(The family trip to the Olive Garden took a nasty turn as soon as they walked through the door…)

There is a seriously intelligent discussion (literally, dude, there’s like, footnotes and stuff) concerning LED tattooing (and its theosophical implications) over at Worlds As Myth, a subject I treated with much less dignity last week. For the rest of you, let’s talk boobies.

Sunday afternoons at Bada Bing are a glorious thing. Enticed by a radio ad touting beer and food specials during all NFL games, my partner and I put in an appearance last weekend. I can honestly say that there is nowhere we would rather be watching the game than this establishment. The screens we observed were small but conveniently placed in the corners flanking the bar, but there is also a larger projection screen in an adjacent room. Refreshments were incredibly well priced, as advertised, and the bartenders are friendly, as early Sunday afternoon is not prime titty time (I hear some people go to church or whatever) and they are not overworked.

Now to the reason for the existence of Bada Bing, the ladies. There are very few girls on staff early on in game day, but there are also very few customers, so it evens out wonderfully. This particular Sunday, they seemed to be testing out some of the new applicants, because they averaged at about 8 (good stuff) and were quite friendly. As the day wore on, more strippers came and populated the stages, and one of Bada Bing’s trademark features, the glass-bottomed catwalk that leads from the DJ booth on the second floor to the main stage, and offers customers at the bar an interesting new angle when viewing the girls, and a new place to throw singles.

The manager, Steve Buckley was kind enough to give us a full tour of the establishment, and some of the amenities are pretty slick. There’s what the club calls an “excuse booth,” an innovation of unparalleled genius that allows a guy to call his lady friend in the comfort of a sound-proofed booth that for a small fee will pump out the sounds of where he’s supposed to be (grocery store, work) instead of checking out other, significantly more naked women. The club offers an impressive array of cigars and the like to lend an air of sophistication to the polished turd that is the Gentleman’s Club in general. Upstairs in the super-dee-duper VIP sections there is a spacious shower with a glass wall, that patrons might watch two or more chicks lather each other up within. The upstairs rooms benefit heavily from the attention-to-detail decor that Bada Bing is known for (a library room, for instance), all with stunning Morroccan themed architecture. The management is even considering putting in a mechanical bull, for use by patrons and the dancers themselves. Any one who thinks this is a bad idea should consider excusing themselves from any present and future brain trusts they participate in.

The excellent impression my partner and I were left with upon leaving the club that evening (only to watch an upsetting loss by the Patriots to Indianapolis), left us bewildered when we returned this Friday night to get an impression of Bada Bing at its busiest, and apparently most dissapointing. After a few drinks, the strippers, for the most part, averaged a 5 (my partner concedes a 6), and not by dancer standards either. Most were old and overweight, and many were overly pushy when it came to requesting dances and overpriced drinks. The club was, in fact, so crowded that none of the dancers seemed to feel the need to make use of the wonderful aforementioned catwalk. None of the charm and sophistication of the previous Sunday were in evidence, and I personally opted out of all private dances because none of the girls were enticing enough. This is your first string, guys? I expect better from Foxy Girls and Play It Again Sam’s. Yeah. Ouch.

There is a standard that too many strip clubs have shied away from, and one that Bada Bing proudly makes a rule with a clear sign at the front door: Dress Code Strictly Enforced. It is a good rule, one that turns a mere titty bar into a Gentleman’s Club, and one I was happy, this Friday night, to obey. Why, then, was the most obvious patron in the bar (he was dancing in the middle of the floor more enthusiastically than the strippers) clad in American Flag themed early-nineties parachute pants with a matching bandana? Apparently, “dress code” means “wearing something that was considered pants 20 years ago, and enough foldin’ money to make us ignore your obnoxious attire.”

I can tell by your pajama pants, sir, that you probably do martial arts.

On my patented Sliding Scale of Titty Bars, I give the entire Bada Bing experience a 4. The evidence of the effort put in by management is everywhere, from the gorgeous decor to the gentlemanly air of the joint to the goods and services offered. However, the overpriced drinks, the fugly chicks on a crowded night, and the douchebaggery of the clientelle leaves a hell of a lot to be desired.

On the other hand, I am happy to award the Sunday afternoon NFL experience at Bada Bing an 8, and recommend it highly. Go for the football, cheap beer and nachos, and radio station giveaways; stay for the erotic entertainment.