I’m not saying this happened to me or anything, but it would be both supremely disturbing AND frustrating if it did. Let’s put you into a “situation” for a spell.
Let’s say you’re really hungover. And I don’t mean that weak-ass “I think I got a little heady-ache here, and I feel a bit more tired than normal” type of hungover. I mean you’re bro-ken. Drunk-when-you-woke-up style. Broken. Busted up in all the wrong places. Your pounding kidneys have morphed into what would best be described as “pain tissue” that lights up and burns like a mutha whenever you so much as think, your butter-yellow eyes are both dried up AND bulging out of your skull (you are constantly trying to reconcile this impossibility with physics and the human body as you understand it), you have a confusing limp in your left leg which you are convinced is caused by vodka poisoning, and the sound of your office’s air conditioner is nothing less than atomic-bomb-deafening. THAT is how hungover you are. Fuck you, you are really hungover goddamnit. Jesus H Christ… and it sucks donkey nards to be at work in such a condition.
But the best part about your hangover is where this hypothetical “situation” is trying to meander. Apparently, in your drunken stupor the night before, you ate a slice of pizza from, let’s say, a hell-spawn street-pizza vendor named Hoek’s outside of a raccoon infested pool hall ironically named “The Ritz”. [again, regardless of how detailed this description may get, it is all in fact: hypothetical, and it is YOU we are talking about here, anyway] And that slice of devil pie was topped with nothing other than yellowish sticks of oily broccoli, limp-dick mushrooms, vulcanized post-mozzarella product, and probably some dirt for good measure. You chewed that in the same mouth you kiss your mother with, and then dropped it into that vat of sloshing beer-booze you call your stomach. Then you went home and slept while that concoction marinated.
It has grown strong in the night. It has gained a most foul odor, and has the power to move cubic feet of air in painful bursts. Now it wants out of you, and plans to kill the host in a sea of misery and discomfort in the process.
You figure that a trip to the bathroom is not only warranted, but will be a nice rest from the 800,000-decibel air conditioner. On your staggering walk down the hall to the restroom you note two things: 1) the air conditioner in the hallway is jacked up too, and 2) that vodka-broccoli broth is not fucking around anymore, it’s about to make a gangbuster’s appearance if you don’t get to a controlled environment quick.
Your only hope is the fourth-floor restroom, as there is no time to choose another floor if you deem those receptacles unsavory. Your prior knowledge of this particular restroom does not leave you with any real feelings of hope. There are only two toilets in that restroom, one of which is enclosed with a stall door that both opens inward (why do they fucking design them that way? I mean, in order to enter/exit the damn thing you have to practically climb onto the damn toilet to give the stupid door room to swing) and has a forever-busted lock. The other toilet has asthmatic water pressure, so unless you’re about to unleash a flurry of water soluble feathers, you better be prepared to hear about how “something really awful must have happened to someone in the 4th floor men’s room” while riding the elevator later in the day. Along with the “commode situation”, you are also pretty familiar with the “schedule” of your floor’s restroom: 8am-9am: two familiar managers shoes can be seen under the stall with the annoying broken handle. Never drop the kids off at the pool while he is in there, it might come up during your next review. 9am-10am: that one strange guy who is always wandering the hallway, aimlessly, takes the time out of his busy wandering-schedule to make chocolate babies. You don’t know what exactly makes up his diet, but you would guess that the breakfast he ingests to produce such a malodorous shit-storm includes: one gallon of milk, four bananas, a pound of steaming asphalt, and approximately one bail of raw wheat. There is no point in considering the rest of the day’s “schedule”, as it is almost 11am, and the job must be completed immediately.
Probability says that shit-storming wanderer-guy has already darkened one commode option. You are really sweating this unfortunate reality as your stagger picks up some speed, racing against the alien that is now moshing in your bowels. You are trying to keep your composure while passing people in the halls, trying to NOT to look like some hungover, profusely sweating, limp-legged idiot who is about to crap his own pants.
You resign yourself to the possibility that your dragging left leg may cause you to trip, just slightly, throwing you off just enough to trigger the opening of your butt-cheek blockade, causing a nasty crapped-pants-in-public situation. If this does indeed occur, you reason with yourself, then it will be acceptable to simply sit down on the floor and cry like a mother of two would cry if she just learned that she got herpes from her young lover, who just so happens to be her cousin (and she just found out about that too).
Happily, you see the restroom sign, huff it a little faster, and make it before anything stupid happens. You bust into the bathroom, already disassembling your belt… assembly. You turn the tile-walled corner to face those two menacing stalls. The one on the right is the one that lacks the ability to flush air (for god’s fucking sake), and the one on the left has the door issues. You figure that Shit-Storm MUST be aware of the problems with the right-side toilet, so he must have destroyed the one with the jacked-up door. With your pants halfway down your crack, you kick open the right-side door, take one shuffle forward, and are almost immediately brought to the verge of blasting out both ends of your body. Shit Storm has definitely visited the right stall. Man-oh-man, he must have doubled-up on that asphalt this morning. And there it was, in all of its glory, unflushed, nay: unflushable (by any toilet, let alone the one that isn’t even capable of cycling a whole bowl’s worth of water when you flush it), mocking you. Yes, it is laughing at you and your sweaty, forlorn and crinkled brow, as you kick into reverse, step over, and push open the left hand stall.
And there you witness the reason that Shit Storm decided to brave hearing about his turd from strangers on the elevator. It appears that someone emptied approximately 300 ounces of Yoohoo, mixed with what looks like cooked beef, onto the rim-side-back of the toilet/seat, and a goodly amount has been splayed on the floor and wall to your right. Normally, this type of situation would prompt you to simply back up, pull that stupid door shut, wonder what kind of truck-stop you work at, and go crap in the sink. But you are halfway into the stall already, fully committed to dropping your bomb in the next five seconds. You must conquer the Yoohoo meat sauce.
The one thing you have going for you as your pants are thrust to the one clean patch on the tiled floor, is that the water is relatively fresh. That means two things: 1) this fucking toilet can still flush and 2) it fucking did flush because there is no Yoohoo INSIDE it that would no doubt: splash up onto your pink ass when you released the hounds of hell. You count both of these lucky stars, sad as they may be, as you brace yourself to hover above the crime scene. Right arm: against stall wall, propped up on the toilet paper holder. Left arm: against other stall wall, but pointed up, reaching to the top of the wall to avoid touching any of the Yoohoo that is spattered below. Right foot: tending the pants that are practically balled up on the 12x12 island of clean tile in front of you. Left foot: forward, against that goddamned broken-lock, worthless excuse for an inward-swinging stall door of idiocy to keep anyone else from barging in and possibly crapping in your lap or peeing in your face.
And then it begins. What a mighty, mighty relief you feel. The rank smell, the awful sounds, the dripping sweat… all fade from your consciousness as you purge, hovering above the toilet from Trainspotting. A smile graces your face as you complete the mission. Then you delicately place your left foot back into your trousers, release your death grips from the stall walls, re-clothe, and pull open the door to depart.
While washing your hands, you look in the mirror and see that the sweating has stopped, and there is more color in your complexion than there was this morning. You marvel at how much better you feel, and then the door opens. It is your boss. He is apparently tardy for his 9am “meeting with John” but stops briefly to greet you anyway. “You look refreshed! Big night out last night?” You respond, calmly, as you start to realize he is headed for the left stall, “yeah, kind of. Kicked it with some friends, played some pool…” He interrupts, “well that sounds like fun. You still gonna be around for that 4 o’clock meeting with Bloomberg?” You towel your hands dry and head for the door. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything!” You push the door open, and jettison from the inevitable discomfort of witnessing his discovery.
You want to run like an escaped slave, far-far-far away, when you cannot remember flushing that damn toilet….
Again, this is a hypothetical situation, and we’re talking about you. Not me. Not me in any sense. But I do feel much better. Thanks for asking. I look forward to hearing about this, hypothetically, at my next review.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Friday, December 03, 2004
Defending the middle. Finger? Sometimes.
Kudos to those who gave a witness on the ta-ta bar thing. Has anyone else noticed that ever since I brought this up a couple of weeks back, the topic has popped up all over the place (popular media, parental conversations, bar talk, etc…)? Maybe it is just me, or I simply never noticed how often titty bars are discussed in public. Whatever. Thanks for the discourse. That is all I will say on that, for it is a tired subject.
I have a concern that I want to voice. This issue requires much more space than I am willing to dedicate to here, but I feel compelled to throw it out there.
I am concerned about the way those of us who occupy the nation’s political DMZ are being treated. Suddenly, I feel as if the rational middle-ground has been chipped away to the point of minority. The far left, and far right are hogging the entire goddamn scene, and neither are bothering to consider the entire picture. Those of us remaining in the middle become the enemy of both. Very similar to the way that all religious faiths, while happily duking it out between each other, always seem to find a quiet moment together where they can unanimously hate those “vile atheists” for not having the moral wherewithal to choose the least ignorant side of the faith-debate. If atheists were the majority, as the political middle-ground was four years ago on US political scene, this would not be a cause for alarm for atheists. But, atheists have never been the majority and have always lived with harsh ridicule. Now that same lack of temperance is being leveled on those of us who refuse to hate (at least) one side of the political spectrum. I believe this to be utter bullshit, and here’s why.
In the aftermath of a highly opinionated election, there will always be irrational elements who refuse to give up their ridiculous ghosts. These are the same people who get into fist-fights AFTER baseball games. Those of you out there who are still crying about the results of this shitty election (oh the environment will die! Oh, the French will hate us! Oh, we just sound like such a stupid country!), or won’t shut your frothing maw from spewing “man, my boy Bush KILLED those commie liberals sonsabitches! Let’s go shoot at towel-heads and count them tax breaks, YEEEE-HAAAWWW!”… you need to let it go. You need to stop yapping about things which have NOTHING to do with you, your understanding of politics, or your ability to grasp what is actually happening around you. Most of all, you need to shut the fuck up about why some of us are not picking a goddamned side on ANY of the issues based on your crappy half-assed partisan party platform nonsense. Only an ignorant ASS would follow the rhetoric of a political party by the numbers. Politics is a game, and if you aren’t aware of that FACT, and you are “participating”, then you need to be comfortable with being a PAWN, MARK, PROP, HOST, or whatever other unpleasant comparison fits you best.
Meanwhile, there still exists a rational middle-ground where the previous majority used to hang their considerate hats. In the middle, we waffle between parties based on the context of the issues posed to us. Some questions clearly require conservative responses, while others display a need for a more liberal touch. The result is a workable balance which is thoughtfully minded by the middle-majority. We are able to manage this by not buying into any utopian leftist rhetoric or any theologically driven right-wing evangelism. We base our decisions on the information available, and forge our opinions based on our modest beliefs in right and wrong which were molded by our own experiences on this planet. We don’t reach for the stars, and we don’t reach for the heavens. We do our best to moderate all you fucking loon-balls on the fringe without resorting to slitting all your bat-shit nutso throats. This system of middle-moderation worked like a charm (with some minor bumps) for a couple of centuries.
But something went wrong in this past year. The middle bench cleared when the fringes started a brawl on the political playing field. Somehow, the previously even-tempered judgment of the middle got tainted, and it swayed deep left or right. Those of us left to man the middle-ship found ourselves short-handed. On top of that, we are now seen as heretics with no moral fiber, no desire to “do what is right”, or any sense of political responsibility. We are viewed as inferior because we “refuse to take a stand” on the “issues”. Well. I must call bullshit on that opinion. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. Without us in the middle, you knuckleheads on the edges would have wiped each other out many moons ago. We insulate you from your own ignorance, and when all is said and done, after you’ve burned everything down and complained about it the entire time, we will return to clean up your mess. The lefties will return to their hemp/windchime construction, the righties will head back to their temple of choice, and the middle majority, freshly reunited, will rebuild what you loon-balls so frivolously destroy.
So go ahead and post your anti-Bush stickers. Go ahead and blast your worthless AM radio kook-talk. Wear a Bill Mahr mask, or don a Limbaugh suit. But you must stop all the heckling of those of us who don’t harbor your hatred. If you wipe us out, you wipe out rational consideration. Without rational consideration, this country will continue the downward spiral the fringes have sent us into. Without the return of the moderate middle, there will be no “reconstruction”. There will be no saving of this lamb. America will suffocate itself, wallowing and mired in its own self-loathing. By forcing us all to “pick a side” when neither side is rational, we are pressing the dagger deeper and deeper into our own back.
***Besides, there are much bigger fish to fry in the world, far beyond each other. We are on the verge of a massive economic eclipse by China. The effects of this will make Bush’s regretful Foreign Policy an easily forgotten footnote in the voluminous annals of “When American Decisions Go Bad.” We’ll be knee deep in petty sibling rivalry when one morning we wake up and no one on the planet cares about us anymore. This will happen in your lifetime, just as it happened to England and France in my Grandfather’s lifetime.***
So let me and my middle-of-the-road ways alone. I do not wish to hate anyone, least of all: you.
I have a concern that I want to voice. This issue requires much more space than I am willing to dedicate to here, but I feel compelled to throw it out there.
I am concerned about the way those of us who occupy the nation’s political DMZ are being treated. Suddenly, I feel as if the rational middle-ground has been chipped away to the point of minority. The far left, and far right are hogging the entire goddamn scene, and neither are bothering to consider the entire picture. Those of us remaining in the middle become the enemy of both. Very similar to the way that all religious faiths, while happily duking it out between each other, always seem to find a quiet moment together where they can unanimously hate those “vile atheists” for not having the moral wherewithal to choose the least ignorant side of the faith-debate. If atheists were the majority, as the political middle-ground was four years ago on US political scene, this would not be a cause for alarm for atheists. But, atheists have never been the majority and have always lived with harsh ridicule. Now that same lack of temperance is being leveled on those of us who refuse to hate (at least) one side of the political spectrum. I believe this to be utter bullshit, and here’s why.
In the aftermath of a highly opinionated election, there will always be irrational elements who refuse to give up their ridiculous ghosts. These are the same people who get into fist-fights AFTER baseball games. Those of you out there who are still crying about the results of this shitty election (oh the environment will die! Oh, the French will hate us! Oh, we just sound like such a stupid country!), or won’t shut your frothing maw from spewing “man, my boy Bush KILLED those commie liberals sonsabitches! Let’s go shoot at towel-heads and count them tax breaks, YEEEE-HAAAWWW!”… you need to let it go. You need to stop yapping about things which have NOTHING to do with you, your understanding of politics, or your ability to grasp what is actually happening around you. Most of all, you need to shut the fuck up about why some of us are not picking a goddamned side on ANY of the issues based on your crappy half-assed partisan party platform nonsense. Only an ignorant ASS would follow the rhetoric of a political party by the numbers. Politics is a game, and if you aren’t aware of that FACT, and you are “participating”, then you need to be comfortable with being a PAWN, MARK, PROP, HOST, or whatever other unpleasant comparison fits you best.
Meanwhile, there still exists a rational middle-ground where the previous majority used to hang their considerate hats. In the middle, we waffle between parties based on the context of the issues posed to us. Some questions clearly require conservative responses, while others display a need for a more liberal touch. The result is a workable balance which is thoughtfully minded by the middle-majority. We are able to manage this by not buying into any utopian leftist rhetoric or any theologically driven right-wing evangelism. We base our decisions on the information available, and forge our opinions based on our modest beliefs in right and wrong which were molded by our own experiences on this planet. We don’t reach for the stars, and we don’t reach for the heavens. We do our best to moderate all you fucking loon-balls on the fringe without resorting to slitting all your bat-shit nutso throats. This system of middle-moderation worked like a charm (with some minor bumps) for a couple of centuries.
But something went wrong in this past year. The middle bench cleared when the fringes started a brawl on the political playing field. Somehow, the previously even-tempered judgment of the middle got tainted, and it swayed deep left or right. Those of us left to man the middle-ship found ourselves short-handed. On top of that, we are now seen as heretics with no moral fiber, no desire to “do what is right”, or any sense of political responsibility. We are viewed as inferior because we “refuse to take a stand” on the “issues”. Well. I must call bullshit on that opinion. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. Without us in the middle, you knuckleheads on the edges would have wiped each other out many moons ago. We insulate you from your own ignorance, and when all is said and done, after you’ve burned everything down and complained about it the entire time, we will return to clean up your mess. The lefties will return to their hemp/windchime construction, the righties will head back to their temple of choice, and the middle majority, freshly reunited, will rebuild what you loon-balls so frivolously destroy.
So go ahead and post your anti-Bush stickers. Go ahead and blast your worthless AM radio kook-talk. Wear a Bill Mahr mask, or don a Limbaugh suit. But you must stop all the heckling of those of us who don’t harbor your hatred. If you wipe us out, you wipe out rational consideration. Without rational consideration, this country will continue the downward spiral the fringes have sent us into. Without the return of the moderate middle, there will be no “reconstruction”. There will be no saving of this lamb. America will suffocate itself, wallowing and mired in its own self-loathing. By forcing us all to “pick a side” when neither side is rational, we are pressing the dagger deeper and deeper into our own back.
***Besides, there are much bigger fish to fry in the world, far beyond each other. We are on the verge of a massive economic eclipse by China. The effects of this will make Bush’s regretful Foreign Policy an easily forgotten footnote in the voluminous annals of “When American Decisions Go Bad.” We’ll be knee deep in petty sibling rivalry when one morning we wake up and no one on the planet cares about us anymore. This will happen in your lifetime, just as it happened to England and France in my Grandfather’s lifetime.***
So let me and my middle-of-the-road ways alone. I do not wish to hate anyone, least of all: you.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
I got $20 on it. You?
So. Apparently, titty bars are a rather popular subject of thought amongst us. And, I must say, a pretty good source of debate and strong opinion. I am curious as to WHY others go? And what others believe to be the reason WHY others go.
I shall start with my own reasons for going.
To begin, the “Gentlemen’s Club” is a place of tradition. Much like twice-a-year Catholics to church, I visit them periodically, whenever the tradition calls. Bachelor parties are the most common reason to go. This is done in order to send off the bachelor in the most debaucherous environment allowed by law. It is more ceremonial than it is a necessity, but that is what the tradition calls for, so that is what we bachelors deliver. As the Best Man for a couple of weddings, I am familiar with the inner-workings of these places in reference to bachelor parties, and I can assure you that there is much more ceremony than there is anything else.
Other traditions include:
1) getting fired from a job
2) getting hired for a job
3) getting dumped by a broad
4) friend getting dumped by a broad
5) won the lotto
6) someone else won the lotto next to you in line at HEB
7) becoming a “Made” man in the local mafia
8) Grand opening of your own titty bar
This is just a short list. There are many other traditional reasons to bother with the cash-hungry coke-heads, naked “on stage two”.
Beyond tradition, there is the comfort level a man can attain while there. Only in a boob-joint is it completely acceptable to do all things “manish”. Scratch whatever you want, whenever you want. Fart as much as you please (the girls do too, see previous post), as the baby-powder all over the place covers up any stench. You can stare at a naked woman, in comfort, with the eyes of a deranged psychopath without fearing the authorities… your entry-fee covered your right to covet such sights. All the chairs are plush and inviting. The waitresses bring you more liquor BEFORE your current cup runeth empty. There is some funny dude in the bathroom that will do anything from shine your shoes to change your fucking oil while you pee, and he always tells witty jokes. Last but not least, the food really is not that bad, and it is usually dirt cheap.
So. To sum up my intentions when entering a boob-vendor:
1) Tradition, happily compels me
2) I can do no wrong while there.
3) Everything is designed to comfort my manhood.
Purposes I HAVE NEVER HAD when entering a ta-ta dispenser:
1) Talk to strippers about their lives
2) Have strippers ask me about my life
3) Have strippers act like they enjoy “the real me”
4) Find a girlfriend
5) Find a wife
6) Find a fuck
7) Find a fucking girlfriend that wants to be my wife
8) Score some good drugs
9) Get rid of that pesky $1000 that won’t go away
Now, WHAT are YOUR reasons for going? Or, WHY do you think OTHER people bother going? Hit me up.
I shall start with my own reasons for going.
To begin, the “Gentlemen’s Club” is a place of tradition. Much like twice-a-year Catholics to church, I visit them periodically, whenever the tradition calls. Bachelor parties are the most common reason to go. This is done in order to send off the bachelor in the most debaucherous environment allowed by law. It is more ceremonial than it is a necessity, but that is what the tradition calls for, so that is what we bachelors deliver. As the Best Man for a couple of weddings, I am familiar with the inner-workings of these places in reference to bachelor parties, and I can assure you that there is much more ceremony than there is anything else.
Other traditions include:
1) getting fired from a job
2) getting hired for a job
3) getting dumped by a broad
4) friend getting dumped by a broad
5) won the lotto
6) someone else won the lotto next to you in line at HEB
7) becoming a “Made” man in the local mafia
8) Grand opening of your own titty bar
This is just a short list. There are many other traditional reasons to bother with the cash-hungry coke-heads, naked “on stage two”.
Beyond tradition, there is the comfort level a man can attain while there. Only in a boob-joint is it completely acceptable to do all things “manish”. Scratch whatever you want, whenever you want. Fart as much as you please (the girls do too, see previous post), as the baby-powder all over the place covers up any stench. You can stare at a naked woman, in comfort, with the eyes of a deranged psychopath without fearing the authorities… your entry-fee covered your right to covet such sights. All the chairs are plush and inviting. The waitresses bring you more liquor BEFORE your current cup runeth empty. There is some funny dude in the bathroom that will do anything from shine your shoes to change your fucking oil while you pee, and he always tells witty jokes. Last but not least, the food really is not that bad, and it is usually dirt cheap.
So. To sum up my intentions when entering a boob-vendor:
1) Tradition, happily compels me
2) I can do no wrong while there.
3) Everything is designed to comfort my manhood.
Purposes I HAVE NEVER HAD when entering a ta-ta dispenser:
1) Talk to strippers about their lives
2) Have strippers ask me about my life
3) Have strippers act like they enjoy “the real me”
4) Find a girlfriend
5) Find a wife
6) Find a fuck
7) Find a fucking girlfriend that wants to be my wife
8) Score some good drugs
9) Get rid of that pesky $1000 that won’t go away
Now, WHAT are YOUR reasons for going? Or, WHY do you think OTHER people bother going? Hit me up.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Embarrassed BY professionals? Maybe.
Just as a side note on the embarrassment post made two posts earlier:
Yes, I really did fart on that guy’s neck. It was the back of his neck. He was sitting down at the head of a large table, in a small room, and I had to squeeze by between him and a large wooden buffet/hutch. The room was empty when I had first passed through it to get to the restroom, but when I exited the toilet, a fraternity had arrived for some sort of (Klan?) meeting or beer event. The room was full, but it was my only path to get out from the restrooms. I decided to face the hutch while passing him, thereby rubbing my bum along the back of his chair. The tight space between caused me to pull in breath, and as a result my inner air-pressure spiked up and released itself by way of my ass. On to the back of the guy’s neck. It was audible, and it certainly was relieving, but I initially fancied that the frat bro did not register the hit. There was a-lot of noise in that room, so I assumed that my blast would have been muffled by all the talk of date-rape trials and gay-bashing plans. But my friend was trailing me, and just as he passed through my fumes, he yelped “damn man, did you just fart on that dude!?”
At which point, I began to haul ass down the stairs, busted out the front door, and hit the parking lot at a high huff. There was a-lot of yelling involved. Maybe even some searchlights and a gauntlet of barbed wire. It was like a jailbreak. But they would have skipped the prison time and gone straight for a hangin’ I reckon. I got away clean, but that dude’s red neck did not.
Speaking of passing gas in public, I am reminded of one of my myriad of reasons for not liking “gentlemen clubs”. It will take me a minute to come full-circle on that transition (how “gas” and “gentlemen clubs” are related), so sit tight.
Ta-ta bars are a complete waste of money. Sure, some dudes swear by them, and just as I see religion: not my thing, but that’s fine by me (clubs are comparable to church in most respects: costs money, creates family rifts, can ruin a good weekend, the music sucks, and there is a-lot of sitting involved). They are also highly misunderstood by those who do not go. It is easy to assume that within those windowless walls there is free sex in every nook, and it is a big ol’ orgy for high-powered salesmen and square-jawed politicians. But this is not so. In fact, the idea that there is sex everywhere is just plain stupid. It is the “promise” of sex that sells. NOT the sex itself.
Here’s why there is no sex, by example: two guys walk into a strip club, both with $400. Guy 1 sits down and immediately starts having sex with strange women. Guy 2 sits down nearby and for 30 minutes, no one pays a single bit of goddamn attention to him, but there are provocatively dressed women parading themselves past him in a teasing fashion. After thirty minutes is up, a woman walks over to Guy 2 and asks if he “would like some company”. Guy 2 is practically frothing at the mouth, and desperate for some kind of attention, so he says “sure, that’d be great”. She sits down and immediately orders herself a drink. She makes small talk, and then asks Guy 2 some questions to ensure that he has cash. He does, and he practically tells her how much he has. Now she decides how she must spend her time. At $20 every 4-minute song, she calculates that his cash will last him about an hour and a half. She plans to bleed him dry, and force all her drinks on to his tab, which will have to be settled by his credit card. Are you feeling the sex for Guy 2 yet? No? No surprise. Guy 2, drawn in by the “promise” of some sort of experience blinks his eyes, and an hour and a half has passed. She stands up immediately after the end of some shitty Motley Crue song, puts her gear back on, and says “okay sugar, I need to take care of things. I had a really great time with you tonight, but I gotta go.” She then slyly gives Guy 2 a verbal tab of $400 for 1.5 hours worth of “work”, half of which was spent just sitting on his lap talking about her three-year old boy or her plans to attend med school. Guy 1 got his rocks off within the first 5 minutes, would have paid the going rate for such activities (less than $100 I would guess) and split, leaving a mess for someone to clean and a chick that will need some clinic work done on a regular basis (overhead for owner of club).
Which do you think has a bar tab in excess of $200? Who do you think left broke? Who do you think had an enormous case of blue ball, but will not remember that part of the experience when he considers dropping into the establishment in the future? Are you getting it yet? Do you understand now? Is it not completely fucking obvious where the real business is? Can we just go ahead and say that men going to strip clubs is as useless and pointless as women getting a full makeover now? That is to say: expensive, harmless, time-consuming, extravagant, and completely unnecessary.
Enough rant, on to gas story.
So, back in my hazier years, I was at a little strip club in Round Rock called Joy’s. It was a crap hole that had a dick-dancer joint next door called Bad Boys. We knew some of the girls who worked there, so we went every now and again for kicks. One night, while there, I went up to get a dollar dance. For those who do not know, there are two types of dances offered in most strip clubs: The lap/table dance: $20 per song, and the dollar/stage dance: $1 for 15 seconds of devoted attention from on-stage dancer to dudes standing along the edge of the stage. So, I was standing at the edge of the stage, drunk off my ass, waiting for the girl to wander over to me for my 15 seconds. She wandered over, smiled, turned around and got on all fours. Sounds hot, right? Wrong. Keep in mind, while on the stage she is a good three-feet above you. That makes her ass at eye level. You see nothing but butt. No female form really, no curves and supple breasts. No “come hither” stare or gymnastics. Just ass. As if you were hiding in a toilet, just to see butt or something. In all cultures, this is considered foul mockery, and quite rude. Basically, she mooned me, at VERY close range, for 15 seconds. We called this the “damned-ass dance”, and it really sucked to get one, even for a measly dollar. To top off the d.a.d.: while she was thrusting her pimply g-stringed butt in my face, I heard her squeeze a few poots out, in rhythm with the C+C Music Factory bullshit that was playing. Yes, she mooned me, farted in my face, and then had the nerve to request payment with her back still to me, by pulling up the string on her g-string for me to slide the bill underneath.
That must have been karma getting me back for that frat dude’s neck.
Damn you baby powder!
Yes, I really did fart on that guy’s neck. It was the back of his neck. He was sitting down at the head of a large table, in a small room, and I had to squeeze by between him and a large wooden buffet/hutch. The room was empty when I had first passed through it to get to the restroom, but when I exited the toilet, a fraternity had arrived for some sort of (Klan?) meeting or beer event. The room was full, but it was my only path to get out from the restrooms. I decided to face the hutch while passing him, thereby rubbing my bum along the back of his chair. The tight space between caused me to pull in breath, and as a result my inner air-pressure spiked up and released itself by way of my ass. On to the back of the guy’s neck. It was audible, and it certainly was relieving, but I initially fancied that the frat bro did not register the hit. There was a-lot of noise in that room, so I assumed that my blast would have been muffled by all the talk of date-rape trials and gay-bashing plans. But my friend was trailing me, and just as he passed through my fumes, he yelped “damn man, did you just fart on that dude!?”
At which point, I began to haul ass down the stairs, busted out the front door, and hit the parking lot at a high huff. There was a-lot of yelling involved. Maybe even some searchlights and a gauntlet of barbed wire. It was like a jailbreak. But they would have skipped the prison time and gone straight for a hangin’ I reckon. I got away clean, but that dude’s red neck did not.
Speaking of passing gas in public, I am reminded of one of my myriad of reasons for not liking “gentlemen clubs”. It will take me a minute to come full-circle on that transition (how “gas” and “gentlemen clubs” are related), so sit tight.
Ta-ta bars are a complete waste of money. Sure, some dudes swear by them, and just as I see religion: not my thing, but that’s fine by me (clubs are comparable to church in most respects: costs money, creates family rifts, can ruin a good weekend, the music sucks, and there is a-lot of sitting involved). They are also highly misunderstood by those who do not go. It is easy to assume that within those windowless walls there is free sex in every nook, and it is a big ol’ orgy for high-powered salesmen and square-jawed politicians. But this is not so. In fact, the idea that there is sex everywhere is just plain stupid. It is the “promise” of sex that sells. NOT the sex itself.
Here’s why there is no sex, by example: two guys walk into a strip club, both with $400. Guy 1 sits down and immediately starts having sex with strange women. Guy 2 sits down nearby and for 30 minutes, no one pays a single bit of goddamn attention to him, but there are provocatively dressed women parading themselves past him in a teasing fashion. After thirty minutes is up, a woman walks over to Guy 2 and asks if he “would like some company”. Guy 2 is practically frothing at the mouth, and desperate for some kind of attention, so he says “sure, that’d be great”. She sits down and immediately orders herself a drink. She makes small talk, and then asks Guy 2 some questions to ensure that he has cash. He does, and he practically tells her how much he has. Now she decides how she must spend her time. At $20 every 4-minute song, she calculates that his cash will last him about an hour and a half. She plans to bleed him dry, and force all her drinks on to his tab, which will have to be settled by his credit card. Are you feeling the sex for Guy 2 yet? No? No surprise. Guy 2, drawn in by the “promise” of some sort of experience blinks his eyes, and an hour and a half has passed. She stands up immediately after the end of some shitty Motley Crue song, puts her gear back on, and says “okay sugar, I need to take care of things. I had a really great time with you tonight, but I gotta go.” She then slyly gives Guy 2 a verbal tab of $400 for 1.5 hours worth of “work”, half of which was spent just sitting on his lap talking about her three-year old boy or her plans to attend med school. Guy 1 got his rocks off within the first 5 minutes, would have paid the going rate for such activities (less than $100 I would guess) and split, leaving a mess for someone to clean and a chick that will need some clinic work done on a regular basis (overhead for owner of club).
Which do you think has a bar tab in excess of $200? Who do you think left broke? Who do you think had an enormous case of blue ball, but will not remember that part of the experience when he considers dropping into the establishment in the future? Are you getting it yet? Do you understand now? Is it not completely fucking obvious where the real business is? Can we just go ahead and say that men going to strip clubs is as useless and pointless as women getting a full makeover now? That is to say: expensive, harmless, time-consuming, extravagant, and completely unnecessary.
Enough rant, on to gas story.
So, back in my hazier years, I was at a little strip club in Round Rock called Joy’s. It was a crap hole that had a dick-dancer joint next door called Bad Boys. We knew some of the girls who worked there, so we went every now and again for kicks. One night, while there, I went up to get a dollar dance. For those who do not know, there are two types of dances offered in most strip clubs: The lap/table dance: $20 per song, and the dollar/stage dance: $1 for 15 seconds of devoted attention from on-stage dancer to dudes standing along the edge of the stage. So, I was standing at the edge of the stage, drunk off my ass, waiting for the girl to wander over to me for my 15 seconds. She wandered over, smiled, turned around and got on all fours. Sounds hot, right? Wrong. Keep in mind, while on the stage she is a good three-feet above you. That makes her ass at eye level. You see nothing but butt. No female form really, no curves and supple breasts. No “come hither” stare or gymnastics. Just ass. As if you were hiding in a toilet, just to see butt or something. In all cultures, this is considered foul mockery, and quite rude. Basically, she mooned me, at VERY close range, for 15 seconds. We called this the “damned-ass dance”, and it really sucked to get one, even for a measly dollar. To top off the d.a.d.: while she was thrusting her pimply g-stringed butt in my face, I heard her squeeze a few poots out, in rhythm with the C+C Music Factory bullshit that was playing. Yes, she mooned me, farted in my face, and then had the nerve to request payment with her back still to me, by pulling up the string on her g-string for me to slide the bill underneath.
That must have been karma getting me back for that frat dude’s neck.
Damn you baby powder!
Friday, November 12, 2004
Jibber-Jabber, para tu?
When I jog in the evenings along Town Lake here in Austin, people tend to make eye contact with me. I never had a problem with this, until I realized that they are staring at me because I am wheezing like an asthmatic, and sweating like a coal miner as I pound the trails. So, to help “train” these strangers to stop staring at me, I have started to stick my tongue out at them. Whenever I meet eyes with anyone, I make a silly facial expression. So far, the slobbering, heaving joggers have avoided responding to this training. Fuck. Them. Sideways.
I have a neighbor, somewhere along my street, who will shriek in the middle of the night, for no known reason. I am aware of this banshee because I step out to smoke on my driveway, and my nic session gets nipped and dabbed with the sound of someone performing self-flatulence. It might be a crazy Catholic, shedding their sins in a nightly, medieval routine, but I doubt it. It is probably some crazy woman who can only successfully avoid stabbing her man in the head by going outside to yell at nothing. I wish she would just stab the guy though.
Someone keeps stealing my outdoor lighting. I have these lights that line my driveway, like a runway, which are solar powered. Some of my cretin neighbors have discovered my use of modern technology, and have also discovered that solar powered means: no pesky cords to mess with during theft. Yet they insist on taking them ONE BY ONE. Fuckers. They keep jacking with my driveway symmetry, and it is seriously grinding at my OCD tendencies.
You ever killed a man? You understand what it is like to take the life of another human being? To see the last gasps of animation seep from the vessel of one human’s entire experience? I bet you haven’t. Can you even fathom the theatre of it all? The shaking, the blood, the insistence of life? The way the body appears to refuse being parted from its soul? Yeah, me neither. And it sounds like a pretty shitty thing to experience too.
I really enjoy Raisin Bran. For those “in the know”, you know the joy of stability it brings. I can set a clock to the rhythm it affords my daily schedule. I love you Raisin Bran, even the knock-off versions you have spawned.
I chew my nails a-lot. Sometimes, I will gnaw my little stubs to the quick, without even noticing it. I’ll be working, and periodically lifting my bloody hand to my mouth for a chomping session. Whenever I wash my hair with Head and Shoulders, the chemicals feel weird on my scarred finger-tips. Kinda like they were being boiled, or crushed under a hot car tire. Don’t pretend you can relate to that kind of sensation. You cannot, unless you allow me to chew your fingers to open wounds, and then sauce them in Nizoral until they poof up like five kolaches attached to a human palm. Then we’ll talk.
I do not like pants that fit. For men, pants should be comfortable, and leave a-lot to the female imagination. Women have great imaginations, and we men should not hamper their intellectual strength by handing them the concept on a platter. Besides, guys look like they’re either a redneck, or a sad fellow who has to borrow his little brother’s duds when the pants fit too tight. Hipsters just need to loosen up a bit.
I like Caucasian jokes. I think it is funny to make fun of honkies. I think it is even funnier to make fun of coloreds. And Messican’ts. Those are funny jokes. You know the ones, involving too many people in a car or something like that? Those are funny. Tell me some of those if you have any. I forget how they go. You know what? Never mind. I always forget how they go because I just remembered that I think those jokes are pretty unoriginal and shitty. Keep them to yourself. Hater.
This post has become its own being. I must abandon it before it bleeds me dry. Damn blogger monster. I must be dehydrated. Happy hour should cure that little problem.
I have a neighbor, somewhere along my street, who will shriek in the middle of the night, for no known reason. I am aware of this banshee because I step out to smoke on my driveway, and my nic session gets nipped and dabbed with the sound of someone performing self-flatulence. It might be a crazy Catholic, shedding their sins in a nightly, medieval routine, but I doubt it. It is probably some crazy woman who can only successfully avoid stabbing her man in the head by going outside to yell at nothing. I wish she would just stab the guy though.
Someone keeps stealing my outdoor lighting. I have these lights that line my driveway, like a runway, which are solar powered. Some of my cretin neighbors have discovered my use of modern technology, and have also discovered that solar powered means: no pesky cords to mess with during theft. Yet they insist on taking them ONE BY ONE. Fuckers. They keep jacking with my driveway symmetry, and it is seriously grinding at my OCD tendencies.
You ever killed a man? You understand what it is like to take the life of another human being? To see the last gasps of animation seep from the vessel of one human’s entire experience? I bet you haven’t. Can you even fathom the theatre of it all? The shaking, the blood, the insistence of life? The way the body appears to refuse being parted from its soul? Yeah, me neither. And it sounds like a pretty shitty thing to experience too.
I really enjoy Raisin Bran. For those “in the know”, you know the joy of stability it brings. I can set a clock to the rhythm it affords my daily schedule. I love you Raisin Bran, even the knock-off versions you have spawned.
I chew my nails a-lot. Sometimes, I will gnaw my little stubs to the quick, without even noticing it. I’ll be working, and periodically lifting my bloody hand to my mouth for a chomping session. Whenever I wash my hair with Head and Shoulders, the chemicals feel weird on my scarred finger-tips. Kinda like they were being boiled, or crushed under a hot car tire. Don’t pretend you can relate to that kind of sensation. You cannot, unless you allow me to chew your fingers to open wounds, and then sauce them in Nizoral until they poof up like five kolaches attached to a human palm. Then we’ll talk.
I do not like pants that fit. For men, pants should be comfortable, and leave a-lot to the female imagination. Women have great imaginations, and we men should not hamper their intellectual strength by handing them the concept on a platter. Besides, guys look like they’re either a redneck, or a sad fellow who has to borrow his little brother’s duds when the pants fit too tight. Hipsters just need to loosen up a bit.
I like Caucasian jokes. I think it is funny to make fun of honkies. I think it is even funnier to make fun of coloreds. And Messican’ts. Those are funny jokes. You know the ones, involving too many people in a car or something like that? Those are funny. Tell me some of those if you have any. I forget how they go. You know what? Never mind. I always forget how they go because I just remembered that I think those jokes are pretty unoriginal and shitty. Keep them to yourself. Hater.
This post has become its own being. I must abandon it before it bleeds me dry. Damn blogger monster. I must be dehydrated. Happy hour should cure that little problem.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Embarrassment is best left to professionals
The other day I was talking to a friend of mine about embarrassment, and that I generally feel resistant to it. Feel free to read my Drink Stories if you disagree.
So I got to thinking on the subject, and decided that without the feeling of embarrassment, an individual shows more potential to be a psychopath. This scared me a bit, so I thought long and hard about times that I have honestly been embarrassed. Luckily, I found a few. Well, four. But that’s a good start along the road to recovery from potential psycopathdom! Don’t you think? Yes.
Things that I have done where I have actually felt some level of embarrassment:
1. Farted on the back of a frat-guy’s neck while “squeezing” by his chair, upstairs at Boar’s Head (now Opal Divine’s). I ran out of that mutha like it was an AIDs factory. I don’t approve of fraternities, but that gives me no right to blow dirt on a man’s jugular. Even if it was an accident. I am not completely sure whom I feel most embarrassed for…
2. Carried out an aerobics routine in the 5th grade, in front of the whole elementary school and faculty.
Those of us in the advanced classes, or Super Outstanding Students (S.O.S – lord help the retards) as we were called, somehow got charged with the duty of entertaining the school by showing off our physical abilities. Even though it was supposed to be our brains which set us apart from the rabid masses of pre-pubescents, the powers-that-be wanted us to showcase a workout routine. We were to set an example for the rest of the school because, just like the youth of today, no self-respecting kid willingly did exercise. We were expected to turn that tide, and convince everyone through a brilliant show of art and physique that staying fit was somehow cool.
Yes, a stage full of sweaty nerds should do just that, neatly. Marketing genius, I tell you. Genius. Why they chose the geeks to do this, I will never understand.
Jane Fonda had some tapes at the time, so we set out to copy her technique, stretch for fucking stretch. Being poor, my family did not have the cheddar to toss at workout clothing, so I had to use my summer cut-offs. In order to ensure maximum flexibility for the rather challenging sets a-la Fonda, those cut-offs had to be cut higher, and higher. Eventually, the cloth pockets could be seen, tongueing out from underneath the frayed denim edge. If my balls had any hair at that time, it would have been seen by all. They were entirely too short for a boy, and it was entirely beyond disappointing that they were my only pair. The end result was beyond gay, totally unnecessary, and the fitness craze did not “catch on” the way our instructors hoped. Face it, nerds DO NOT influence anyone by showcasing talent. They do it by exacting revenge on the population that ignored them throughout their miss-treated lives. Not by sweating and prancing around on stage in daisy-dukes. Fucking irreversible embarrassment.
3. When I was in third grade I used to get chased by this crazy 6th grader at daycare. This fucker was nuts. He ate the sewage-mud on the playground (H-town reprezent with the filth!) and made shanks for fun.
One fine afternoon, he was chasing me around the playground, threatening to puncture my vital organs with a sharpened tree branch, when I saw my mother walk out on to the cement landing by the door. She started up a conversation with the feather-haired Dokken-lover we had for a “counselor”, as I continued to dodge my mud-frothed pursuer. I managed to work the chase around to where my mother was, and hid behind her. As soon as the stick-wielding lunatic closed in on us, I began pointing up at my mom, from under her shadow, yelling “you have to stop chasing me now, my mommy is here and she will protect me!” Me: smiling triumphantly as the future inmate slowed up a bit, reluctantly looking up at my mother. The loon-ball: darting his eyes up and down, between my mother’s face and my own, his grin starting to reappear. My Mother: completely oblivious to her son standing next to her, in her shadow. She continued to talk about absolutely NOTHING while the murderer-in-training reached in, yanked me from my mother’s side, dragged me over to a tree in the corner of the playground, and beat me against the trunk like a rolled-up carpet. I was not afraid of the beating, or his penitentiary knives (they never penetrated the skin anyway, he always picked low-quality sticks). I was embarrassed for my mother when I finally broke free, and the raging bag of hormones she was gabbing with was the first to ask me my reason for crying, while my mother simply asked where I had been “this whole time.” I would have sold my mum for $2, Canadian, right then, to the nearest band of Gypsies. I mean, even the head-banger chick asked... The shame runs deep.
4. Seventh grade, Phys Ed, dodge-ball, in the boys’ locker room. We were split up evenly between guys and girls to make it fair. There was no way, however, to use the same method of “fairness” along the age-line. We had some old-ass 7th graders, with full-beards and kids of their own in the neighboring elementary school. Well, maybe not any children in the neighboring school. Their kids probably went to school wherever their baby’s momma’s grandparents lived. Bygones… Coach passed out balls for the beginning volley, and I caught one! It was yellow, previously recognizable as a Nerf product that had since been chewed to a lumpy-fuzziness, and smelled the way you would expect a hippo of similar size to smell. It was a biohazard, but it was mine. Until the potentially 32-year old classmate next to me decided that my happiness was just too much to take. He started by asking for the ball, which was met by my proud denial. I mean, would he resort to violence, right here in front of the whole class? Over a funky-ass post-Nerf product? Yes. He would. And he did. It came in the form of a right cross that caught me over the mouth. I say “over” because his fist seemed to eclipse half of my face. The impact caused three unfortunate events: 1- I fell backward off the bench, 2- I dropped my stinky ball, and 3- I started to tear-up and looked across the way to see the most popular cheerleader staring right at me, shaking her pony-tailed head. Fuck me. Why couldn’t one of the seemingly endless army of mongoloid half-wits occupying the distant ends of her bench witness my fleecing instead? I never figured out what she was shaking her head at. Embarrassing, either way.
That’s all I can think of off the top of my head.
What about YOU and YOUR embarrassing moments? Whatchu got?
Damn you previously-Nerf products!
So I got to thinking on the subject, and decided that without the feeling of embarrassment, an individual shows more potential to be a psychopath. This scared me a bit, so I thought long and hard about times that I have honestly been embarrassed. Luckily, I found a few. Well, four. But that’s a good start along the road to recovery from potential psycopathdom! Don’t you think? Yes.
Things that I have done where I have actually felt some level of embarrassment:
1. Farted on the back of a frat-guy’s neck while “squeezing” by his chair, upstairs at Boar’s Head (now Opal Divine’s). I ran out of that mutha like it was an AIDs factory. I don’t approve of fraternities, but that gives me no right to blow dirt on a man’s jugular. Even if it was an accident. I am not completely sure whom I feel most embarrassed for…
2. Carried out an aerobics routine in the 5th grade, in front of the whole elementary school and faculty.
Those of us in the advanced classes, or Super Outstanding Students (S.O.S – lord help the retards) as we were called, somehow got charged with the duty of entertaining the school by showing off our physical abilities. Even though it was supposed to be our brains which set us apart from the rabid masses of pre-pubescents, the powers-that-be wanted us to showcase a workout routine. We were to set an example for the rest of the school because, just like the youth of today, no self-respecting kid willingly did exercise. We were expected to turn that tide, and convince everyone through a brilliant show of art and physique that staying fit was somehow cool.
Yes, a stage full of sweaty nerds should do just that, neatly. Marketing genius, I tell you. Genius. Why they chose the geeks to do this, I will never understand.
Jane Fonda had some tapes at the time, so we set out to copy her technique, stretch for fucking stretch. Being poor, my family did not have the cheddar to toss at workout clothing, so I had to use my summer cut-offs. In order to ensure maximum flexibility for the rather challenging sets a-la Fonda, those cut-offs had to be cut higher, and higher. Eventually, the cloth pockets could be seen, tongueing out from underneath the frayed denim edge. If my balls had any hair at that time, it would have been seen by all. They were entirely too short for a boy, and it was entirely beyond disappointing that they were my only pair. The end result was beyond gay, totally unnecessary, and the fitness craze did not “catch on” the way our instructors hoped. Face it, nerds DO NOT influence anyone by showcasing talent. They do it by exacting revenge on the population that ignored them throughout their miss-treated lives. Not by sweating and prancing around on stage in daisy-dukes. Fucking irreversible embarrassment.
3. When I was in third grade I used to get chased by this crazy 6th grader at daycare. This fucker was nuts. He ate the sewage-mud on the playground (H-town reprezent with the filth!) and made shanks for fun.
One fine afternoon, he was chasing me around the playground, threatening to puncture my vital organs with a sharpened tree branch, when I saw my mother walk out on to the cement landing by the door. She started up a conversation with the feather-haired Dokken-lover we had for a “counselor”, as I continued to dodge my mud-frothed pursuer. I managed to work the chase around to where my mother was, and hid behind her. As soon as the stick-wielding lunatic closed in on us, I began pointing up at my mom, from under her shadow, yelling “you have to stop chasing me now, my mommy is here and she will protect me!” Me: smiling triumphantly as the future inmate slowed up a bit, reluctantly looking up at my mother. The loon-ball: darting his eyes up and down, between my mother’s face and my own, his grin starting to reappear. My Mother: completely oblivious to her son standing next to her, in her shadow. She continued to talk about absolutely NOTHING while the murderer-in-training reached in, yanked me from my mother’s side, dragged me over to a tree in the corner of the playground, and beat me against the trunk like a rolled-up carpet. I was not afraid of the beating, or his penitentiary knives (they never penetrated the skin anyway, he always picked low-quality sticks). I was embarrassed for my mother when I finally broke free, and the raging bag of hormones she was gabbing with was the first to ask me my reason for crying, while my mother simply asked where I had been “this whole time.” I would have sold my mum for $2, Canadian, right then, to the nearest band of Gypsies. I mean, even the head-banger chick asked... The shame runs deep.
4. Seventh grade, Phys Ed, dodge-ball, in the boys’ locker room. We were split up evenly between guys and girls to make it fair. There was no way, however, to use the same method of “fairness” along the age-line. We had some old-ass 7th graders, with full-beards and kids of their own in the neighboring elementary school. Well, maybe not any children in the neighboring school. Their kids probably went to school wherever their baby’s momma’s grandparents lived. Bygones… Coach passed out balls for the beginning volley, and I caught one! It was yellow, previously recognizable as a Nerf product that had since been chewed to a lumpy-fuzziness, and smelled the way you would expect a hippo of similar size to smell. It was a biohazard, but it was mine. Until the potentially 32-year old classmate next to me decided that my happiness was just too much to take. He started by asking for the ball, which was met by my proud denial. I mean, would he resort to violence, right here in front of the whole class? Over a funky-ass post-Nerf product? Yes. He would. And he did. It came in the form of a right cross that caught me over the mouth. I say “over” because his fist seemed to eclipse half of my face. The impact caused three unfortunate events: 1- I fell backward off the bench, 2- I dropped my stinky ball, and 3- I started to tear-up and looked across the way to see the most popular cheerleader staring right at me, shaking her pony-tailed head. Fuck me. Why couldn’t one of the seemingly endless army of mongoloid half-wits occupying the distant ends of her bench witness my fleecing instead? I never figured out what she was shaking her head at. Embarrassing, either way.
That’s all I can think of off the top of my head.
What about YOU and YOUR embarrassing moments? Whatchu got?
Damn you previously-Nerf products!
Friday, October 29, 2004
Saturday: Gettin' my BOO on!
Party Saturday. Costume thing. Booze, pool, music, peeps off the streets, and disguises for to hide them identities. I LOVE throwing house parties. So much more relaxed than your standard bar or stuffy-assed club. One can really let loose at a house party. It is inviting by design: everyone has something in common with everyone else there, and you’ll more than likely see the same people in the near future. So nothing about it is Strangers-in-a-Hotel-Bar-ish, and no one there is truly able to lie their ass off about anything (a mutual friend will call them on it). Besides, the booze and debauchery are always free at our parties. Un-fucking-beatable.
I really enjoy Djing at parties too. Maybe I enjoy adding to an atmosphere of fun. Perhaps I aim to help people “let go” for a bit. Maybe it is just because I want to control the music. Maybe it is because when I DJ, I avoid drinking/smoking/passing out too much. Maybe it is the power over an environment. Maybe it is the fact that I have been doing it for almost fourteen years and it makes as much sense to me as breathing.
Who knows.
But while I really do enjoy spinning at parties, there are some drawbacks to consider. It is not all fun, some things which routinely occur are downright morale killing (“dude, this music totally sucks. And so do you.”) while other occurrences are simply obnoxious. I’ll let you in on some of what I consider irritating behavior perpetrated against the DJ at your average house party, Anytown, USA.
People fucking with the DJ’s records. People have NO idea what records cost. They think: “oh, that Milli Vanilli is soooooo gay, and you can like, get it off the Interweb for like, free and shit. So, why is such a big deal if I walk up and just start scratching on it?” Errr… because they DON’T MELT THAT WAX ANYMORE. They made X copies back in 1988 and then shut down the press. So, unlike the great digital universe of shitty-sounding MP3s, there is a FIXED number of older vinyl in existence. No more. EVER AGAIN. So, any that are available are valuable to whoever might want them. What one person hears as kitsch, a DJ/collector will properly recognize as a brilliant rarity, which should be cared for and protected. For fucks sake.
Requests for current top-40 music. Yeeeeaaaaaah… turn on the radio if you simply must hear that new Blue 7 Maroon Novemberbox 20 song. Why would a DJ buy it when it is played for free, on seven different stations, all the damn time? Request that caca in ten years, when it will be interesting and nostalgic to hear. Today, it is obnoxious and you know it.
Requests for slow or depressing songs. Sure, everybody enjoys a little Morrissey every now and again. We all have our dark moments. But when you approach the DJ at a party, and give the DJ your pitch: “hey man, did you bring ‘Everybody Hurts’? Or anything Nick Drake,” you are basically saying: “hey DJ, I hate everyone here who is enjoying themselves and I want them to suffer and suck like I do, are you with me?”
People who use the DJ's turntables as their personal tabletop. At every party I have Djed, invariably someone during the course of the night decides that their drink must be set down on one of the turntables. Not usually while it is in use, mind you, but during a break in the mix, when I am absent. Someone simply decides that the trashcan (five feet away) is just too distant a depository for their booze vessel. So, a solo cup of backwash, foam, and perhaps some semi-rotting fruit ends up perched atop my wheels o’ steel. Thanks.
People asking the DJ really vague-ass questions. I believe they do this in an effort to start a rapport with the DJ, trying to be friendly, but failing miserably. They want to ask a meaningful, insightful question, but it just ends up sounding dickish. “You got any good music?” No fucker, I only brought the absolute garbage you’ve been hearing for the past hour and a half. “Is this the only kind of music you brought?” What the hell does that mean? “Kind” of music… eh? “Man”-kind of music? Are they looking for a visual “kind” of music? Here’s a nickel, buy a clue. And my favorite: “You have anything cool to play? I want to hear some cool music.” Don’t we all, you dumbass. Don’t we all.
Oooooohhh… after my little tirade here, this might be the last time I am ever invited to DJ. OH NO!
Anybody want to buy some Technics 1200s, 3-way mixer, and a bunch of extra needles and such? I just might have some for sale…
Damn you Milli Vanilli!
I really enjoy Djing at parties too. Maybe I enjoy adding to an atmosphere of fun. Perhaps I aim to help people “let go” for a bit. Maybe it is just because I want to control the music. Maybe it is because when I DJ, I avoid drinking/smoking/passing out too much. Maybe it is the power over an environment. Maybe it is the fact that I have been doing it for almost fourteen years and it makes as much sense to me as breathing.
Who knows.
But while I really do enjoy spinning at parties, there are some drawbacks to consider. It is not all fun, some things which routinely occur are downright morale killing (“dude, this music totally sucks. And so do you.”) while other occurrences are simply obnoxious. I’ll let you in on some of what I consider irritating behavior perpetrated against the DJ at your average house party, Anytown, USA.
People fucking with the DJ’s records. People have NO idea what records cost. They think: “oh, that Milli Vanilli is soooooo gay, and you can like, get it off the Interweb for like, free and shit. So, why is such a big deal if I walk up and just start scratching on it?” Errr… because they DON’T MELT THAT WAX ANYMORE. They made X copies back in 1988 and then shut down the press. So, unlike the great digital universe of shitty-sounding MP3s, there is a FIXED number of older vinyl in existence. No more. EVER AGAIN. So, any that are available are valuable to whoever might want them. What one person hears as kitsch, a DJ/collector will properly recognize as a brilliant rarity, which should be cared for and protected. For fucks sake.
Requests for current top-40 music. Yeeeeaaaaaah… turn on the radio if you simply must hear that new Blue 7 Maroon Novemberbox 20 song. Why would a DJ buy it when it is played for free, on seven different stations, all the damn time? Request that caca in ten years, when it will be interesting and nostalgic to hear. Today, it is obnoxious and you know it.
Requests for slow or depressing songs. Sure, everybody enjoys a little Morrissey every now and again. We all have our dark moments. But when you approach the DJ at a party, and give the DJ your pitch: “hey man, did you bring ‘Everybody Hurts’? Or anything Nick Drake,” you are basically saying: “hey DJ, I hate everyone here who is enjoying themselves and I want them to suffer and suck like I do, are you with me?”
People who use the DJ's turntables as their personal tabletop. At every party I have Djed, invariably someone during the course of the night decides that their drink must be set down on one of the turntables. Not usually while it is in use, mind you, but during a break in the mix, when I am absent. Someone simply decides that the trashcan (five feet away) is just too distant a depository for their booze vessel. So, a solo cup of backwash, foam, and perhaps some semi-rotting fruit ends up perched atop my wheels o’ steel. Thanks.
People asking the DJ really vague-ass questions. I believe they do this in an effort to start a rapport with the DJ, trying to be friendly, but failing miserably. They want to ask a meaningful, insightful question, but it just ends up sounding dickish. “You got any good music?” No fucker, I only brought the absolute garbage you’ve been hearing for the past hour and a half. “Is this the only kind of music you brought?” What the hell does that mean? “Kind” of music… eh? “Man”-kind of music? Are they looking for a visual “kind” of music? Here’s a nickel, buy a clue. And my favorite: “You have anything cool to play? I want to hear some cool music.” Don’t we all, you dumbass. Don’t we all.
Oooooohhh… after my little tirade here, this might be the last time I am ever invited to DJ. OH NO!
Anybody want to buy some Technics 1200s, 3-way mixer, and a bunch of extra needles and such? I just might have some for sale…
Damn you Milli Vanilli!
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