Protesters Seek to Strip Nightclub of Customers

The serenity of the candle glowing from a sidewalk tin can is a stark contrast to the “Live Nude Girls” sign illuminated across the street.

The two lights represent the protracted war between morally fervent residents and the new Lincoln Heights strip club that taunts them by offering free admission on evenings when protesters are in force.

Despite holding little political leverage, a stream of angry picketers continues to demonstrate regularly in front of Industrial Strip L.A., which threw open its doors nearly three months ago.

The protesters, mostly area teachers and parents, say the club is a magnet for crime and that City Hall has betrayed them by not taking a tougher look at laws that allow the club to operate on a street traveled regularly by schoolchildren.

“Skin peddlers or children? . . . And [the city] chose skin peddlers,” said Hank Schwarz, a retired businessman who was one of 20 people picketing Wednesday night.

“We speak for the safety of our children,” said Lileana Narvaez, a first-grade teacher with a smeared cross on her forehead from Ash Wednesday Mass.

The protesters may have God on their side, but the strip club has zoning. Even when the Los Angeles City Council revoked Industrial Strip L.A.’s permit shortly after it opened Nov. 22, the club kept operating, filing a lawsuit that said the revocation was made illegally.

The area around the club in the 2600 block of Lacy Street is zoned for industrial uses that include adult entertainment clubs. But residents and City Councilman Mike Hernandez, who represents the neighborhood, say the club is located too close to schools and homes and is across the street from an animal shelter where high school students earn credits. They contend that the community, already plagued by gang violence, should not be tainted by any more negative influences.

“The mixed-zoning laws need to be changed so this doesn’t happen again,” said Hernandez, who is pushing for a law that would prohibit adult entertainment businesses from opening on streets traveled by youths.

Until that happens, the stalemate continues.

At least three evenings a week, the ritual begins: The protesters gather at a member’s home, load up their command center--a Winnebago--with protest signs, video cameras and candles and head for the club.

A half-hour later, they are in position, protest signs hung around their necks, a telephone pole turned into a shrine circled with candles in tin cans and coffee cans .

For the first month after the club opened, a core group of 10 residents protested nightly. They trimmed the demonstrations to three nights a week after one of them, Ernie Sanchez, was shot and robbed of his video camera while protesting Dec. 30. Police officials said the shooting was not linked to the club. Sanchez continues to picket.

To intimidate patrons, the protesters take snapshots of customers, videotape them and scribble their license plate numbers on yellow legal pads. In turn, they say, they have been followed on their way home by private investigators.

Some patrons barely seem to notice this quiet war.

“They don’t bother me,” said a 47-year-old clothing manufacturer, a spectator inside the club who asked that his name not be used. “[Children] can’t see inside. They see more on a Hollywood billboard or in a teen magazine then walking down this street.”

Protesters say their presence makes a dent and the club will fold if they hold out.

“We’ll be out here until the club is shut down,” said Miguel Mendivil, a bilingual coordinator at Loreto Street Elementary School. “People see us taking pictures of them and drive off. We’re hurting the business.”

Inside the factory-themed club Wednesday night, about seven men ranging from wingtipped businessmen to college-age students in flannel shirts watched strippers.

“It’s a little slow because we just started,” said club owner Kevin Wasko, who would not comment on whether the club is making a profit. “The business is helping the community. We’ve created new jobs. It’s an upscale club that draws wealthy patrons.”

One by one, scantily clad dancers strutted through a tinsel curtain to the end of a catwalk lined with neon blue-lit columns. They danced through the first song until they were topless. By the end of the second song, they had gyrated around a stage pole and were totally nude.

Wasko, who owns another Industrial Strip club in North Hollywood, denied protesters’ allegations that public drinking, indecent exposure and public urinating are linked to his club.

He said protesters haven’t affected the way he runs his business, even though the club entrance was moved to the back, a sign for free secured parking was put up and a “Protesters Special” coupon is advertised in local newspapers.

“This is a safe place for men to fulfill their sexual fantasies,” said Gigi, a 23-year-old dancer clad in a fluorescent pink thong bikini and four-inch heels. “There’s nothing bad going on in here.”

While the dancers continued to strip, a line of shivering picketers kept a slower pace as they marched outside on the sidewalk.

Sanchez, a furniture designer, was there as usual, his face lit by the glow of a flickering candle in his hand. In the wake of his shooting outside the club, police arrested three juveniles.

“A jail? A strip club? East L.A. seems like the most convenient place to put these awful places,” he said. “It doesn’t mean we have to lie down and accept it. It’s a silent battle we’re fighting. We walk here peacefully and we won’t give up.”