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Mar. 5th, 2006 11:08 am
mission accomplished
Every once in a while, Tegin puts together these hip hop nights where we get a bunch of people together and go down to the shadiest, white-people-chugging-Bud-and-doing-the-bump-and-grind, CK1 reeking bar we can find. We get really drunk and dance to the bad music.
I'm not sure what Tegin's original purpose in organizing these nights was, but for me it's always been about feeling superior. These places generally feature people at their worst; men so frightened of women that intimidation is the only means by which they've ever been able to communicate; women so frightened of themselves that they hide behind machine tans and carefully maintained stupidity. Often the crowd will be evenly split between college kids desperate for a hookup and folks my age desperate to recapture their college years. Everyone is ravaged by alcohol.
Normally, the places we go aren't actually as bad as all that. As obnoxious as the clientele generally are, they also usually seem to be honestly enjoying themselves. These are the middle Americans, not in any geographic sense, but in the sense that they are the true median of our national average. These people aren't Bush voters, but only because they don't vote. Philosophy is something their weed man studies. They are human beings in the aggregate, living, fucking, breeding, shitting and dying, and leaving no impression beyond their 40 tons of non-biodegradable waste, generated by an unremarkable life. I'll make fun of these people, but I don't feel particularly superior to them, because they're just like me, in the end. Their tombstones will be no larger or smaller than mine, and the words written on them will say nothing more or less remarkable.
But last night, Tegin and I went to the Bell in Hand, and found that our mission to find the shadiest place in the world was finally accomplished. Leathery, blond, 40-somethings in baby-doll dresses and blue jeans, tapped out text messages with acrylic nails honed to deadly perfection, hips thrust sassily out, Botox-deadened jaws sneering. Giant Italians, like bulldogs in white and green tracksuits and Kangol hats, waited at the top of a stairwell, body-blocking any unescorted female, threatening gang rape as the consequence of rejection. Shrill laughter modulated to sound like a porn movie orgasm, turned up too loud. Too much cologne barely covering the stench of loneliness and desperation.
I've only once or twice before been in an environment quite so predatory or uncomfortable. With the exception of us and our friends, no one there appeared to actually be having fun. It looked like work, what these people were doing. No interaction was without some careful negotiation of power structures. I don't think I've seen people that uncomfortable in their own skin since the last time I went to a comic convention.
It was awesome. We'll let you know the next time we go.
I'm not sure what Tegin's original purpose in organizing these nights was, but for me it's always been about feeling superior. These places generally feature people at their worst; men so frightened of women that intimidation is the only means by which they've ever been able to communicate; women so frightened of themselves that they hide behind machine tans and carefully maintained stupidity. Often the crowd will be evenly split between college kids desperate for a hookup and folks my age desperate to recapture their college years. Everyone is ravaged by alcohol.
Normally, the places we go aren't actually as bad as all that. As obnoxious as the clientele generally are, they also usually seem to be honestly enjoying themselves. These are the middle Americans, not in any geographic sense, but in the sense that they are the true median of our national average. These people aren't Bush voters, but only because they don't vote. Philosophy is something their weed man studies. They are human beings in the aggregate, living, fucking, breeding, shitting and dying, and leaving no impression beyond their 40 tons of non-biodegradable waste, generated by an unremarkable life. I'll make fun of these people, but I don't feel particularly superior to them, because they're just like me, in the end. Their tombstones will be no larger or smaller than mine, and the words written on them will say nothing more or less remarkable.
But last night, Tegin and I went to the Bell in Hand, and found that our mission to find the shadiest place in the world was finally accomplished. Leathery, blond, 40-somethings in baby-doll dresses and blue jeans, tapped out text messages with acrylic nails honed to deadly perfection, hips thrust sassily out, Botox-deadened jaws sneering. Giant Italians, like bulldogs in white and green tracksuits and Kangol hats, waited at the top of a stairwell, body-blocking any unescorted female, threatening gang rape as the consequence of rejection. Shrill laughter modulated to sound like a porn movie orgasm, turned up too loud. Too much cologne barely covering the stench of loneliness and desperation.
I've only once or twice before been in an environment quite so predatory or uncomfortable. With the exception of us and our friends, no one there appeared to actually be having fun. It looked like work, what these people were doing. No interaction was without some careful negotiation of power structures. I don't think I've seen people that uncomfortable in their own skin since the last time I went to a comic convention.
It was awesome. We'll let you know the next time we go.