Saturday, August 04, 2007

What IS Hips? or Achtung Das Bodenfeuerwirblers...

...As mentioned a few days ago, I've been ensnared in a minor monetary scrape lately whilst waiting for some gigs in various stages of production to get off the ground. I'm no quitter and am of the mind that when one door closes, one should find a window. So, since a closed mouth won't get fed, I asked a friend of mine who runs a bar if he had anything open that a brother could slide into on the low to make a little pocket cash to tide me over and, as it turns out, he did...

...I got the call from my homebiscuit to show up around nine to work security. Although, he knew about my gig working as a kitchen manager at the Bridgetown Grill in Atlanta he gave me a gig working the floor...making sure the knuckleheads kept their filthy mitts off the beautiful birds walking around the joint...I took the gig...I wasn't up to anything else because I'm hoarding greenies, so I showed up, got a "STAFF" shirt and got the tour of the place; handshakes all around...alle es en butter, son...I think the message in this Tower of Power tune goes along with the thrust of what I'm writing here...press play...




...once assigned my station and area of coverage, I got ready, assumed the position, set my phazers for stun and...waited. Luckily I brought an earpiece and my iPod so while I waited for the chairs to start flying saloon-style, I cranked up an audiobook of Pimsleur's German Lessons II and learned a little more Deutsch..."ja, Ich spreche ein bißchen Deutsch"...as the night wore on one of the first things I noticed was how predatory some men get when they get a few slugs in them...I stood in my station watching them and their body language and their speech...the more women arrived, the louder they'd get...the more engrossed in their storytelling and attention grabbing histrionics they were...look at the schnooks...they've got on their "party duds" (you can tell from the shininess of the shirt fabric that they're worn sparingly...only on special occasions such as this), their hair's all teased 'n spiked-- grow up, son, if you've still got "party clothes" and your hairline's receding, time to man up and call it a day....you're not as schmoove as you think you are....or appear...or sociological studies would indicate...just look at 'em over there, a brew in one hand and a shot in the other and the women, for the most part, are ignoring all of them..."this is gonna get ugly real soon," I thought to myself...

...my first real gig was at a rock 'n roll bar called The Floodzone at the age of 16 (I lied about my age to get it too)...after that, it was as a performer on stages all over the East Coast, so I'd fully forgotten about that special kind of hell that is dealing with drunk people while I was stone sober and to throw more gasoline on the fire, according to the posters on the wall, there was supposed to be a bikini contest too...Schiesse, nicht sehr gut...not good at all...after a couple more hours, the bikini contestants trickled in but the contest itself didn't happen for some reason which was good enough for me, as I scanned the growing throngs of antsy scenesters and the volume in the room raised in amplitude, just as the liquor gods did their thing. I realized that this wasn't the worst gig in the world, though I felt like a wet blanket a couple of times as I had to break up a couple of impromptu "booty dancing" contests (where the female dry-humps the dullard standing behind her with her ass cheeks, stripper style as their friends form a circle and whoop it up)...other than getting bum rushed for Parliaments by a pack of punters who didn't want to commit to their nicotine habit and buy their own fucking smokes, everything was everything but maybe that was just a one off as I've seen all kinds of crazy jump off in the past because somebody stepped on somebody else's disco shoes...for what it's worth, I'd do it again...some shite you've just got to see to remind yourself why you do (or don't do) the things you used to on the regulars...


...some of what took place reminded me of a Dave Chapelle schtick, from his "Killing 'em Softly" set-- something to remember, menfolk, when you see a woman drawing attention to herself by wearing provocative attire is sometimes akin to a joe schmoe off the street walking around in a policeman's uniform during an emergency..."Just because I'm dressed like this DOES NOT make me a whore"...that shit's right on the money, it's true. No means no and don't ever fekkin' forget it but..."Ma'am...you might not be a whore...BUT you're certainly wearing a hooker's uniform, I'll tell you that much!"...all those scantily clad broads walking around with designer bags, four inch heels and tight, clingy fabric (at a place like that) were, as my granny would put it: "running through hell wearing gasoline knickers."...Call me old fashioned but I say, if you don't want those assholes sweating you, bear in mind that men become nimrods when the testosterone starts pumping and pouring alcohol into the mix just fans the flames...so consider yourself warned: close cover before striking and all that...

...all of this brings me to the reason I titled this post so. In German, "Bodenfeuerwirbler" literally means: that which; something that wiggles around on the floor throwing fiery sparks...a firecracker...like those chicks doing all that booty dancing with the hard-ons, they were initially ignoring, that were standing around, cocked (!) and ready for action...I realized that (most) women have a demarcation line for how far they'll go in public (and a select few don't), so do men...and a grip of us know when to just chill out and call it a day...unfortunately, the handful that don't give the rest of us a bad name...

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