Tramp stamp fever
There she was; tall, toned and tawny. Her long, dark locks cascaded around her shoulders and her back, gently rustling as she churned her sweaty hips this way and that. Up there on the bar, the young lady seemed lost in her moves, occasionally scanning the gyrating crowd as if seeking a sympathetic eye but mostly staring down at her own bared, fresh-from-the-gym tummy. Once in a while, she slid her crotch down the shiny pole, providing an ample view of her whale tail. You'd think this would be an erotic sight, and to the right kind of person, you'd be correct. Unfortunately, I can find nothing sexy about a woman in a cowboy hat, no matter what she's doing.
Yes, this was the scene I witnessed 'round midnight on Saturday. I found myself standing, sweating and guzzling my umpteenth import inside the undulating meat market known as Hogs & Honeys, the third stop in a debauched cross-city tour celebrating my buddy Jon's impending marriage, otherwise known as a "bachelor party." Jon loves to drink and ride the mechanical bull - in that order - so we had stumbled over to this cesspool from Exit, where Guinness is served, the music is good and the women are actually attractive. Naturally, I was not in favor of this move, but I was thankful that Jon didn't insist on strippers. Anybody who knows me well knows that I would rather nail my earlobes to the bumper of Tara Reid's SUV than enter a strip club. There's something incredibly depressing to me about paying someone to get naked for you. If this was the worst it was going to get, I wasn't going to bitch.
Fashioned after Coyote Ugly, the chain bar advertised in the Piper Perabo vehicle of the same name, H&H is remarkably crass as both a concept and as a real place to get crunk. I believe it's a spinoff of a New York bar that goes by the more disturbing name of Hogs & Heifers. It was absolutely packed to the gills with wasted, white bachelors and bachelorettes. Terrible, terrible club music, the most predictable shit imaginable, constantly boomed at maximum volume, while the mecha-bull operator and a bartender often interjected yells of "It's Jodi's 23rd birthday! Everybody buy her shots!" and "I need five single guys to get up here on the bar and dance with these fine ladies!"
The place is LOUD, so it was lucky that I had some earplugs with me (I planned to duck off to a show at Double Door, but that didn't happen). The aforementioned bartender, an abrasive blonde girl, frequently called folks who were celebrating something to stand on the bar so she could make them disrobe, drink whiskey out of her mouth, bend over so she could smack them with their own belt or do something similarly demeaning. In between, the bar served as a Jäger Bomb-slicked platform for self-styled hoochies who wanted to shake their business while it's still young. And you could even try to get a drink there.
I feel that I should reiterate that the lady I described at the top wasn't an employee, but a paying customer. She chose to get up there, even if it was with the help of her friends' egging and a bit of liquid courage. At any rate, whether they were writhing on the counter or hanging out on the floor, the females generally seemed pretty comfortable. In contrast, most of the males in attendance were either shuffling about in a slack-jawed daze or obviously on the prowl: chests puffed out, guts sucked in, eyes circling like vultures, lurking for a sign of some gal who was too drunk to mind if someone started rubbing his nuts on her leg. These are the kind of guys who will punch you if they walk into you.
What was most surprising to me was that there seemed to be more ladies than gentlemen patronizing the joint. I suppose I can guess why. Perhaps it's liberating to behave like a stone-cold skeezer once in a while. That's cool if that's your thing, but I would be horrified to meet someone who claimed to frequent the extablishment, regardless of their gender. Luckily, after Jon (minus shirt, plus hideous novelty bra) got tossed from the bull, we ended the evening back at Exit, where dark Irish suds, a little Agent Orange and some ladies still in costume from the World Naked Bike Ride ganged up to boot the nightmare that was Hogs & Honeys into the receding past. Oh, how I love Exit. If it weren't for the Hala, it would be the greatest drinking establishment around.
Anyway, thousands of congratulations to Jon and his way rad bride (you may have seen her in a recent KFC commercial - she's the lady offering to dump gravy and cheese on some goon's tater-corn-chicken bowl). In honor of the groom, the flyest MC with whom I have ever traded rhymes in a suburban garage, I offer three new Jurassic 5 tunes which are up at MySpace. Their third LP drops July 25, and will obviously be quite the awesome summer jam. If you have even the slightest interest in real hip-hop, go listen and revel in true old-school skills. If not, then try the first sign of life from "Weird Al" Yankovic in three years: a parody of that big James Blunt hit "You're Beautiful," which, like many songs Al has parodied during the last decade, I don't believe I have ever actually heard.
ONCE AGAIN: Folks, we're creeping up on the first anniversary of Entartete Kunst. How should we celebrate?
Yes, this was the scene I witnessed 'round midnight on Saturday. I found myself standing, sweating and guzzling my umpteenth import inside the undulating meat market known as Hogs & Honeys, the third stop in a debauched cross-city tour celebrating my buddy Jon's impending marriage, otherwise known as a "bachelor party." Jon loves to drink and ride the mechanical bull - in that order - so we had stumbled over to this cesspool from Exit, where Guinness is served, the music is good and the women are actually attractive. Naturally, I was not in favor of this move, but I was thankful that Jon didn't insist on strippers. Anybody who knows me well knows that I would rather nail my earlobes to the bumper of Tara Reid's SUV than enter a strip club. There's something incredibly depressing to me about paying someone to get naked for you. If this was the worst it was going to get, I wasn't going to bitch.
Fashioned after Coyote Ugly, the chain bar advertised in the Piper Perabo vehicle of the same name, H&H is remarkably crass as both a concept and as a real place to get crunk. I believe it's a spinoff of a New York bar that goes by the more disturbing name of Hogs & Heifers. It was absolutely packed to the gills with wasted, white bachelors and bachelorettes. Terrible, terrible club music, the most predictable shit imaginable, constantly boomed at maximum volume, while the mecha-bull operator and a bartender often interjected yells of "It's Jodi's 23rd birthday! Everybody buy her shots!" and "I need five single guys to get up here on the bar and dance with these fine ladies!"
The place is LOUD, so it was lucky that I had some earplugs with me (I planned to duck off to a show at Double Door, but that didn't happen). The aforementioned bartender, an abrasive blonde girl, frequently called folks who were celebrating something to stand on the bar so she could make them disrobe, drink whiskey out of her mouth, bend over so she could smack them with their own belt or do something similarly demeaning. In between, the bar served as a Jäger Bomb-slicked platform for self-styled hoochies who wanted to shake their business while it's still young. And you could even try to get a drink there.
I feel that I should reiterate that the lady I described at the top wasn't an employee, but a paying customer. She chose to get up there, even if it was with the help of her friends' egging and a bit of liquid courage. At any rate, whether they were writhing on the counter or hanging out on the floor, the females generally seemed pretty comfortable. In contrast, most of the males in attendance were either shuffling about in a slack-jawed daze or obviously on the prowl: chests puffed out, guts sucked in, eyes circling like vultures, lurking for a sign of some gal who was too drunk to mind if someone started rubbing his nuts on her leg. These are the kind of guys who will punch you if they walk into you.
What was most surprising to me was that there seemed to be more ladies than gentlemen patronizing the joint. I suppose I can guess why. Perhaps it's liberating to behave like a stone-cold skeezer once in a while. That's cool if that's your thing, but I would be horrified to meet someone who claimed to frequent the extablishment, regardless of their gender. Luckily, after Jon (minus shirt, plus hideous novelty bra) got tossed from the bull, we ended the evening back at Exit, where dark Irish suds, a little Agent Orange and some ladies still in costume from the World Naked Bike Ride ganged up to boot the nightmare that was Hogs & Honeys into the receding past. Oh, how I love Exit. If it weren't for the Hala, it would be the greatest drinking establishment around.
Anyway, thousands of congratulations to Jon and his way rad bride (you may have seen her in a recent KFC commercial - she's the lady offering to dump gravy and cheese on some goon's tater-corn-chicken bowl). In honor of the groom, the flyest MC with whom I have ever traded rhymes in a suburban garage, I offer three new Jurassic 5 tunes which are up at MySpace. Their third LP drops July 25, and will obviously be quite the awesome summer jam. If you have even the slightest interest in real hip-hop, go listen and revel in true old-school skills. If not, then try the first sign of life from "Weird Al" Yankovic in three years: a parody of that big James Blunt hit "You're Beautiful," which, like many songs Al has parodied during the last decade, I don't believe I have ever actually heard.
ONCE AGAIN: Folks, we're creeping up on the first anniversary of Entartete Kunst. How should we celebrate?
posted by SoulReaper at 7:44 PM
4 Comments:
That's where I met my future husband! My hand to God, I met The Big Man at that cesspool.
Basically, he was the one guy in the place who appeared to hate it as much as I did, so I started talking to him. Later that night, after I took off, some guy peed on him while standing by the mechanical bull.
I think you, personally, should celebrate by going to a Scandinavian metal show.
If you want to treat your loyal readers, though, how about a quick recap of your favorite bad movies?
j, I remembered your story before I went in, but forgot it soon after I saw the building's grimy guts. I did see one lady inside who looked older and/or more uncomfortable than the rest. She was actually very pretty. C'est la vie.
Than you, kitten, I will get working on both. Details of the former coming in the impending post, in fact. By the way, now that the season's almost turned, I can announce this summer's awful movie project: think German shepherds, trilogies and lesser Belushis. Yes, I mean to take in the entire K-9 triptych before Sept. 23. Yes, the sick bastards made three of them.
So you know that chick from the KFC commercial? Man, for some reason every time I've seen that commercial I've like, totally loved her. Her delivery's quirky/awesome, and she's much better-looking than the staff at my local KFC. Based off of this thirty-second spot, her fiancee's a lucky guy.
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