Memphis Playboy

Due to yesterday’s lackluster effort (really? A history of my facial hair? That was pathetic.) I have decided to make a desperate attempt to get back in your good graces by telling the story of yet another embarrassing yet proud moment of my life. So without further ado, I give you:

Memphis Playboy

For anyone that knows me, you are more than likely well aware of the fact that I can’t dance. At all. In fact, when Carol and I slow dance, she leads. She lets me believe that I’m leading, but in all actuality she has the situation in her complete control. The few times that she has actually allowed me to lead, we just end up swaying from one foot to the other around in a circle like a couple of drunken penguins - and that’s just slow dancing which is supposed to be easy.

The sad part is Carol is not part of this story. As a result, she was not there to laugh or to rescue me from my endeavor. There were others there that could do either one, but they chose the laughing route over the rescue. Good friends, I say, as I would have done the same thing for them. That being said, let me set the scene for you.

A group of friends and I had traveled down to Memphis, TN for what was my second consecutive (and unfortunately, last) Memphis in May celebration. Memphis in May is also known as the Beale Street Music Festival and is a weekend long concert held down on the Mississippi riverfront off of Beale Street. It is an amazing time and I hope to one day go back. The group included (but was not limited to) Myself, Jeff, Joe, Sasha, Duane, Gary, Vicky, The Morlygags, Chris (who didn’t get there until the next day), Johnny Z, and Kim.

The concerts don’t start until Friday night, but seeing as we lodged at the state campsite because we didn’t want to drive all day, set up camp, and then head to the show, we arrived a few days early to enjoy both Memphis and each other’s company. Some people weren’t able to make it down until the next day or so, but that didn’t stop us from partying and having a good old time. Whereas the prior year we had spent the days playing four square and going to Graceland, this year we just relaxed at the campsite shooting the pooh while imbibing a few drinks. Needless to say, by Thursday evening, we were getting a little antsy and decided to go downtown for a night out. A Boys night out.

Apparently, some of the guys had planned on going out on the town one of the nights we were in Memphis because they had brought appropriate clothes for the event. Well, those people also forgot to tell some of the others about this so a couple of guys (myself included) were stuck going out in the clothes we had brought along for camping and going to day-long music festivals. If I recall, I was dressed in cargo shorts, some sort of tie-dye t-shirt, and melted shoes (more on that later). Needless to say, we could’ve looked better.

Our first stop was a very quiet bar that I’m pretty sure was in a restaurant. Like I said, we had been slowly sipping beers most of the day at the campsite so even though I was by no means intoxicated, my recollection of certain details is a little sketchy. Either way, we each sat around the bar at varying intervals trying to catch the eye of the various women that were making their way through the bar as well. This was back in my single days and I was on the prowl! We did the cool thing and made sure that there was always a vacant seat next to our group just in case we were able to lure one of the ladies over to us - but it was all in vain. The only women that came through the bar were either with guys or were not interested in us. Maybe it was my clothing. Maybe it was just not my night. Or, maybe it was because I had been camping in the Memphis humidity for two days and even though I had showered repeatedly, I still looked and smelled like I had just come from a campsite. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because the rubber and plastic on my tennis shoes was melted because Rich Morlygag had the bright idea to dry our rained-on shoes by placing them about 6 inches from a blazing hot fire. Not sure. But either way, it was obvious that we had come from a campsite. Nothing screams romance like taking a girl back to your tent for a night of sweet sweet loving. Regardless, we were bored at this bar and decided to try a different one on Beale Street.

About five years ago, I probably still could’ve told you the name of this next bar as it has been both a source of pride and humiliation in my life, but for the life of me I can’t remember it. All I know is that it is/was on Beale Street and it was hopping. Some of the guys had made their way back to the campsite, but I know that for sure there were four of us remaining: Duane, Joe, Jeff, and myself. We found a table near the back of the bar near the dance floor so that we could get a good view of both the band and the girls dancing. The band was a kind of techno/electronic band and they were pretty good. They actually played a really good version of the song “Where’s Your Head At?” by the Basement Jaxx. Now, the funny thing is that this band could have actually been the Basement Jaxx for all I know. I didn’t see any advertisement for the band, but I also wasn’t looking for any as we walked in, and I’m not even sure that if I saw “The Basement Jaxx” on any signage that it would have clicked as I don’t think I even knew who sang that song back then. So, in a nutshell, I may have seen the Basement Jaxx in Memphis or I may not have. But that doesn’t matter.

That’s not the story.

As we sat there at our table, we had more beer. And more beer. And then some more. We were getting to the point where we were sick of drinking, realized that we had a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and decided to maybe call it a night. That’s when we saw them. At first, we weren’t quite sure what we were looking at, but we knew we liked it. Dancing on the dance floor were three incredibly hot blondes. And when I say incredibly hot, I mean 9.5-10 hot. I mean Playboy hot. In fact, after a little bit of conversation amongst us, we quickly came to the conclusion that not only were these girls hot enough to be in Playboy, they WERE in Playboy. What we were watching and admiring so much were:

The Dahm Triplets.

Oh yes! Hotness times three! If you’ve never seen the Dahm triplets, I highly suggest Googling them at your earliest convenience. Playboy has definitely had more beautiful women grace its hallowed pages, but they haven’t had those women times three. We sat in awe of what we were witnessing as the three of them danced around a virtually empty dance floor. They would dance with each other a little, but for the most part they just kind of danced by themselves as if they were looking for something. Or should I say - someone.

I’m not sure who brought it up to whom, but Duane and I made the decision that we were going out there to dance with these ladies. For whatever reason, Jeff and Joe decided that they were either too cool/too drunk to cut a rug on that dance floor, but Duane and I had no such reservations. Well, I had reservations. Duane may not have as he’s a good looking guy with a good sense of rhythm and a basic ability to dance. Myself, on the other hand - not so much. I’ve already described my impeccable appearance for the night, so I knew that I wasn’t going to be on the cover of GQ any time soon. I also knew that my dancing ability ranks right up there with Joel McHale’s ability to keep his shirt on when asked to take it off – it sucks. Despite those factors though, I decided that these were the Dahm triplets and I’d be damned if I let the chance to dance with Playboy Playmates pass me by. So, after some ego boosting, Duane and I made our way to the dance floor.

It was then that I noticed the beer was winning.

Beer winning is not always a bad thing as it tends to relax your inhibitions, but it also gives you a feeling of looking cooler, singing better, and dancing better than you are actually able to do. As I walked out to the dance floor, the room got a little blurry and I had to grab hold of the table for support as I got my wits about me. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have just sat back down and watched Duane work his magic out there, but as I said, the beer was winning and I had already pumped myself up to go out and dance, so that’s exactly what I did. Sort of.

What I know of as dancing and what I actually do are two totally different things. In my mind, dancing is a somewhat graceful art form that involves rhythm, athleticism, and a sense of “coolness.” I have none of those. What I do have are two eyes and those eyes were watching what Duane was doing. However Duane was dancing 6 feet away, I would try to emulate in an attempt to make it look like I knew what I was doing, but would fail horribly. Hell, it wasn’t even close. I had two left feet, the rhythm of the guy from “Mr. Holland’s Opus” that couldn’t bang that drum to save his life (until he got good with the help of an old white guy – how funny), and a head full of beer. But the problem was I thought I looked good. I thought I was a dancing machine. Beer, unfortunately, will do that to you. This was not going well.

At this time, I also became aware that there were still really only 7 or 8 people on the dance floor. It was Duane, the Dahm triplets, a few other people, and I getting jiggy with it. But still, no one was dancing with the Dahms. Maybe they were intimidated by the Dahm’s beauty or maybe they saw us coming onto the dance floor and realized that compared to us, they didn’t stand a chance. Either way, we had a clear path to our destiny.
Duane was getting close to making his move, but they were still basically dancing with themselves. Now, I don’t know which sister this was, in fact I couldn’t tell you any of their names, but I looked to my right, saw a Dahm sister within striking distance and decided to make my move. Putting on my “sexy face,” I started gyrating my body in what I assumed was a cool dance move but more than likely resembled some sort of seizure and started closing in on sister #1.

Now, sister #1 must not have seen me coming over as she kept her back to me and kept facing her sisters during my entire approach. I’m guessing that she didn’t see me because when I got close enough, she turned around and actually started dancing with me. Well, that’s where things went wrong. I don’t think she was dancing with me for more than 2.73 seconds when she noticed my killer moves. I think I intimidated her with my graceful style because she just turned right back around and started dancing with her sisters again. Thankfully, she spared me the humiliation of either screaming “CALL 911” or attempting to give me the Heimlich maneuver, but instead just turned her back on me again and continued to dance with her sisters.

Strike one.

The beautiful thing about triplets is that if you strike out with one, there are two left. The horrible thing about that is that while sister #1 had her back to me the entire time I approached her, sisters #2 and #3 had a pretty good view of my horrific contortions and knew what was coming as I moved in.

Now, I had no idea how Duane was doing at this point as I was in the zone. My feet were moving, my ass was shaking, and my arms were going Mr. Roboto all over the dance floor. If I couldn’t dance before, I was sure that I was doing it now. I had rhythm, I had music, and I had moves that in reality probably resembled a fish flopping on dry land after you have just removed a hook from its mouth. It was that bad. But at that point I was on top of the world and I was ready to strike.

As I honed in on sisters #2 and #3, I could see them giving each other that “which one of us is going to be the lucky one tonight” look. They must have had some sort of triplet telekinetic powers though because I’m pretty sure that they decided (as sisters should) that since they didn’t want to fight over me, neither one would get me. As a result, as I moved in for the kill, they both separated and pretty much left the dance floor entirely.

Strikes two and three simultaneously.

Quickly afterwards, sister #1 joined them and they made their way towards the front of the bar. I’m guessing that they probably looked at their watches and realized that it was getting close to their curfew. Anyone who watches “The Girls Next Door” knows that Hef puts a curfew on his girls and that it is strictly enforced. Either way, the girls then left the bar and Duane and I were left dancing by ourselves.

We left the bar shortly thereafter and made our way back to the campsite. I don’t remember a lot of the drive home and am pretty sure that I crashed the second we got back to the campsite. I woke up the next morning a little hazy, but no worse for the wear and began to reflect on the happenings from the night before. I, Scott Hopfinger, the little guy from Middle America, had danced with (or in the general vicinity of) Playboy Playmates and was not tackled by security, did not have a drink thrown on me, and was not directly laughed at by any of the three of them. In my book, I’ll take it as a victory. Sure, my dancing may have scared them off. Sure, I probably didn’t look near as cool as I thought I did. And sure, they may have laughed about the campsite smelling guy with the melted tennis shoes who danced like an epileptic during their entire drive home, but I’m really okay with it. Outside of Duane and myself, I don’t know of anyone else who has even come within shouting distance of a Playboy Playmate. Do you?

I didn’t think so.

Thanks for reading.