No. 270 – 4 Degrees

Performer: Tool

Songwriters: Maynard James Keenan, Adam Jones, Danny Carey, Paul D’Amour

Original Release: Undertow

Year: 1993

Definitive Version: None

Another activity that was popular year-round in Flint was the ballet. I think at one time I counted 17 different dance establishments—most of which advertised in The Journal sports section during my tenure there. If Flint didn’t have the highest number of strippers per capita of any city in the country back then, it had to have been at least in the top five.

Some of the ads that ran were big—particularly if the club in question was bringing in a headliner. Consequently, Wednesdays were big days in the back shop, because that’s when the new pictures would arrive.

Typically, the picture in the ad was a closeup of the performer making her best “O face.” The photo sent was an unedited—and sometimes spectacularly unclothed—version that required cropping. Jerry was the pasteup guy who had that dirty job. After a while, he had quite a montage ringing his pasteup station of “ballerinas.” He kept the originals in a drawer, lest to not offend.

I never partook of Flint’s vaunted dance culture until long after I moved away. Doug was my conduit to that world, and he introduced me to several places I had only heard about for years, such as Déjà vu and The Men’s Club.

One time at The Men’s Club, a dancer took me into the back room for a command performance. Typically, such establishments keep the songs tidy—three minutes max—to maximize revenues. However, on that particular night, this song came on.

That was nothing special. What was astonishing was they played the whole six minutes. So, as you can imagine, it’s difficult—nay impossible—to think of 4 Degrees without visions of a toned, smiling brunette pouring my bottled water down her bare front, as this artist did during her performance. Needless to say—but I’ll say it anyway—she earned a solid tip.

After being exposed to the dance culture, I was disappointed I didn’t spend more time in Flint’s many establishments when I lived there and looked for something to do on those workless nights instead of playing Super Nintendo or watching Bull Durham for the 108th time. I suppose it’s just as well. I probably would have spent 75 percent of my money on dancers (and blown the rest) had I been a patron of the arts back then.

I know how much trouble one can get into in the Flint body vortex. The biggest sporting event in Flint back then was the Buick Open, which took place at Warwick Hills in Grand Blanc not far from where I lived. The Journal ran a daily special section, and no one was allowed to take vacation Buick Open week.

Well, in 1993, on Saturday night of Buick Open week, the desk crew was at The White Horse as per usual hunkered down over pizza, Labatt Ice and JD. Not long before closing, Brendan showed up. After he filed his daily stories, he went to the Vu with a few people before coming over to the Horse for a nightcap.

He reported with some humor that one of the golfers was there with his crew, and they were tearing it up, buying dances and drinks and having a great time. The golfer in question led the Buick Open after all three rounds and was up by six strokes going into the final day Sunday. It had been a cakewalk, and obviously he was in a bit of a celebratory mood.

(By the way, I know this was two decades ago, but unlike Will Leech and the rest of the privacy-disrespecting losers at Deadspin, I’m going to Guy Code this up. If you’re interested, you can figure out who I’m talking about through Google.)

Anyway, I think you can see what’s coming, right? On Sunday, the said golfer fell apart, blew his seemingly insurmountable lead and lost the Buick Open. Everyone in Sports KNEW exactly why he lost, but, of course, we couldn’t say. I’m not sure the internal mockery at his expense ever stopped.

It turns out he was just another shipwreck victim of the sirens who beckoned from the shores of Dort Highway.