It�s Clinique Bonus Time again, and I plan to head right on over to Macy�s and see what kind of free glop they�re handing out. Actually, I already know exactly what the glop is, because my dear and loyal friend Lisa was kind enough to e-mail me with a detailed list. (Two lipsticks, "high impact" mascara, moisturizer, and a sample of the perfume called "Happy.") She and I never miss Clinique Bonus Time, starting from our days working together at a noxious management consulting firm. We�d escape the office and walk up to Union Square for a few minutes of breathing in the Chanel-scented air of Macy�s, and buy a couple of things we didn�t really need in order to procure more things we didn�t need, but which were free. The ritual continued even after I switched jobs�we�d meet on a corner in the financial district and make our pilgrimage. I haven�t lived in San Francisco for four years, but we continue the practice long-distance, occasionally thwarted when the store in my town was on a different schedule than hers. She no longer lives in San Francisco either, but keeps a keen eye on the retail ads, and has found another source for Clinique�s free glop.

Anyway, Lisa is her real name, but I�ve agreed, for purposes of anonymity, to call her something else. So, she is now Scarlett, not only because of her devotion to the color red, but because she is also devoted to Jimmy Page, and that is his daughter�s name. (I came up with it on my own. Isn't that so, so great? Yeah.)

And now, a segue to a seemingly unrelated but actually related story.

When The Keelhauler and I were in LA to see Lyle Lovett, we stopped at Jumbo�s Clown Room, a seedy strip club in Los Feliz, coincidentally right around the corner from Carson�s apartment. We called Carson to see if he�d join us, although in retrospect, we could have picked another place to meet. There are any number of nicer bars in the area, but The Keelhauler is always going to pick the Clown Room, even though he invariably gets creeped out by it, because there are half-naked women there. Carson wasn�t home, so we sat at the bar for a while, paying half-attention to a stream of dancers in various states of undress, who plugged dollars in the jukebox before their turns onstage. The music the girls choose varies widely, and on this particular occasion, included The White Stripes, Julie London, Duran Duran, and Joan Jett.

Some of the girls at Jumbo�s are clearly slumming it, making extra money to supplement their jobs as dancers or actresses. They are the pretty ones in generic, coordinated separates�there must be a stripper equivalent of The Gap�who smile confidently as they spin around the stage. At the other end of the spectrum are those who treat their shifts as work, rather than entertainment. They don�t seem to be hired so much for talent as for willingness to work the slow shifts, and their outfits are more haphazard, featuring ragged maribou or the Hooter�s logo. Jumbo�s is casual and generally consumer-oriented: kind of like my office, with the key difference that my coworkers are not called upon to strip down to their underwear and dance around to the song of their choosing. The lack of entertainment onstage leaves lots of room for the patrons to Make Their Own Fun, so The Keelhauler and I were debating the probable age of the eerie bleached-blonde staggering jerkily around the stage, grimacing as she played impassioned air guitar to AC/DC�s �Back in Black� (my guess: 47; his: �Born in 1970�) when he turned back to the bar and suddenly elbowed me.

�That girl looks like your friend Scarlett� the one from San Francisco.�

I turned, and sure enough, he was right. Standing at the end of the bar was Scarlett, in LA form, with hair dyed red, and smoky eye makeup. She was wearing a black robe that looked more Theda Bara than Playboy Mansion, and seemed simultaneously part of and too cool for the place, as if she knew she was better than the room, but found it amusing to witness. (You know, like the attitude I try and consistently fail to pull off!) It was my friend Scarlett by way of Courtney Love, and although she was clearly working at Jumbo's, her vibe was not "stripper," but "rock idol." I thought, �I should tell Scarlett to go a little heavier on the eye shadow. It would be a good look for her.�

So, I�m off to Macy�s, for my solo but tandem-in-spirit exploration of Clinique Bonus Time. It has been our practice that Scarlett and I trade each other for the free glop that we each prefer�she might give me the lipstick color that doesn�t work for her, and I hand over the perfume sample I don�t use. This time, I already know I'm going to send her the mascara.

Star of the day. . .The Mighty Chuck Prophet