Don’t Call it Hip Hop, damnit.

Maybe I’m just “old skool” or whatever, but I feel as if one of my cherished forms of expression, art: Hip Hop, has been completely stolen by the Marketing Departments of every publishing house within the recording industry. Well, the big publishing houses anyhow.

I do not intend to show links to anything here, as this is all opinion, and I am pulling it from memory. Feel free to check minute facts on your own time.

Hip Hop, as a movement, is still around today. And even though it is still referred to as such, a large portion of what is commonly referred to as “Hip Hop”, is actually just Pop music. But calling a new artist a “Hip Hop” artist gives him/her some strange sort of street-credibility. As if “Hip Hop” were invented purely to promote half-assed rappers. Or worse yet, a black guy with a microphone should immediately be classified as “Hip Hop”. Just because he’s black. And probably “urbanesque”. Or whatever.

This is so, so, so not the case. So, if you are reading this, and previously considered Nelly to be a Hip Hop artist, please let me explain why you are completely and utterly wrong.

Hip Hop, as a movement, started sometime in the mid seventies, most likely in The Bronx, NYC. Kool Herc, Bambatta, Apache, Fab 5 Freddie, Funky 4 Plus One, Sugarhill Gang (the jury is still out on their authenticity, just so you know), Kurtis Blow, on up to BDP and on and on and on and on. There are several accounts of where it actually started (different parks and neighborhoods within The Bronx), when it actually began to gain steam (down to the actual month, which specific party, hour of a specific night, etc), and who coined the hyphenated phrase we use today (this is of little significance to me, as it was probably a journalist who was on the outside anyway). I want to stress that the origins of Hip Hop are highly contested, as all underground movements which turn out to be explosively lucrative always are. And any historian MUST keep in mind that EVERYONE involved with HIP HOP in its infancy was probably under the age of twenty. Very few bothered with school. And there are absolutely NO official records of ANYTHING surrounding the movement at that time (save for some party fliers, which hardly count as “official”). No contracts, no written agendas, no “mission statements”. These were kids, acting out of frustration and the overwhelming desire to express themselves and have fun in the process. It grew on itself, those involved grew older, the economy got worse, and the need for this art form increased as those who were producing it were finding themselves more and more isolated from mainstream America politically, socially, and certainly economically. So read what you want about the details, believe what you want, but I would take it all with a big ol’ heaping handful of salt. It’s all hearsay.

But this is about what it means to BE a Hip Hop artist.

In the early days, the culture was still building itself. But by the time it was developed enough to have a solid identity, Hip Hop had become the inner workings of a culture made up of four related groups: The DJ, The B-Boy, The Graffiti Artist, and The MC. There was significant bleed-over between these four groups, but all four were (and still are) considered distinct and necessary parts of the Hip Hop whole. They were dubbed “The Elements”. Which begs the question, which came first? Where did they come from?

It is safe to say that the beginnings all centered around the DJ. Now I am not just saying that because I spin records. It simply makes sense. The Bronx, early seventies = relatively poor community made up of mostly African Americans and Puerto Ricans. If you lived there, the majority of your social life revolved around your neighborhood park. That’s where the hoops were, that’s where the baseball diamond was, that’s where all the boys would be, so that’s where all the girls went too. DJ Kool Herc is the first noted DJ to just “show up” at a park with his mobile sound system, plug it into a street lamp, and start playing James Brown, Reggae Dub, and the like. When he and others like him would show up at a park, a neighborhood party would bust out. This went on for a couple of years, through dozens of local kids starting their own DJ collectives and whatnot.

Soon, the B-Boys started to show up. They were just groups of kids who had their own style of dancing, which they preferred to exhibit during a break-down, or “the break” in some regular song played by the park DJs. Soon, the DJs began to recognize that these kids were going crazy during “the breaks”, so they would buy two of the same record and play them on both turntables, “looping the breaks”. So the B-Boys and DJs started their relationship.

B-Boys were typically younger kids, middle-school age, who had big brothers who would paint subway cars and walls. Graffiti artists. At that time, many graffiti artists were indeed gang-related. It all started out as territory marking, or “tagging”, which is little more than just writing and/or spray-painting a printed name or moniker onto something easily seen by rival gangs. To mark territory. Textbook stuff. But as the “tags” grew more and more complex, they began to be recognized for their unique artistic bend, and split off from direct gang relation. The B-Boys learned to bomb (paint graf) from their brothers, and the older brothers took an equal interest in the B-Boy style. Graffiti had landed as the third element.

Now there had always been a microphone laying around for the DJ to use. “Uh, yeah, Jenny, your dad is here to pick you up.” Or, “Happy birthday shout-out to Mingo”. That kind of thing. It wasn’t until DJs started to book warehouse parties, where they would charge cover (and typically hire B-Boy crews as security for the event), that they needed some sort of true crowd control. Then the microphone started to get used by the DJs sidekick, who would “work the crowd” by instigating “call-backs” and such: “now when I say hip, you say hop” or “DJ Starsky is tearing up the tables tonight boys and girls! Y’all better DANCE!” and the like. But the DJ was still the main focus as the B-Boys danced, the Graffiti artists bombed, and the MC paid homage to everyone else.

Then, at some wildly contested point in time, one of those MCs started to rhyme over the instrumental breaks. My guess is that there was a really charismatic guy who was familiar with The Last Poets (look them up, that shit is amazing), and hating being upstaged by some quiet dude who just happened to have the cash to buy equipment and records. So this charismatic fellow grabbed the mic and started to be funny and witty to the crowd, throwing rhymes in there as part of his shtick. And so, from the meager job of MC, the “Rapper” is born. And here is where Hip Hop found its most lucrative method to getting paid. DJs made some money at parties, but nothing big, as it was someone else’s music they were playing. B-Boys had no venue beyond the subway platforms to ply that art form, as it was really difficult to sell “action art” on a large-scale. And Graffiti artists were considered outlaws, so there was no money in that. And most of the elements of being an MC were completely unnecessary without a DJ behind it all.

But Rapping. Yes, rapping… that could be done on its own. And it could be completely original. It could be the most pure and easy to understand of all the Elements within Hip Hop. It could be the torch-bearer for all the feelings of disenchantment, frustration, and utter lack of hope which fueled the movement as a whole. This “Rap Thing”, could be the meal ticket out.

It took a couple more years to really catch on, but it is safe to say that in 1979, “Rap” was first laid to wax (King Tim Iii), AND made a hit (Sugarhill Gang). From there, it took off.

Now that’s just the early portion, and how Hip Hop got its foot in the door. Rap is NOT Hip Hop, although it is an piece of one Element: MCing.

Side note: Today, most cannot imagine “Hip Hop” as existing outside of SOMEONE rapping something over studio produced beats. Well, there was a time. The beginning, in fact, had nothing to do with rapping at all.

So Rap continued on, making headway as it pushed into popular culture, in the hopes of making money. Blondie gave it shout-outs. Slick Rick and Doug E Fresh got all kinds of air play. Run DMC, LL Cool J, and Def Jam up and running. And then the Beastie Boys hit. If no one had figured out just how lucrative rap could be before then, they were pretty square on it soon after.

But it STILL wasn’t Hip Hop, as a total movement. It remained what is called “braggin’ rap”. “Rap” being the operative word. The title is pretty self-explanatory. No purpose beyond self-promotion to make more money and/or get laid. Just like every other rock star out there. Being poor and black did not automatically guarantee substance in the product. But it would, very quickly. The ideas of social justice, speaking out against institutional racism, historical recognition of black efforts, intelligent public assistance programs, remembrance of cultural (mainly African) roots, and general harmony between all members of the population (US and beyond) were to become more prominent subjects used by Rap artists.

I would say that it wasn’t until Public Enemy and BDP hit the scene that Hip Hop was being honestly represented. Rap is fine, but it isn’t Hip Hop without the other elements. And it certainly isn’t Hip Hop without the message of the movement itself: self awareness and social consciousness. They had DJs, MCs, B-Boys, and Graf artists (along with other things, particular to the groups).

Public Enemy and the BDP family had their share of braggin’ rap too. As did their other contemporaries (Tribe, Jungle Brothers, KMD, etc…), but the main message was consistent with that of the overall Hip Hop movement.

I want to take a second to point out that these groups were from the East Coast. West Coast groups were starting to gain in popularity as well. Too $hort, Sir Mix-a-Lot, and the Fila Fresh Crew had been making some waves out west. But they were essentially mimicking the style of their East Coast contemporaries. It wasn’t until the explosion of Gangsta Rap out of LA/Oakland that the West Coast had a style that was truly their own. I would also like to point out that while the West Coast groups claimed to be Hip Hop, their style was self-dubbed Gangsta Rap. Emphasis on Rap. Again, there’s nothing specifically wrong with that, but it isn’t Hip Hop by default, damnit.

So. How does this all boil back down to Nelly? Well, he has no DJ. He has no B-Boys. He has no Graffiti artists. He has no socially conscious message.

But he does have a group of fellas that back him everywhere he goes, he sings ballads with other popular music stars (of all popular genres), and has his own clothing line. That, my friends, is NOT Hip Hop. It does however, sound like a description for the lead singer of a Pop Music Boy Band.

For the record, I wrote this little rant in the span of about 45 minutes, so pardon the editing mess. After writing this, I went out on the interweb to check some of my references, and it turns out that there's a billion other people saying the EXACT same thing as me. Some are much better. But fuck it. I already typed this out, and it's still important to me, regardless of how many other ass-monkeys have written about it. Word.

Hmmm…. Hip Pop. For the first time, I agree with that silly-ass "urban dictionary" thing. Yes.

Photos from the places. With the things.

So. The European tour proved survivable. I would add a-lot to that, but I am without words for the moment.

I put the photos into a slideshow-kinda-thing. In the upper left is a "back to album" button. Feel free to click that if you're a photo-viewing purist.

There are only like, six photos from Amsterdam, because my camera battery died. And the Hostile Hostel did not have any outlets for me to use. Well, none in our room anyhow.

Amsterdamnit.

Here is Ireland, as put together by random photos, supplied by my waffling interest in bothering to pull my camera out to catch a moment.

Jolly Ireland! Oh wait, that's England. Fuck it.

Good times, good times.

Damn you no-electrical-outlet Hostels!

What the Hell are YOU Looking For?

That last post was a bit dark. For me, at least. And I might delete it, so read it now if you ever care to. (I put it up there in the first place as an exercise in honesty, with myself. Since only a handful of others actually read this stuff, it would not be too much of an exhibition)

This post is substantially more light hearted!

So. People come to read things here. But not all of them know why they show up. Many get here by way of search engines. Oh yes. Google, and Yahoo!, and other meta-data-minders funnel hapless folks in search of substantive answers to substantive questions, here, to the Agitated Ass Monkey. To me.

With searches like:

Barachos

Yes, often. In fact, I am really starting to hone my whole "binger" persona. You certainly found "Barachos" on this drunk-ass page. Word. Thanks for choosing to say it in another language.

Jeanine Garofalo Alcoholism

Sure, why not? Bring her along for the ride. Fuck it.

Unwiped asses

Now that's just nasty. But I can see why you might want to look around here for that. Sometimes it's a step that just gets left out of the poo process. Bygones.

Hallmark stocker job

Fuck Hallmark. And fuck that stocking job. Knobs, all of them.

I believe that I am not racism

Hell, me too. Interesting statement. Sucks that Google brought them here. I mean, shit, what kind of person AM I, anyway? Am I racism incarnate? Personified? Shit.

Free forced gyno inspection

That is some crazy shit right there. What other kind of "forced" gyno inspection could there possibly be?

What does agitated mean?

Keep reading. It'll get clearer, and clearer, and clearer, and.....

Congolese Porn Tapes

Wow. I wish. Are they subtitled or something? Doesn't porn transcend language? It must be noted that this search was done TWICE. And both times they came here. I don't know what they found, but it wasn't my precious Congolese Porn Tapes. That you can be sure of.

I hid them real good.

Monkey taunting guy with bud light

Hm. I didn't catch the Superbowl, so I must have missed (yet another) classic bud (f'n) light commercial. All I can say is that ANYONE or ANY ANIMAL is well within their right to taunt a man with a bud light. True, true...

Sex.for.guy

They put the periods in there themselves. Damn. The google search brings up a slew of gay porn. And my blog. Great. That is... fuck it. Whatever.

urinated my pants while unconscious

I found what they looked at on this one. It was one of my NYC drinking stories. I never finished the thing, because I felt it was dragging out. I hope whoever pissed themselves read that story, because no one else is willing to.

rodents into the rectum for sexual pleasure+homosexuals

What. The. Fuck. Is Richard Gere reading my blog? Don't hate if you're a fan. For the record, Richard's middle name is "Tiffany". No joke. Even his parents knew they had a nancy boy on their hands.

Just had to do that. Analyzing one's "reference links" is about as bad as those meme things.

Damn you Congolese Porn Tapes!

Pointlessness and The Theory of Finite Babble

Today is Valentine’s Day.

I’m not a big fan of this “holiday”, in any way-shape-form. In fact, it is the most despicable holiday to ever be violated by Hallmark. Sure, there’s some sort of history behind this day, and I am sure it is a most fascinating story (Feast of Lupercus, St. Valentine the “match-maker”, whatever’s clever), but just like all other days-of-celebration, Valentine’s Day is little more than an obnoxious festival of consumerism, pushed by candy-peddlers and sentiment-writers alike, up and down the blood-red aisles of Target and Walmarts across this great land.

Because you should only celebrate your significant other one time per year. And you better spend lots of cash, asshole, otherwise you obviously don’t really care, and that would be awful, wouldn’t it? To show them you don’t really care like that? By not buy-buy-buying the high-priced/low-qualitied on-sale-now-gift-sets for him/her “this special holiday season”?

Well shit, I guess so.

I’ll leave that one be now. There’s no sense in beating up a dumb-ass holiday too much, as it’s existence will only be amplified by my attention (good or bad). And just for the record, I feel this way whether I have a mate or not. Me and my lady will be staying in tonight, making dinner, as that is what she preferred.

Moving on to a brief message on job insatisfaction.

I just deleted several paragraphs which were dedicated to how little I enjoy my job… After reading over a piece of it, I decided that it was quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever bothered to rant about. If you can honestly weigh all the elements of your job: salary, health benefits, work environment, a life-schedule, retirement funds, access to technology, venue to learn and grow, blah-blah-blah. If you can honestly map that all out, value it against the negatives, and come up short… then you need to figure out what you can do to have that valuation move to a positive. There is no set prescription for how this should be done. Different strokes for different folks. But for the love of all that decent and worthwhile on this planet, DO NOT whine about it.

Because really, no one gives two shits. And that’s only fair.

For the astute/regular reader, and the perceptive rhetorical analyst, my position on job satisfaction should be more than apparent. I am not paid to write, yet I post long-ass posts here on a (kinda) regular basis. Take that however you want, wherever you want, and smoke it. I care not.

On what it means to think up a theory, only to hear someone else use it as their own.

Back in the mid-nineties, frustrated with life, and angry at the uphill battles I felt forced to fight, I came up with a theory. It helped me get through certain times of trial, and it made a great deal of sense during times of utter nonsense. It is a simple theory, as it was meant to actually help me to understand my unforgiving environment (and not to forward any academic or intellectual thought). After the passage of time, I have found it easy to poke theoretical holes in the theoretical crutch-of-a-parachute, but I continue to stick by it as a theory of my own making, and I am therefore proud of it.

As any parent feels proud, regardless of how inept or developmentally challenged their children truly are.

I called it the Theory of Finite Happiness. And the theory postulated, quite simply, as the name implies, that there was only so much happiness available to the human race. At the time, I was referring to a couple of tenets made by the theory. 1) The more humans milling about, the less happiness available per individual. And more importantly, 2) any happiness felt by one person is offset by a decrease in happiness felt by others (a single “other”, or a collection of “others”).

That is to say, your happiness in winning the lotto would be equally offset by all the unhappiness felt by everyone else for having not won. Simple math to explain disgustingly unhappy times. Obviously, this theory is riddled with holes too large to be properly spackled. But it served its purpose, and it served well. After many years, the theory lost its importance and validity to me, and I shelved it. But I have maintained a low-level appreciation for it, as I considered it purely my own.

Flash forward ten years. Amongst a large group of friends, many of which were around ten years prior to hear me discuss this little theory, I hear someone mention it. And claim it as their own.

Now I cannot help but feel somewhat flattered that someone would refer to the theory, especially since it is both old, and easy to dispute. But at the same time, I felt almost hurt that someone might, even mistakenly (which could very well be the case) claim something like that as their own. I feel that it was something that was purely me, a product of my rage from a decade back, and that it does in many ways represent a very real piece of who I used to be. And this person, a very good friend of mine, hijacked it and claimed, in front of many other people, that this was a theory they had about life.

Out of respect for that person, I did not confront them about this. In fact, I still haven’t. I haven’t bothered to correct them for a number of reasons, including: they weren’t around when I thought the theory up. They entered our circle of friends several years later, so they must have heard it from someone else and simply forgotten where they got it, or they weren’t told that it was my theory (and perhaps thinking that it was a “free theory”, up for grabs, they simply took it) when it was passed to them. This would make it a pure accident, and I don’t want to be the dick who busts into someone else’s group conversation to call out the speaker. But mainly, the combination of me knowing that it was the mindwork (albeit simplistic, and feeble) of that time which is actually valuable to me, not necessarily the product, AND the fact that it really is a poorly founded theory, together, make it easy to just let it all go. I am fully capable of building better theories, and that one pretty much blew donkey nards, so no sweat. Water off a duck’s ass.

But only for that specific theory. Other theories I’ve boiled-up in my feverish brain, I might not be so quick to see attributed to anyone else, especially a close friend. It would be tantamount to someone else claiming one of my children as their own. I’d be beyond irritated or hurt by it. I would be livid. My words are MY words, damnit.

Since I’m on stupid-ass high-horse (my apologies for sounding like a pompous douchebag, if that is how this is coming across) about all this…

As a curiosity, I decided to look up my Theory of Finite Happiness on the interweb, to see if anyone else had published it themselves. I found a bunch of religious hoo-hah with a similar name/idea, some discussion of Pascal’s theory that everyone should go ahead and believe in heaven for statistical reasons (look that crap up yourself, it is mind-bogglingly silly) and THIS. Someone, back in 2003, wrote of the almost the exact same theory, with essentially the same name. Another reason to not care too much if it gets hijacked: someone else thought of it too. Craziness.

Because I do not believe that my theory spread far out into the world of philosophic discussion, I can only believe that similar theories and thoughts can be invented and/or considered in parallel, mutually exclusive of one another. More evidence that everything that can be thought of, has already been thought of.

The theory of finite knowledge. Another theory (not my own, this time) that is easy to poke holes in.

Damn you finite happiness!

Video Porn and the Amsterdam Sex Show Thing

I’ve never been big into video porn. I’ve never purchased the stuff, and I’ve never been one to demand that my friends let me borrow theirs. But I must admit, there is something to be said for the public availability of strangers being involved in what would normally be considered a private and intimate setting. Widely distributed voyeurism, if you will. Even better if this voyeurism were available to ANYONE with enough cash to buy in (instead of just being available to all those old senators and Bill O'Reilly). Again, it isn’t my bag, per se, but I do fancy the idea of it as a part-and-parcel product of advanced civilization.

That being said, I used to have a roommate with an impressive collection of finely edited video pornography. He was a connoisseur of the stuff. He would rent a dozen videos every few days, and would comb through it, searching for the best scenes and most skilled actors in the trade. Sometimes he would go through all those tapes, roughly ten hours of material, and only take a two minute clip to add to his library of porno-moments. He saw it all. He knew all their names, including the men. Along with the writers, producers, Best Boys, Grips, and microphone engineers. Hell, he probably had a favorite fluffer. He was dead serious about the art. His dream was to direct, and his collection was considered serious research.

He had the collection alphabetized, with each VHS tape containing some thirty-odd snippets from various and sundry “art films”, indexed only in his mind. He knew exactly where every take he had ever dubbed out of his rentals was to be found within the immense library of tapes, which were only labeled by their letter. If you asked him about such wonders as “The Squirter”, or his all-time favorite money shot, or the best triple-penetration to ever hit the adult video market… he would know exactly which tape to grab and exactly where to track the minute in order to locate said request. He was that dedicated, he was that professional. And for that, we offered him the title of:

MR SWANK.

When Mr. Swank moved in to my shit-hole of an apartment (there was a hole in the wall of my kitchen, which served as a Holland Tunnel of sorts for large insects and small rodents to enter my crib regularly), he brought only his tip-top wardrobe of the finest linens (Gucci, Versace, Klein, Yves St. Laurent, and the like, ‘cause he was smooth like that, seriously) and a large moving box stacked with his precious tapes. Beyond my playful interactions with the mildly amusing porn collections of my middle-school friends’ fathers, sneaking peaks at the wild word of grainy 70’s style stag flicks during my early teenage years, this was my first true foray into the depths of a most lucrative form of sexual fantasy. And I will admit, I initially found it most entertaining. After all, I am a guy. Guys love sex, and we love television. Right? So what could possibly be better than the combination of our two favorite pastimes? Theoretically: nothing could beat that partnership. Video porn has to be the pinnacle of male focus, distilled into some magnetic tape that is encased in plastic. Lazy sexual fantasy is a beautiful thing to behold. And behold it I did. Often. I watched every selection in his library repeatedly. I even had favorites, which I looked forward to revisiting periodically. It was a golden time for the tri-fecta of me, my TV, and my parents’ old and shitty VCR. We had a grand ol’ time.

But even Mr. Swank’s extensive collection, polished by his most discerning eye, did not keep my attention long enough to make me a lifelong fan of the genre. Eventually, I grew tired of the crappy acting, the bored chicken-heads being pounded by the same three half-limp douche bags in every goddamn flick, and the piss-poor production qualities associated with skin-flicks of that time. I guess it just got old. Mr. Swank cut through the nonsense to provide me with the best of the best, and I got spoiled. Then, I got really bored with the whole lot of it.

Nowadays, I don’t bother with the internet porn, and I don’t see myself skulking about in the back room of any local video rental dive any time soon. It just didn’t stick. Besides, my imagination has proven to be much more interesting. I do, however, reserve the right to revisit this form of lazy sexual fantasy as soon as my libido starts to wobble. I might need a jumpstart, know what I’m sayin’? One never knows.

But when I heard about the live sex shows in Amsterdam, I got fucking excited! Live?! Are you serious? Two people just get up on stage and pound it out in front of a theatre of strangers? My word, that’s like some sort of magical porno-circus! Sign me up! I mean, we get “donkey shows” down here in Texas, in the border towns, but that’s become more of a joke than it is a parade of sexual fantasy. The smell alone in those places will keep you from pitching a tent. And besides, who is impressed by a donkey who gets it up when shocked with a down-graded cattle-prod anyhow? Where’s the distinguishing sexual ability in that? Now if she were to get reamed by a walrus, or an ostrich or some shit, I might drop some pesos just for the kitsch factor.

But it wouldn’t be playing into any real fantasy of mine. I don’t wish the animal kingdom into my wet dreams. Honest.

Anyhow, the widely available sex shows in Amsterdam piqued my interest. So my lady and I signed up to check one out. We had no idea what to expect, and our travel guide-book-thing didn’t delve into any real detail as to what specifically goes on during the shows. And in typical Craig fashion, I didn’t bother to formulate any real expectations of my own. I was just excited to know that these things existed! Who the hell cares how they come together, they have to (I hate to say it) rock-out with their cock-out, right!?

Wrong.

We went to the most popular place, named Casa Rosso in the middle of the red light district (side note for anyone visiting the area any time soon: all those Kenyan and Congolese dudes milling about the area are pimps and strongmen, all the obnoxiously drunk white dudes are fellow patrons, and all the camera-bagged Asian couples will be gone before dark. That’s what I gathered. Take it for what you will). We were offered two types of show: with, and without drinks. My lady took the 30 Euro “no drink” ticket, and I nabbed a 45 Euro “with drink” ticket. My ticket granted me four drink tickets with which I could lay claim to four drinks, one at a time, of my choosing, through a waiter who would visit us during the show.

But first, we had to pay at the main location in order to get a voucher, which had to be walked to the other side of the canal (only 50 meters or so) to a separate and lesser (but related) establishment for a brief “pre show”. Exciting! Something to wet the ol’ proverbial whistle! Suuuhhhweeet! So we wandered over, entered the place and climbed up some dark stairwell which dropped us into a second-floor room. The room was already full, and the show was halfway over. We stood in the back and got an eyeful of what was to come. And I don’t mean cum.

On stage was a rather strangely paired couple, engaged in what would best be described as Sunday afternoon sex. The dude was scrawny, heroine chic-ish, and he was lazily slapping his numbed pud against what appeared to be a noticeably disinterested mother of four. She was staring off into the distance, and I believe he was examining his fingernails. No one seemed to be concentrating on the job at hand.

Two curious minutes later, some language-juggling titty-bar DJ-soundalike fellow mumbled some unintelligible crap over an intercom which caused the couple to stop their charade, face the crowd with a smile, and then they waved to us like we were all going on a cruise as a curtain closed around them. What the fuck is that? No “happy ending” in that joint. Dude just pulled it out and started waving like he was in a beauty pageant, junk pointing to the floor. Fucking weak.

Now I don’t know about you, but some sickly dude sticking his flaccid peter into a sleeping hole for five minutes does not constitute “sex” to me. There needs to be some excitement in there somewhere. Specifically, there must be a climax, or at least the obvious intention of such, in order for me to grant the label “sex”. And there needs to be some “show” in order for me to label anything a “show”. Maybe I’m all alone here, but I’m willing to go out on that limb for the sake of argument.

Somewhat disappointed, but determined that the main show would be more impressive, we clapped a half-hearted approval of their “performance” and filed back down the stairs. We crossed back over the canal and into the Casa Rosso. We were twenty strong, and eager to see some real action. And to drink. Well, I was anyhow.

I got my official drink tickets, and we were seated in a small theatre. Gradual stadium seating and all. My lady got an aisle seat, so she would be offered an unobscured view of the debauchery. I hunted for that waiter they promised would be hovering about. I did not know how long the show would last, but I estimated it to push upwards of an hour. That meant that I would only have fifteen minutes per drink. I don’t know why that gave me stress, but it did. "Oh, I better drink quick, lest I not be able to cash in all these tickets!" So when I couldn’t find the waiter, I simply got up and searched out the actual bar. Sometimes, it is best to seek out the source. It was upstairs in the back. I just walked up and requested all four drinks at once. No sense in falling victim to some pokey waiter who was already MIA, right? They informed me that a) I should only get my drinks from the waiter, and b) I can only get one drink at a time by handing my waiter both a ticket and my previous empty booze vessel. There went my brilliant strategy. But they let me take a drink back downstairs.

When I sat back down with a drink, all the other patrons started to get frazzled, with their little drink tickets vibrating in their shaking hands. They were all worried that they had somehow managed to miss the waiter’s first pass. Lucky for them, our waiter showed up. I hid my Heineken and requested a whiskey on the rocks. I wanted to keep the next drink properly queued so as to avoid any of the fretting displayed by my showmates. After all, I still did not know how long the show would last.

By the time I finished my Heinie, the waiter was delivering my whiskey. That’s when the show started. The curtains opened up, and there they were. Our first performers. And their piece had a bondage theme to it! Tight. There was some mild paddling, some slapping, and a bit of control-fetish in there. Nothing to write home about. But then, then… the deed was to begin!

I figured out why the dude’s back had been turned to us for the beginning of their scene. He was clearly unexcited to be there. I guess the paddling just didn’t do it for him. So, she got to working on him, out of our sight, his back still to us, to get him presentable. After a bit of coaxing, he was apparently ready. The turntable stage started to rotate, and they started their deal. After about a minute of witnessing the most uninspired sex of my life, I started to feel really sorry for these people. I mean, what must their real sex life be like? After all, a mechanic always has a broken car at home because he does not wish to work on anymore goddamn cars when he gets off the clock. Know what I’m saying? Damn. It was like mercy sex or something. As if a gay man and a lesbian both lost a bet and got stuck screwing each other in public. Wearing bad bondage gear. While Madonna’s “Erotica” played in the background. Sure, they switched positions on cue, and she even helped cram his drooper back into the game a couple of times. Hell, they might even be Bridge partners after work for all I know. But their chemistry would be best described as inert.

I just concentrated on my whiskey and kept a keen eye out for the waiter. No sense in wasting a good potential mid-day buzz on account of lame sex.

Madonna was interrupted by yet another language mangler with a microphone, which signaled the end of the first session of effort-free sex. The “sex” promptly ended, she waved like the Queen of England, and he pumped both his fists in the air as if to say “yeah baby, yeah! I wasn’t completely limp for the majority of the show this time! Fuck yeah!” I think I forgot to clap. But in my defense, the waiter had returned, and I had yet to finish my whiskey. I was stressing my missed opportunity at another Heineken, and had long lost interest in them anyway.

The curtain closed. I downed my last sip of gut-rot booze. And we discussed how interesting the outfits of the previous performers were. That’s right. I talked about their outfits. Like my momma always told me: “if you don’t have anything nice to say…” The waiter returned, thank god, and I got my beer order in before the next act.

The second act was a single girl dancing around on stage, striking poses and acting all flamboyant. She appeared to be of Brazilian descent, and was hopelessly adorable. She pranced about on stage, not really doing a whole hell of lot, causing much confusion in the crowd as to exactly what we had all paid for. Just as I felt myself tempted to start cleaning out my wallet, she started pulling hankies from her crotch. I would guess that she pulled approximately fifteen feet of knotted-together hankies out of there. Needless to say, I was pretty impressed. It was like a dirty carnival act or something. Regardless, it was much better than the earlier display.

We all clapped, and I clapped loudly, as the whiskey was starting to make such recommendations to me.

The garbled-mouth DJ muttered some nonsense, she bowed and waved, the curtain closed, and we all searched for the waiter. He came, we ordered, and discussed the merits of Ms. Hankie amongst ourselves until the curtains pulled back again.

This time, it was a Black couple. They had some good chemistry going too. All smiles. They handled each other well, and seemed genuinely interested in putting some work in. They made out for a bit, and then the turntable started to do its thing. She laid back, prepared for some action. He reached over to a bag behind them and pulled out a tube of lube. With his left hand he grabbed his tip, and with the right he squirted the cream over his bird as if he were applying toothpaste to a brush. Without missing a beat, he then proceeded to go all kinds of crazy on that girl. That man had rhythm. He dance-sexed her. Beyond the priceless lubing-of-the-meat part, it was a respectable show of sexmanship. I thought they would get a standing ovation for sure. But no luck. The DJ grumbled some jibberish, we got a wave, and the curtain closed. Still no money shot, no sense of completion, no exhausting release. Nothing of the sort.

Where’s that damn waiter? I don’t know when this show is going to end, and I still have one ticket left…

The next act was a real smiley girl. She was alone, and she danced around the stage like the hankie girl, almost step for step. Well, it seemed that way anyhow. We had been there about twenty minutes at that point, and I had already downed two beers and a whiskey on the rocks. My judgment of dance-steps might have been a bit impaired. But instead of hankies, this girl pulled a string of six beads. One bead at a time, in the name of time-killing theatrics I suppose. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Okay, bye!

DJ Grumble. Wave. Curtain closes. Goodness gracious, I guess.

Where the living hell is that goddamn waiter? If I have to take this goddamn ticket with me when I leave, then it better be pure LSD. Fucker.

The third couple was hilarious to me. Maybe it was the booze, I don’t know. It started with what was obviously a white girl who had been tanned to the color of yams, with dark contacts and jet-black dyed hair. I would guess she was Scandinavian by her build and features, so she looked awkward as hell. She was dressed up all American ghetto-fabulous with the requisite gear, kicks, and bling. She was pretending to be “kickin’ it out on the Ave” or some shit, when a dude in a trench coat comes strutting from stage right, with a durban hat covering his eyes. That’s when my drunk ass figured out why she looked so damn strange. Dude was black, and while the world loves to believe that racism only exists in the American Deep South, this little piece of poorly-done makeup work was plenty of evidence to the contrary. I guess white women are not eligible for black dongs in the mainstream sex shows of Amsterdam. Who'd a thunk it?

Here’s where a pocket of about six Asian tourists abandoned the building. Maybe they had reservations somewhere and did not want to lose their table. Maybe that whole bead thing really got their motors running, and they were off to "take care of some business". Who knows? They sure did dodge out of there in a hurry though.

Back to the sham. The girl was very attractive, even under all that shellac and gaudy jewelry. When she pulled off the dude’s trench coat, it was revealed that he was a pot-bellied fellow wearing boxer-briefs which were a bit too big for him. They were roomy, let's just say. He had the muscule mass of a seventh grader, and a nonexistent chin like mine. She danced around him while he stood there, slumped over, staring at her like a total perv, drooling. Perhaps this was what the "thespian" element of their "show" was supposed to be about. I have no idea. When they got to doin’ the do, he was hella excited to be there! She could have put a-lot more into her efforts in the excitement department, but I understand. He was not the most impressive specimen. But what he lacked in aesthetics, he made up for in heart! Dude was all into it! I thought he might actually seal the deal for a minute there. For a brief moment, he looked to be on the verge of a proper eruption... But the DJ cued the wave, and the curtain closed. Nada.

Hell-o waiter. 'Bout time you showed up. One final drink, and I’ll be… thanks! I’ll just down this last beer as if it were liquid clairvoyance and see if I’ll be paying for a drink individually (now that I've run out of tickets)… and the answer is: hell no. Hell. No. I’m fucked up before dinner. Again. Sex shows rule!

The next single-girl act hit the stage as if she were trying out for Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” video. She was strutting around, doing lunges and ballet turns. I think she even threw some of that pilates crap in there, along with some high-impact yoga moves. Music was playing, but she may have been clinically deaf, so the beat was completely ignored. I was once again questioning my ticket purchase when she sat down in the center of the stage, lit a cigar, rolled backward on to her neck with her feet spread out into the air, and smoked that cigar with her cooter. Puff, puff, give. She popped it in, did some pelvic thrusts, plucked the cigar out, and exhaled the smoke from betwixt her legs. How fucking awesome is that? A true pecker puffer. I was floored by that one. I mean, I’ve been told stories of hookers in Thailand who could blow out candles, shoot ping-pong balls at targets, and pop balloons with darts – all using nothing more than their chonch muscles. But I dismissed it all as fables from the orient. But this woman pulled a Winston Churchill with her crotch! And then offered the cigar to some fellow in the first row as the curtains drew back together. Dude declined the offer. Big surprise. I mean, who knows where her cooter learned to smoke like that. Prison maybe? Shiiiiiiiit. Some crazy Irishman in the back row kept yelling “take it! Take it!” Absolutely fantastic stuff.

I was pretty looped by then. The booze was doing a fine job of keeping me entertained.

The fourth sex act was lame, and involved some poor Fabio reject who should have chanted “I can’t believe my steroid-damaged unit is so soft!” As his junk was giving him some serious trouble. I believe the ‘roids done did that man wrong. Stay off the juice kids, or your dick won’t work like it should.

DJ. Wave. Curtain.

Thank god.

The final act was the same chick who pulled the beads from deep within. I guess the management had decided that her little side-show act was pretty weak, and she would be required to do double duty if she wanted to earn equal pay. Whatever. She was the friendliest looking of them all, so we had no problem with it. She came back on stage with a banana, and requested that five people join her on stage. No one was jumping at the chance. Let’s face it, we all knew there would be no real sex involved. She wasn't going to allow five random dudes to just start taking turns on her (although I have heard of that happening, but it might just be more myth). And eating fruit from the crotch of a probable Amsterdam hooker is not exactly the best way to avoid potential health disasters (not to mention IBS from a dirty banana, or something equally nasty). But I was drunk enough to be game. To my lady, I was all "what are you waiting for? Let's do this!" Luckily, my lady was not under the cruel influence of the ill-idea recommending combo: whiskey and beer. She kept me seated, and probably saved me from a potential bout with hepatitis. Herpes Simplex 12 at the least.

Three drunken fools stumbled up there, danced around like drunken fools, and all tried to lay some game on the girl like drunken fools. It was all very funny, and very tragic at the same time. And then, the real potential for tragedy showed up. After two of the guys had taken a bite from the banana betwixt the fair maiden’s thighs, someone in a gorilla suit with a big ol’ strap-on dildo skipped out from stage right. Just as the third guy was about to take the final bite from the banana, bent over to get a good mouthful, he caught the gorilla out the corner of his eye. All hell seemed to break loose after that. It was all in fun, but everyone was up on their feet and paranoid once that gorilla began pacing the stage. None of those three dudes would let that gorilla out of their sight for a second. And that gorilla had one hell of a painful looking piece of rubber machinery bouncing around his waist. No more dancing on stage.

The gorilla walked off stage disgruntled, dejected. The three dudes remained apprehensive, if not horrified. The girl could not stop laughing (I think she seriously wanted to see one of them get hurt by the monkey).

DJ. Wave. Curtain.

Go see a sex show while you’re in Amsterdam. Let me know if your experience is different from mine. Fuck I’m tired of typing.

Out of touch

For the handfull of you who visit this place every now and again, I will be in Europe for the next ten days, getting my hash on. I will not be posting here, and I doubt I will be bothering with the internet in any fashion. Wish me luck, and I hope I survive the trip to post more garbage on February 8th.

Word be bond. You people need to stay out of trouble.

Narcissistic Babble Session

Sometimes, a man's just got to babble a bit. Ignore if you wish, I care not. Bygones.

**Begin Babble Session**

I am an agnostic who isn’t atheist only because I refuse to believe in “nothing”.

I am a heterosexual man who is trying to learn about what attracts men/women to men, for the sake of better understanding my environment. And I do not consider this an act of homosexuality.

I have two minds on almost every issue. I am an economist at heart, and that is what we tend to do.

I am the son of an accomplished Nurse, and an exceptional Structural Engineer. I am neither of them. I am both of them.

I wish I could practice my Mandarin Chinese more. I forget more and more as days go by, and this brings me stress.

I am a procrastinator who does not consider what he does difficult, so he waits to the last minute in order to make mundane tasks/responsibilities more interesting. This is far from a virtue, and I am aware of it.

I do not believe in being violent. But I believe that there are people who live by violence. And so, I believe in self defense, even when it goes against my other beliefs.

I believe that US national sports and US network television are the equivalent of Rome’s bread/circuses/gladiators campaign, designed to help distract us from what we really need to focus on. Because we are distracted, we do not honestly know what we should be focused on. This keeps me up at night.

I have not lost my temper in over five years. If I never lose it again, I will be just fine with that. But if I do blow it, I would prefer that no-one else be forced to witness it.

I believe that all politicians are just that: politicians. Believing that they are crusaders, champions of justice, or holders of any constitution beyond their own personal agenda is short-sighted and ignorant. Believing otherwise will get you exactly what you deserve: a politician. I am open to changing this opinion, but I have been given nothing to work with. I consider politicians to be a necessary evil.

I believe that all lawyers are politicians. This is through much personal experience, and personal friends who are lawyers are, unfortunately, lumped into this group. I consider all lawyers to be a necessary evil.

I believe in the peaceful coexistence of hypocrisy and definite truth. Definite truth being unattainable, and hypocrisy being our way of dealing with daily life knowing that definite truth is unattainable.

I believe that I am owed absolutely nothing by anyone. I also believe that it is this mindset which allows me (and the hard-working generations before me) to turn a blind eye to how my government mishandles my input into the tax system.

I know that I am lazy when it comes to proper watch-dogging of my own elected officials. I alone am responsible for allowing their misbehavior. I also know that each day I continue to be lazy, the harder it will be to correct said misbehavior.

I believe that I will grow old, and die, with no countable legacy. No riches, no wealth to convey, no gold to tally. And I am okay with this.

I believe that the only real legacy a person of meager beginnings actually has, is their ability to help their contemporaries. I believe that if nothing else, my borderline anonymous existence will leave a legacy of helping those around me: live a little better. Live a little harder. Live a little more, than they would have otherwise.

I have not cried in over three years. It was almost ten years between that tear-session and the one which preceded it. I wish I was better at crying, but not too good to contain it.

I try NOT to wish ill-will on those who hold contempt for me, even though I know I am within my right to do so. In reality, it is the ill-will they have toward me which I hate more than anything. In response, it is a weapon I choose to sheath.

I believe in honesty at all costs, even in the face of harsh judgment. But I do not believe that the truth conquers all. In fact, I believe that multiple perspectives provide for many parallel and coherent truths for any given issue. But even in light of this refraction of justice, I believe in honesty at all costs.

I believe that the most sinister product ever made, even beyond Peeps, are cigarettes. Nothing is more polarizing for me, within the confines of my own mind, than the desire to dance with nicotine. They say that heroine addicts who manage to kick the smack, never manage to kick smoking. The hold is that powerful. And from experience, it is quite sinister.

I wish I had never been a liar. I wish I had never been a thief. I wish I had never been a cheater, a careless lover, an addict, a hard drinker, a coffee hound, a night owl, a bigot of any kind, or a lazy technocrat who allowed himself to think he was the shit. But most of all, I wish I didn’t regret any of the things I’ve been, good or bad, better or worse. Because that is who I am, and honestly, there is no apology necessary.

And lucky for me, I really don’t regret any of it, since I never really planned any of this crap anyway.

**End Babble Session**