Look, I'm sorry.
If you can get one entry from me once every calender seven days, then you're lucky. That's just the way it is. If I say I'll be back in a few days, I'm probably lying, or believing too much from myself.
I'm flattered that some of you get so pissy about it, tho'. Maybe I should contribute to my own comment section more, at least then we can get some dialogue going and I can give more immediate answers. Give you all a reason to drop by daily anyway.
Anyway, I'm here, right now, ready to jam. THE WAIT IS OVER!!! YOUR PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED!!!!
And no more drawings. This much is obvious.
I promised tales of nudity and bouncing, but the nudity part isn't all that great a story, now that I hustled up the main plot points in my head, but now that I've started thinking back to my bouncing days, there is a whole world worth of stories which I can tell. Which I will start with tonight. Right now, in fact.
The following is 100% true... at least, as true as my memory from a 14 year old event can recall...
Tale #2: The Windmill Warriors
Show me an undisciplined gang of thugs and ruffians, but mostly part-time brothers and I'll show you a staff of bouncers at any given nightclub in any given city in any given state of our fine Union.
A good doorstaff is NOT made up of angry bodybuilders, borderline-retarded college football players, and general, immature, daddy-hating wannabe tough guys (or, as we call them in Rhode Island: Italians). No, a good doorstaff is made up of four parts smart, sensible, and mature, two parts young and cocky, and two parts big and mean. The smart, sensible, and mature ones are the ones who check ID cards, direct traffic, and try to maintain a calm environment even during a skirmish. The young and cocky ones know how to maintain a post, smile a lot, are ready to jump in if their is a problem in their area, but are mostly more interested in picking up girls then they are in being tough.
The big and mean ones are the big galoots that the smart, sensible, mature ones keep nearby, in case some muscle is needed.
Me? I was smart and sensible. At the ripe old age of 24, I wasn't an old man by any stretch, but I could spot a fake ID from a mile away (at the time, this was considered a skill), I was not into looking for fights either. My specialty was swooping in from behind, usually out of nowhere, )as many a time another bouncer would come up to be after a little skirmish and say, "Dude, you came out of NOWHERE"), wrap my arm around the troublemaker's neck (REAR CHINLOCK!!!!), drive him down with my whole body, and yell in his ear, "I'm a doorman, calm down! Easy does it. Are you okay? I'm a doorman." Then I would invite him to stand up and walk out of there on his own like a man. Most times it worked.
Once in a while, while I was on top of the rabble rouser, calming him down and showing him that his fighting for the night is over, I would have to turn around and kindly ask another doorman - either the young, cocky dude or the big and mean meathead - to please let go of the guy's leg. Daddy had it all under control.
I wasn't even the Head Doorman. That would be Joey. Joey eventually became my best friend and my roommate. More on him later.
So, that was what it was like for three nights a week for any and all doorstaffs that I was a part of. Fun was had, girls were fucked, (and oh baby, did yer ol' buddy Hi-Rate get in on some of THAT), and drunken testosterone was seething, boiling, and properly disposed of. Life went smooth, fights were broken easily, drinks continued to be poured, bootys continued to shake, and everyone had a fun time.
But once in a while, every so often, a full scale riot broke out.
The time: 1994.
The city: Providence
The club: Sh-Booms.
Doorstaff: 12.
It was summer. A tradition at Sh-Booms - which was buried just to the east of downtown, near the Brown and P.C. campuses, but not east enough to run into the trendy, European chic East Side - was to create an extended, outdoor party club by blocking off the parking lot directly behind the club, setting up cheapie bars, sticking a DJ up on the never-used backdoor elevated steps, and partying extra-large, extra-cool, all night long... or until 2:00 am weekends. The owner had a giant mural of Elvis painted on the club's back wall, creating a proper mood. The crowd had a view of the river, the statehouse, and pretty much every skyscraper the city had (1). It made Summer just that extra cool.
Hyatte, that would be me, but with a full, robust, HEALTHY head of shiny, well-coiffed hair (and with a gleam of hope and joy in my eye, long since buried by the grind of life and of little heartbreaking a-holes like YOU) was busy at the front door of the club proper sliding my finger gently over the birthdate of each and every ID that looked remotely suspicious (checking for slight indentions and holes, don'tcha know). For me, I was enjoying my time in the nightclub scene. The crowd was older then I would like, but there were still some hotties around, and some wannabes who weren't quite bad-ass enough to hold a stare-down against me.
And no, if you asked that kid who "Hyatte" was, he would've rumbled, "Who'dafuckizdat?" The wit was only starting to percolate, my friends. A seed that needed years to grow.
Well, the time was closing in on 1 a.m. and the natives were restless. I felt it in the air, as did Joey. There was a darkness over the night. We could feel it, a little tension, some hostility. There were no fights so far, hadn't been for a while in fact. We felt the time was coming, a storm of anger. People were yelling too loud, the dancefloor was hopping a bit too aggressively. It seemed that everyone was aching for a fight.
Including the doorstaff. We were kids and we mostly kept it in our pants, but... well, you got into this business to get laid and to beat up drunks, AND NOT ALWAYS IN THAT ORDER. Anyone who tells you different is a damn fool.
And of course, the best nights is when you did both.
Sh-Booms had its regulars, as did every club. And even though the club was at the tail end of its long, historic, highly profitable run, it still drew a crowd on Friday nights, regulars, hoochies, newcomers, and even a few barely legal teens still made this place a hopping summer nightspot. One of the regulars was... was...
Well, he was fat, he liked to wear Hawaiian shirts, he liked to wear his long, black hair into a traditional native ponytail. Before him, the only Samoans I had ever seen were on Television. And from there, I knew he must have had a hard head. I don't know his name, he never gave it. But he was a regular, and he would've fit right into the WWF in 1994... 04 even 1984... or even 1974.
Think a smaller Rikishi, think a MUCH smaller Yokozuna, think a fatter Umanga.
Fuck it, think either Afa or Sika, or Haku after a year of eating nothing but cake frosting.
And for all the time I worked at Sh-Booms, my second summer, he came in fairly steadily... every Friday night, with friends. He had his fun and he never started trouble. In fact, he never said a word to us. Our exchanges were bare nods. I wasn't about to card him, he was old enough. I was just amazed that he wore shoes... it was the first time I've seen a Samoan not being barefooted.
So yes, he was there, in the back lot. I was up front, griping about this or that and bullshitting with Joey and whoever else was up front with us. Probably Chuck... Chuck was a funny kid, 19 years old and about 6'5 and as awkward as a Priest at a boy scout meeting. I'll tell his story some other time. So we were bullshitting and remarking about the tension in the air (which, to be honest, was a weekly conversation) and all the girls we were banging (lied my balls off, I did), when one of the doorstaff charged, no, I say CHARGED up from the side alley and waved us over and took off quick.
Fight!!
Joey told Chuck (who was useless in a fight, to be honest) to stay at the door and MAINTAIN ORDER... because, heaven forbid, we let some 20 year old in for the one or two drinks he/she can get down before last call, and we took off to the back.
The back lot was sectioned off by wooden sawhorses and orange plastic mesh draped on top. Joey, being a semi-legit bodybuilder, vaulted over the horses with the grace of a ballerina. Hyatte, who wasn't fat by any means but... umm... fuck you... recalled an incident from a year ago where he attempted to vault over the horses and promptly wiped out on his face, taking about three sections of meshed up horses with him and one shooter waitress. Even now as I type this, 14 years later, I still bust a cold sweat recalling the humiliation.
So Captain Badass... ME... deftly slipped UNDER the mesh and, after unclogging his fucking shoe from the mesh and the Budweiser banners, and God knows what the fuck else, entered the battlefield...
Which, of fucking course, turned out to be on the other side of the club's parking lot, with the entire half of the sawhorses already down and mesh all over the place. Idiot doorman decided to take the scenic route to inform us of the chaos.
And it was chaos, a full scale riot, at least 15 people involved. Joey had already charged in. There was no breaking this shit up, it was a war... us against them, drunks vs barely paid, barely professional bouncers. Oh it was on, a nice, juicy, throwdown. I remember smiling. It was time to make the donuts.
I ran in... and was side tackled and sent flying. I landed and rolled and lept to my feet. Adrenaline, children... better than the nastiest heroin.
And blocking my path, looming over me as if it was prison breakfast and I was holding the last piece of toast, was the Samoan.
So I got up and took stock of the situation. This guy never started a nip of trouble before. He was quiet, relaxed, and tipped well. This sort of aggression was uncommon for him. I rationalized that this was all a mistake. I did all this in my mind and all in a split second. I took off past him to join the fun... err... riot.
And he got right in front of me, grabbed me by my arms, and pushed me backward.
Hard.
Note: Whatever you may think of my story, whatever you may wonder just how much is real and how much is exaggerated bullshit, please believe me that the following is now 100% TRUE AND TO THIS DAY STICKS CRYSTAL CLEAR IN MY MEMORY. ONLY BECAUSE THE FOLLOWING IS A SEQUENCE THAT COULD'VE BEEN A FUN, ACTION SCENE IN ANY RESPECTABLE A-LIST ACTION MOVIE
The Samoan didn't just push me, he ran forward and took me with him, clear across to the outer edge of the outer lot, I remember his face right near mine, his teeth gritting in the effort... and they were a LOVELY set of white pearls, I must say. Then he stopped and let inertia ad velocity send me flying.
I remember saying, "WHOA!"
And I crashed into the back bar. Getting nicely doused with partially full cups of beer. The hair, my beautiful, luxurious mane had gone untouched, thank GOD.
I was askew, among empties, plastic chairs, and an overturned table. I looked at the Samoan. He stood his ground, between me and the brawl.
I got up and charged again.
He gritted his teeth, got his 350 pounds in front of me, and shoved.
And I crashed again.
Three times, each time he sent me airborne.
I looked at him, he looked back. We said nothing but he shook his head at me. That was all he needed to say. it said it all. "This ain't your fight, white boy." "I got friends in there and I don't need you fucking them up." "You just stay there nice and quiet and we'll be fine, brother."
He was there to keep me away from the brawl, away from whoever he knew who was in there. I was flattered. Little ol' me was scary enough for him to cockblock.
Oh, of course, now we were in the man zone. Motherfucking fat fuck. NO ONE was going to keep me out of this jam.
I got up slowly, feigning surrender and acting worn down. He didn't move, he was ready for anything.
So I grabbed a plastic patio chair and I tattooed the sumbitch right in the face.
He instinctively bent his head down and covered his face. I wailed the chair on his back, and kept swinging, and kept hitting.
IT WAS A FUCKING PATIO, PLASTIC, 8 POUND CHAIR!!! AS I WAILED ON HIM I KEPT ASKING, HOW THE FUCK IS THIS HURTING HIM???
Must of been the force, the anger, the rage, the Hyatte... the HYATTE!!
Finally, after 8... maybe 9... maybe 17 whacked, he dropped to his knees, head still down, back exposed, like a freak-show turtle whose shell got some weird kind of turtle cancer and rotted away, leaving nothing but slimy quivering fat saggy skin.
And I dropped the chair, and said something brilliant, yet whimsical. I think it was, "Motherfucker!!"
And I ran to him, stepped on his massive back, and stepped on and over him, JUMPED over his fat Island ass, and ran over to the brawl.
Which was pretty much over by then, except for one little piece of business.
When I got over there, the first guy I saw wearing our well-loved Sh-Booms designer jackets, was Joey. Joey was jamming with some guy. I arrived on the scene in time to watch Joey do the world's slowest back spin kick. I mean, the dude could've said the Lord's prayer in Latin... backwards, and enunciate the whole thing perfectly, and would've finished before Joey swung his foot to anything even near the guy's body. I had no choice, I started cracking up. I screamed, "JOEY, JESUS CHRIST!!" and started guffawing, hooting, hollering.. LOLing right there in the middle of the brawl. So I wasn't paying attention when someone sucker punched me on the side.
It wasn't the samoan. I shamed and tamed his ass back at the edge. It was some dude. So I did what we always did during brawls... which was both the dumbest yet the most fun part of any brawl where amateurs, both drunk and employed, did when it's a full scale street fight on the scene.
I charged in and started windmilling on his ass. Precision? What's that? Training? BWAHAHAHAHA!! Shootfighting? Negro PLEASE. I just swung my arms every which way and WAILED AWAY ON HIS LAME-ASS!!
And I windmill chased him down the block. He tried to go toe up with me, but a few lucky shots to the head and face killed the fight he had. He backed up a few steps, gave me a last look, and vanished into the night.
The fight pretty much broke up over that. The rest of the evening was cleaning up, restocking the coolers, sweeping, and then hanging out at the lot recalling the brawl and how we all kicked ASS!!
And the Samoan never came back. If he did, I would'a let him in without a problem. But we would've locked eyes. And I would have nodded to him. And I would've smiled my cocky, 24 year old, world is his oyster, baddest white boy on this block smile.
And he would've known, that he was my 350 pound Samoan BITCH.... before calling someone your bitch was cool.
Plus I would've carded him too. Damn skippy.
The end.
*****
I will answer anywhere from 15-25 comments by sunrise on Monday. That will be the next blog. Believe me or don't. Just check in.
And comment on this stuff here.
See ya's
