I found this story online and it's pretty interesting about Scores in the 90's. Funny Howard references. Confessions of a Strip Club Bouncer by Steve Hart as told to Jon Hart I wasnâ€™t there the night of the murders. I didnâ€™t see the Albanian hit man reach into his jacket, draw his gun, and blow away two of my friends. But while working at Scores, Iâ€™ve seen plenty of crazy shit. I watched a magazine executive drop $27,000 in a single night trying to get some extracurricular action from two gorgeous strippers. Iâ€™ve seen chair-throwing barroom brawls and mountains of silicone and a small army of well-dressed wiseguys. But the one thing that still haunts me is Ricky. See, Ricky had a chippy. When you spend as much time in a strip club as I have, you see this all the time: Itâ€™s an addiction to a dancer. One dancer. In this case, Maria, a sloe-eyed Hispanic brunette with ready breasts and swivel hips. For 10 weeks running, Ricky, a hot shot in the clothing business, stuffed an endless stream of twenties into her garters for lap dances and whispered promises. One night Ricky came up to me, and I could tell he had something on his mind. â€œYou know, Sonny,â€ he said, â€œIâ€™ve spent $40,000 on this girl, and I havenâ€™t even gotten a fuckinâ€™ blow job.â€ I wanted to let him in on the truth: that the strippers were a fantasy, to be seen but not touched and never, ever to be taken home. But telling the truth wasnâ€™t so easy. After all, I was part of the fantasy. Since 1994, Iâ€™ve worked as a bouncer at Scores, a topless club in New York City. When I started, it wasnâ€™t just another two-bit strip club, it was the strip club. This is where Nicolas Cage, Madonna, Ethan Hawke, Mark Wahlberg, and that cheap bastard George Clooney came to party. This is where Demi Moore researched her role for Striptease. Dennis Rodman was a regular; so were Howard Stern and Mickey Rourke. The Wall Street guys who were pulling down $15 million a year? They were here, too, puffing Cubans on the clubâ€™s plush couches, drinking $100 shots, and throwing fistfuls of cash at the strippers for lap dances and maybe a quick peek beneath the G-string. Even the mob guys, who could go anywhere and do anything, made Scores their home. The place was a circus: In one corner, celebrities might be trading punches; in another, a dancer could be giving a guy a hand job. You never knew what was going to happenâ€”thatâ€™s why the customers kept coming. If you were rich and in New York, you came to Scores. You came to Scores for the privilege of having the worldâ€™s most beautiful girls take their clothes off for you. You came to Scores for the fantasy. I got my job at Scores the old- fashioned way: I knew someone. Iâ€™d just gotten out of the joint for selling steroids, and I was flat fucking broke. I was concentrating on my bodybuilding and I was making a little money as a personal trainer, but I needed a job to support my six-year-old son. Scores offered me a part-time gig, and I accepted it on the spot. Scores wasnâ€™t the first club Iâ€™d worked for. At Show World, a sex club in Times Square, I handed out coins so guys could jerk off in peep-show cubicles. For a few bucks Iâ€™d turn my back so Joe Schmo could sneak a dancer into a compartment. I also worked at Studio 54. I know what youâ€™re thinking: Andy Warhol, Liza Minnelli, enough coke to build Frosty the Snowman. It wasnâ€™t like that. During the late â€™80s, Studio was on its last legs. The place was serving soda, and 15-year-olds were offering to blow me just to get in. But Scores was something else. It had the feel of a Vegas casino: no clocks, no windows to let the early-morning sun in, and a register that never stopped ringing. Dance music pumped as beautiful women disrobed everywhere. On a Saturday night, about 125 dancers were on duty and it looked like a Roman orgyâ€¦except that all the guys had their clothes on and none of them were particularly Roman. The talent was spectacular. Some of these girls had been Baywatch extras or in Penthouse, and I was working with them, side by sideâ€”or closer. I remember taking a dinner break on one of my first nights and having this stripperâ€™s ass come two inches from landing in my linguine. The Stars Came to Party My first assignment was to stand in the lobby and ask patrons to check their coats. Actually, it was more of an order than a request. See, anyone who doesnâ€™t check their coat and pay the three-dollar fee is simply not admitted to Scores. Consider it an additional admission charge. Once in a while some guy started to bitch and moan, and Iâ€™d tell him to hit the street. You get the picture: Everyone had to check their coat. After about six months, management put me on full-time. I guess they liked the way I convinced patrons to check their coats. Of course, Demi never had to check her coat. She could do anything she damn well pleased. Scores treated all its celebrity guests like royalty, and the stars liked it that way. But the celebs didnâ€™t always return the favor. One night I did George Clooney the courtesy of telling him that a herd of paparazzi was outside. The guy practically shit a stethoscope; being seen at a strip club could ruin his pretty-boy image. So I told him Iâ€™d sneak him out the back doorâ€¦and he handed me $20. Now, thatâ€™s a nice tip for a plumber from Brooklyn, but for Mr. $100,000 an Episode, itâ€™s chump change. So I tipped off my buddy James, a newspaper photographer. He drove right over to the club and shot tightwad George with a zoom lens as he strolled casually out the back. Guess who made the paper the next day. Clooney wasnâ€™t the only star who wanted to keep his Scores visits a secret. â€œWe werenâ€™t here,â€ I remember two star players from the Indiana Pacers whispering to me one night. They were sitting in the Presidentâ€™s Club Room, a sort of club-within-the-club where, on occasion, dancers violated house rules by placing a napkin over a customerâ€™s lap, then giving him a hand job. To avoid attention, Howard Stern and his snickering cronies came to the club during off-hours. I know a certain big-name sportscasterâ€”no, not Marvâ€”who spent 10 days straight getting trashed at the club in the company of a $10,000-a-week call girl. One exception to the I-wasnâ€™t-here rule was Dennis Rodman. Whenever he came to the club, I was assigned to sit with him as he ate dinner and make sure no one hassled him for his autograph. Of course, I was the first one to hit him up. But it was for my son. (No, really.) Dennis was always well behaved, a perfect gentleman, and he tipped me $100 just for sitting there. Of course, if heâ€™d tipped me $150, I wouldnâ€™t be telling you the rumor that a stripper named Peaches knew firsthand why Dennis is called the Worm. One celebrity who wishes heâ€™d never shown his fat Belgian face at Scores is Jean-Claude Van Damme. He was checking out the action one night, a few tables away from a guy named Chuck Zito. Zitoâ€™s a Hells Angel and a successful actor; heâ€™s on that prison TV show Oz. Heâ€™s also a friend of the club. Everythingâ€™s cool until Van Damme tells a bouncer nicknamed Frankie Cannoli that â€œZito has no heart. Heâ€™s a punk,â€ and Cannoli repeats the crack to Chuck. A few minutes later, when Van Damme pulls his face out of Peachesâ€™ crotch, Chuck is standing right there and simply asks, â€œDid you call me a punk and say I have no heart?â€ Van Damme is silent, but he slowly removes his wire-rimmed glasses and slides them into his shirt pocket. If you went to Princeton, taking off your glasses means you just finished reading a book. For street guys, it means youâ€™re ready to rumble. Chuck didnâ€™t wait to see what would happen next: He punched Van Damme in the head so fast that the Muscles from Brussels never saw it coming. Good Times for Goodfellas Scores was crawling with mob guys. There were plenty of nights when the place looked like open casting for The Godfather. See, one of the men who owned Scores, Michael Blutrich, a fat 49-year-old lawyer and â€œbusinessman,â€ had an association with the infamous Gambino family from his days in the restaurant business. The way I saw it, Blutrich and the Gambinos struck a deal: The Gambinos made sure Scores wasnâ€™t blown up by a rival family, and Blutrich gave them a cut of the door, parking, and coat check, even let them pick some of the bouncers. In short, they ran the joint. Of course, if Blutrich didnâ€™t go along with them, they might blow the place up themselves. Yeah, I guess technically you could call it extortion, but thatâ€™s how business is done in New York City. Like the celebs, the mob guys were treated like gold. In fact, management didnâ€™t have metal detectors at the door, because they didnâ€™t want to embarrass anyone. Which meant you never knew when a gun was going to be drawn. (One night after closing, Willieâ€™s mob buddies were drinking hard, and one of the guys suddenly reaches over, yanks a lobster out of the tank, pulls out his piece, and shoots it in the freakinâ€™ head.) It didnâ€™t take me long to learn to spot the wiseguys. They were the ones in the Armani suits, Rolex watches, and slicked-back hair; they always looked great, and they always carried a big roll of bills, a roll that could have paid for my sonâ€™s first year of college. It looked like quite a life. The mob guys were comped and paid for nothing. Beyond that, some of the low-level guys had a habit of pocketing cash that was left on other tables, explaining to the waiter that the customer was a friend and that â€œthe bill was on the house.â€ Theyâ€™d steal from wealthy assholes like Blutrich, then turn around and lay serious tips on us $500-a-week grunts. Meet the Muscle After a year at coat check, I was officially made a bouncer. I was moving up in the world. Scores needed a shitload of bouncers, because its patrons were rich men with massive egos who were used to getting whatever the hell they wanted. Some of my fellow bouncers, like Willie, were heavily connected to the goodfellas; others were simply dumb fellas.