark and lit up again in a hazy blue and red and green in seconds. I could barely make out the dancer’s blurry figure against the mirror. Then the next music started. It’s a piano, slow, so slow… then “Turn arooouuuund.”

It’s “Total Eclipse Of The Heart!” I knew I should have told my girlfriend, my mother, my pet hamster, all the significant women in my life about this assignment, but this was too much punishment. “Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you’re never coming around…” Bonnie Tyler growled. The dancer started throwing her garments to the floor – her bra, her panties, her tattoo, her eyelashes… But I was too bummed out now to record any libidinal reaction.

And the girl, wriggling her way to a fake orgasm with the pole bar, was visibly “a little bit lonely,” and “a little bit tired” and “a little bit nervous” and “a little bit terrified” and “a little

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bit helpless.” She is practically a little bit of everything until the song ended full seven minutes later. Then I started to hate Bullecer for this assignment. Once upon a time there was light in my life, I told myself, but now there’s only love in the dark; there’s nothing I can do – run away from this rathole before they play “Ocean Deep.”

sun.star opinion, aug. 26, 2008