I sometimes create post titles that are a bit misleading but with the missile situation in North Korea right now, this one could be accurate. Allow me to share the full story…

A couple years ago, I was performing at Kunsan Air Base in South Korea and after one of the shows some soldiers asked if I wanted to go off base to O-Town (or maybe it was called A-Town. One was a reality show band, the other is a rinkydink town in Korea). Having a total disregard for personal safety, I agreed to accompany this group of complete strangers in a foreign land.

O/A-Town is just a few miles from the base and consists of a couple of blocks of dingy bars and restaurants. I was immediately introduced to the local flavor called Soju, a potent concoction that tastes like juice so you tend to consume way too much of it. It’s so sweet you have to chase it with a vitamin drink to prevent hangovers. Just to show you the powers of the Soju, a guy in a kilt (in Korea?) allowed me to get photo documentation of what’s underneath his kilt and this is how one of my loaded companions captured the once-in-a-lifetime moment. And so the answer to one of life’s big questions remains unproven.

We stopped at a few bars, all of which were mostly the same: tiny holes with about 10 tables and one bored (or maybe scared) Korean girl in a bathing suit (not a bikini) dancing with a pole looking like she’d been sold into her profession by “evil Japanese business man.” The Mama at one of the bars was awesome. She was about 4′5″, cleaned the tables with a lit cigarette in her hand and barked angrily at all the soldiers she’d probably been sick of dealing with since 1955. I love characters like that. She’s so cute I even published this ghastly image of myself so you can see her. She took a liking to me so I asked if I could make my pole dancing debut on her stage. At first she refused but the guys assured her I wasn’t in the military so she agreed.

I took the stage and must say, I think I missed my true calling in life (damn cellulite)! I whipped around that pole like I’d been doing it since childhood, which I think is when all the great strippers get started. This action shot shows I was no timid flower up there. Unfortunately, my hair took out three innocent bystanders. After a few minutes I was joined onstage by another girl (as you can see, the “gift with the pole” is not posessed by all) and the crowd went wild, hoping for a little lesbian action. Their dirty fantasies were cut short when Mama started yelling from the front door, “Get down! Get down!” It was Terminator Mama! Like a scene from a bad sitcom, she literally had a military police officer’s head wedged in the partially open door, as if that was preventing him from seeing inside. We hightailed it to the dancer dressing area, which was about two square feet surrounded by a curtain and missing the complimentary cocaine you’d find at the American equivalent. We hung out there a little while until the MP’s had left (they routinely patrol all the bars). Apparently the girl who joined me was a soldier, which could have caused some problems for her and/or the establishment. When I sat back down, one of the guys handed me $10. Ten bucks and I didn’t even take off any clothes. I think that’s a real testament to my pole skills (or maybe it was just in appreciation of the fact I didn’t take my clothes off. Whatever- I’ll take it).

We headed back to base with about 20 minutes until lockout and the guys started hassling our cab driver about the price. He got mad, pulled over and told us to get out. A dark road littered with the occasional decrepid building is not the place where you want to be stranded in the middle of the night with five random miltary men. I don’t know if one of the guys sweet-talked him or if I’m now unknowingly married to a Korean cabbie but somehow he agreed to take us the rest of the way. After a mad dash to the entrance we made it inside just in time. Naturally, the plan after that was to get even more drunk and belligerent at parties on the base (for all my discussions in here about alcohol consumption, I feel I should mention I actually don’t drink very often but when I do, I usually get hammered. Or I guess “bombed” would be more appropriate for this story).

Five a.m. rolled around and one of the guys asked, “You wanna paint a bomb?” I had absolutely no idea what that meant so I quickly said, “YEAH!” (After a few cocktails, I’m as big an idiot as anyone). He grabbed some paint cans and took me out to a hangar full of actual bombs. He told me to have at it and I did, so drunk that it never even occurred to me that I was defacing federal property. I just figured if the officer said I could do it, it must be okay (which I’m pretty sure is the same brilliant thought process that led to the Abu Ghraib scandal among others). Not an experienced tagger, I proceeded to write “Jenée” on one and “Jenée’s Bitch” on another. Real smart putting my name on there while posters of me were hanging all over the base. I might as well have written, “You can arrest me at this address: 265…” I’m guessing some soldier raped or killed a local, thereby deflecting attention from my crime, as they never came for me. Whatever the reason, it was a lucky break for me!

I don’t know if bombs have an expiration date but I assume my babies are still on active duty not far from the demilitarized zone (DMZ). Obviously, I hope the North Korea situation is handled peacefully… but if it isn’t, look for my bombs on CNN!