Happy Port Tuesday

Whether you are in a celebratory mood or not, every week Port Tuesday (PT) returns to remind us to stop taking ourselves so seriously and just enjoy this "ish". Since its inception here in Champaign, Illinois people have been taken aback by our embrace of the PT spirit. For the past few weeks I've been smoking a variety of the Sancho Panza cigars (unfortunately non-Cuban). They're medium bodied cigars with good flavor, better construction, and the best price point in town. Tonight I will tuck my issues neatly into my back pocket, cut the ringer off of my phone, pour up, and kick back. Port Tuesday: Champaign's biggest unofficial holiday since, well uhmm, Unofficial. (see what I did right there? Ah, never mind)

Marsha & Me

I have a lot on my plate these days. Though my time may be monopolized by "work", the monster still finds time to sneak out of his confines and find things to get into. That's what brings me here. There is something that has been nagging at me and I have to unburden myself of. So, are you ready? Okay, here it goes....I got played by Marsha Ambrosius. There, I said it (For those of you who don't know who she is, that's her in the picture up there). I know, it's both hard to believe and overwhelming at the same time. Let me start at the beginning and explain.

So, I have this “thing” for the chanteuse Marsha Ambrosius. Her debut album came out a couple of months ago and by happenstance I ended up going to see her live in concert. She walked on stage, opened her mouth, and I fell madly in love with her…passion, sexuality, and ear for music. It can be a strange thing falling for someone’s art as it sometimes blurs the line between their product and who they are personally.

I know it all sounds very crazy, me falling for a famous singer who doesn’t have the foggiest notion that I exist. Believe me when I say that I know that this scenario is neither original, nor particularly intriguing. However, about a month ago this sad, clichéd story took a dramatic turn when I met Marsha working at the gas station up the street from me.

Yeah, I said that I met a beautiful and popular singer working at a local gas station. I know what you’re saying to yourself, “Why is Marsha Ambrosius working at a gas station in a small town in the rust belt”. Obviously, I don’t have the answer to that. My only response to that inquiry is to remind you that stranger things have happened. In fact, anyone familiar with my back story could tell you that I’m kind of a curator of strange occurrences. My life’s like a “Ripley’s Believe it or Not” reality show.

I don’t know, maybe Marsha wanted to take some time off from touring and being high profile. Maybe this is her way of staying grounded and keeping things in perspective for herself. Maybe, blue-collar work inspires her song writing process, I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that one day when paying for my gas, a woman who has a shocking likeness to Marsha Ambrosius was behind the counter. She flattered me by calling me handsome (and being the mirror image of my musical obsession). I gave her my number on the spot and something seemed to spark between us.

Without cataloguing our every interaction and day-to-day exchanges, lets just say that we became friendly and flirtatious. She told me that her name was “Stephanie” and that she was in town temporarily, “to get herself together”. Her secret was safe with me. Every time she spoke to me it was like deciphering code. I felt like I was serving my country by keeping her identity a secret, I was an urban sentinel in her employ as she was hiding in plain sight.

One day I got bold and asked “Stephanie” if anyone had told her how much she resembled Marsha and she laughed hysterically. “Funny, I have heard that”, she said. “Only not since I’ve been in this small town.” What exactly did that mean? I looked at her skeptically as she laughed my inquiry off. I told her that I preferred calling her Marsha to Stephanie and she embraced it. She called it “our little thing” and we carried on that way until we were to eventually depart.

After a couple of phone conversations and some heavy flirting in the gas station, she began acting funny. She got “busy” all of the time and never had time to talk. Then, one day I got a phone call saying that she was working her last gas station shift, as she was going to be moving the next day. Marsha or no Marsha, all of the cryptic behavior can be off-putting and unnerving.

I understand that people don’t always behave in the manner that you may desire. I also have no problem in saying that it’s possible that my game wasn’t tight enough to draw her closer to me. Maybe my approach was wrong. I know from experience that not every woman wants to be engaged in intense and insightful conversations. Maybe I moved too fast. Maybe I seemed too intense. Maybe I just wasn’t her type.

Long story short, I show up at the gas station and she was from beaming ear to ear. As I walked up to the counter there was a strong tension between us that anyone within a half-mile radius of that place could feel. I got to the counter, opened my mouth, and you know what came out? “$20 on number 10 please. Thank You”. I never batted an eyelash. I put the money on the counter, turned, and walked away. Marsha or no Marsha, I’m dogmatic when it comes to "holding the line".

Like Bunk from The Wire said to Omar, “A man must have a code”. As such, a distinct part of my code is that I don’t make myself available to be shelved or play the background for anyone. I give no one my time who doesn’t value and treat it with the urgency that they give their own. I value my self, my time, and my goals too much to compromise on that issue.

Well, then Marsha disappeared without a trace. A month passed and as I walked into my local colonial pantry, a woman screams as if Gerald Levert just came through the door. Yeah, I know he’s dead (big homey r.i.p). What I meant was that she screamed like she saw the big homey Gerald without ever having any knowledge of his untimely passing. This isn’t a zombie story. It was Marsha. She rushed over and hugged me and as we stood in the middle of that store, she explained she was back again (albeit “temporarily”). As things would have it, I looked online and saw that her tour with R Kelly and Keisha Cole had just wrapped in Chicago. What a coincidence.

We reestablished contact but in light of what happened previously, I refused to pursue her (even though I’m starting to think that she really is Marsha). Finally, the other day while driving through my little town I saw what resembled her car parked in a random driveway. As I passed the house I looked up and saw her getting creepy with some goon looking fellow on a porch swing. All you can say to that is that my instincts were spot on, the game is the game no matter who’s playing. Never compromise...I don't give a fuck who it is.

EPILOGUE:

There are people who follow a rational calculus approach to relationships, for these people relationships are not organic - they're contractual exchanges. Still others follow their hearts and go with what "feels right". These people rarely find happiness, as they lack foresight, reflexivity, and usually any sense of what "feels right" for the other person. Then there are those who respect what is commonly known as "the game". I'm not referring to corny pick-up lines or how to fashion yourself to attract women. We'll get into more of the specifics of that another time. What I'm referring to is what we might call a "conduct of conducts". What I am referring to is a code by which one abides in order to protect their best interests, their feelings, and ultimately their good name. I recall the late Asa Hilliard saying that our good name is all that we really have. As the fictional character from "The Wire" (yes, again), Marlo, once said, "My name is my name". In light of all this I am pleased that I wasn't taken off my square even after being tempted by celebrity. My previous statement therefore bares repeating, "the game is the game no matter who's playing".

Game Recognize Game

The above newspaper clipping has been posted in numerous places throughout the internet and probably emailed millions of times. However, just in case you haven't seen it please read the above story and reply. I laughed at this for an hour, and for all the wrong reasons. The monster is everywhere...and (s)he doesn't want to go back into its cage.

These Are My Confessions... Part I

Greetings fellow Monsters. Sorry I’ve been away for so long, but I’ve been trying to fit in again, trying to pretend that I don’t have a raging, mauling beast inside me that I must use every spare ounce of energy to keep in check. The prospect of feeling just like everybody else, of fitting in, safe in our little lives and comforted by our little relationships, of being made content by all that our own two hands have brought us is a very seductive, very appealing myth indeed. And I’ve been out there chasing it, to no avail. As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in The Great Gatsby:

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… And one fine morning – So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

It other words, we’re never going to be able to reach back into the past and acquire that which will make us happy and content. But that doesn’t mean that we as humans should stop trying. In fact, one could argue that the very nature of humanity requires that we try, insists that we pursue that which we cannot achieve: A pure articulation of love; the sense that we as humans have been fully recognized and understood by our fellow humans, a pathway back to Eden. Frankly dear readers, I don’t know how I got off on this tangent. I started this post wanting to talk about affairs. At first I was going to write about mistresses, but I’d like to think that I use my words carefully, and dictionary.com defines a mistress as: “a woman who has a continuing, extramarital sexual relationship with one man, especially a man who, in return for an exclusive and continuing liaison, provides her with financial support.” Let’s face it people, that’s simply too narrow a definition to get at what we’re talking about here. One doesn’t have to be a man to have an extramarital affair (with or without money), and one doesn’t have to be married to have a mistress. A more accurate definition would be something like this: Affair (noun), an informally structured (and often clandestine) physically or emotionally intimate relationship, performed simultaneously or in parallel against another more formally structured, publicly recognized relationship. And I was going to write about affairs because I was thinking about having one, or rather trying to start one (it still takes two to tango, even in our internet age). But before I jump head first into the shallow end of the cesspool, I wanted to run some things by you dear readers. Before you start burning up your keyboards trying to persuade me out of doing this or that, let me just say that I don’t think any of the classic arguments against affairs are going to work with me. And it’s not that I don’t think those classic arguments don’t have merit, it’s just that I’m in a place where I don’t really give a fuck. What I do give a fuck about (and therefore want to write/talk about) is why I would start this affair. Believe it or not, I think it has a lot to do with sadness. I know, not exactly the first rationale for an affair that pops into everyone’s mind. But I arrived at it through a pretty rigorous process of deductive reasoning. In the words of Sherlock Holmes, “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Walk through this with me for a minute, will you?

First off, let’s eliminate the impossible. I am not starting this affair because I want sex with a new person. Honestly, for all practical purposes even the possibility of sex is irrelevant. Sex is the Stanley Cup, the Larry O’ Brien, the Vince Lombardi or Commissioner’s Trophy. It is the thing that is symbolic of a victory, but not the victory itself. And mere symbolism is not at all what I am after, though I do admit that people often confuse the climax of stories with their denouement, the theme of the story with its moral. I can go to my wife for sex. No, what I’m looking for is escape, escape from myself. Most days I am filled with an incredible, enormous  sadness. And being filled with this incredible and enormous sadness leads me to great shame, for after all, what have I to be sad about? And realizing that I have a great shame which itself emerges from my enormous sadness causes within me a raging storm of self-loathing. These storms seem to last for days on end, and the hardest part about them is the brave face I must present to the world while it is raging on inside me. I must appear to be happy, and well-balanced, optimistic and content. Sometimes I think that it is from these storms that my inner monster emerges. Riding high on the sea of my turmoil, he appears and encourages me to do the most destructive thing possible, in the words of a kindred spirit, “to destroy something beautiful”.

But I don’t want to destroy something beautiful. I want to run. And so for me, having a mistress is all about creating that place to run, maintaining a space to hide from my own demons. With a mistress I don’t ever have to pretend to be happy, or to have it all worked out, or to be in control. With a mistress, I can just be a ten car pile-up on a drive-in movie screen, replayed endlessly in slow motion. A mistress would never tell me to cheer up, would never ask me when am I going to get my shit together, never pout because I’m not quite the man she hoped I would be all those years ago when she first decided to fuck me hoping it would turn into something good. I know what you’re thinking, that scenario really doesn’t sound like too much fun for the mistress. And I certainly see your point, from a distance it doesn’t seem as though I’m really offering much – save misery – unless what she also wants is also a place to hide from the expectations, the desires, the plans, the promises she made to herself of her own life. I promise that I would never tell her to lose that weight, fix those teeth, be more confident in herself or to just pull herself together for heaven’s sake, she’s not nineteen anymore. As her mistress, that’s not my job. All we’d be asking for is the chance to be mutual witnesses to our own desperate acts of self-loathing, that and a little comfort. Kind of like Leaving Las Vegas, but in my town, with me as the star. Perhaps that’s it. I’ll put up an ad on the local craigslist: ‘Male lead actor seeks female costar in a local remake of Leaving Las Vegas. Oscar worthy performances only please. Live takes only, no edits or re-shoots. To be filmed in black and white, or sometimes Technicolor, as appropriate.’

So you see, I guess I wasn’t really looking for a mistress at all, at least not in the way folks normally talk about them. And yes, I know when it is all said and done folks won’t make a distinction between what I wanted and what it looked  like, won’t make a distinction between what they think to be true and the depth of the reality the surrounds them. I’ll just be another guy who was fooling around on his wife, risking everything (as if they knew what ‘everything’ was to me) for sex. They won’t know what you know true readers, and I won’t bother to explain to them because only here, in the space of the monster’s inquiry, can I present

my confessions…

On Destroying Something Beautiful

A friend reached out to me recently through instant message. His spirit was broken. For one reason or another and he was looking for an action or activity that could serve as an emotional Band-Aid. There is a significant difference in age between us and he was trying to draw upon my experience in this area to point him in the right direction. The what, where, when, and who are virtually insignificant though. The point lies in the philosophy of the answer I provided him, and his response, “why?” As conversations go, it was as straightforward as it gets:

Him: I cannot seem to shake these feelings of sadness and melancholy, what should I do?

Me: Have you tried drowning your sorrows?

Him: Yes, but drunkenness was not the answer I was looking for.

Me: Have you tried doing so in the presence of strippers? Better yet, alone at a strip club on a slow night?

Him: I have but did not find a solution. Now what?

Me: Sounds like destroying something beautiful would do you some good.

Him: Why?

The last question provides the turn in the conversation, which prompted this writing. My friends and I have been using this phrase to describe a specific set of actions for years now. However the practice and understanding behind the words have gone without intense scrutiny and critique. For us, destroying beautiful things is just something that monsters do. If you acknowledge that you have the capacity to be a monster from time to time, you therefore take with that sometimes, beautiful things get broken.

The phrase itself is probably most notably coined in the movie “Fight Club”. One scene in the movie depicts Edward Norton’s character beating a young Jared Leto’s unmercifully in a spectacular display of pugilism. The two characters aren’t drastically different except that Leto’s character is younger, with dyed blonde hair, and more well liked because of his perceived attractiveness. Though the amateur match was semi-organized and understood to be consensual, the display was unsettling and gratuitous. When questioned about his actions Norton’s character retorts unflinchingly that he felt like, “destroying something beautiful”.

That scene is so memorable because of its embrace of such a drastically irrational behavior explained through such a whimsically abstract and poetic sentiment. To focus our critical lens further, it could also be said that Leto’s character was a symbol of cultural standards of beauty and normalcy, and that destroying something beautiful was an embrace of deviance and alienation. It stands to reason that the beating was a symbolic embrace of being culturally imperfect and ugly; it was an affront to such notions a challenge to the foundation of such widely held beliefs. Finally, the act could be understood as a statement that the beauty of Leto’s character was not natural, what was natural and pure was actually the desire to subdue and destroy him.

But let us not stop there. The concept of destroying something beautiful is more than a line in a popular movie (or the book that provided the foundation to script said movie). The concept of destroying something beautiful resonates with many who hear the phrase. It’s not meant to be taken as literal as much as it is a general sentiment toward embracing deviant behavior. To destroy something beautiful is an affront toward our very nature and all that we know is right, ethical, moral, and upstanding. The act in whatever form it takes is a gesture that mocks rationality, modernity, civility, and the order of things as has been ingrained in us since our youth.

The process of destroying something beautiful assumes that the actor is rational, that (s)he acknowledges the subjective worth of the individual/object that is to be harmed. The actor knows full well the ramifications of their actions and follows through with them because of this knowledge, not in spite of. It is this methodical and calculating nature that makes the notion and practice of destroying something beautiful both cathartic and utterly monstrous.

The actions associated with the term amount to more than defacing art, or nature. This blight that we speak of is an emotional crime. It isn’t enough that you know what you did, others (if only one) must know what you are capable of and the actor looks to feed off of the reaction such knowledge brings. You see, (s)he carries an interest in the feelings of the other, as in this instance the actor is a voyeur manipulating the other for their own entertainment.

The process has many forms, like when you pick up the phone and ring a known admirer. In and of itself this is not bad, but it is when you do so with the intent of inviting them to an event that will surely end with a crushing heartbreak. This is the very essence of destroying something beautiful. Taking an innocent on a ride that will cause their heart to flutter and mind to wander for only the sake of breaking that person irreparably.

Few of our philosophical and literary giants have been noted as being more adroit in this systematic process than Soren Kierkegaard. His account as laid out in “The Seducer” tells of how a man (Johannes) courts a woman (Cordelia) to this end of destruction. Through working his methodology Johannes finds great pleasure in pushing Cordelia to fall further into a state of euphoria and irrationality.

It is said that “The Seducer” is somewhat autobiographical in nature, though details of the passionate affair with the love of his life stack up somewhat differently. Regardless of how much of the tale was based in reality, his reasoning and method were sound. His destruction of someone beautiful had to do entirely with himself and his desire to exert power and control over another to a satisfactory end.

He pushed her until she wanted nothing more than to submit completely to him. When that was her one and only desire, when her total understanding of love, life, and happiness was based upon this…he slowly undid everything he had done. As methodically as he had drawn close to her and carefully weaved an elegant tapestry of sentiment, he emotionally and intellectually withdrew. This action sent poor Cordelia into a panic, a state of painful lonesomeness and confusion. Satisfied with his work, he ended his affair with Cordelia and coldly stated, “[I]t is over now, and I hope never to see her again…I will have no farewell with her; nothing is more disgusting to me than a woman’s tears and a woman’s prayers.” As you will note in his statement, he even denied her the satisfaction of understanding what had happened. There was no closure or tidy conclusion to the fiery romance they shared.

Though Bertrand Russell doesn’t write about this topic directly, as an admirer of his rationality and insight I often include his work in discussions such as these. Russell would point out, this person that Kierkegaard describes to be a megalomaniac. Like narcissism, megalomania is a condition that may or may not be associated with the lunatic who has lost touch with reality. Though it could be argued that Edward Norton’s character in Fight Club was insane, we have no reason to believe that Johannes was.

Russell goes on to state that many of the great men in history such as Alexander the Great and Napoleon were megalomaniacs, but more of the excessive insane variety. He states, “The megalomaniac differs from the narcissist by the fact that he wishes to be powerful rather than charming, and seeks to be feared rather than loved.” I think this holds true for the character from Fight Club, Johannes, and our own purposes here.

He also makes the observation that one commonality that megalomaniacs share is some form of excessive humiliation in their past. This of course was true for the sickly Soren Kierkegaard and certainly true for our fictional movie personae. However, while this may or may not be true for us as individuals who want to destroy something beautiful, it more than likely holds true. Humiliation may not come at the hands of another it very well could come from a failure to capitalize on our own aspirations and expectations. Hence, cultivate a love of power over others because we have failed in cultivating the same ability over ourselves.

Russell continues, “A man may feel so completely thwarted that he seeks no form of satisfaction, but only distraction and oblivion. He then becomes a devotee of “pleasure.” That is to say, that he seeks to make life bearable by becoming less alive.” I find this statement so eloquent as it harkens back to the very nature of the beast for whom we began this discussion. The monster straddles a line that Kierkegaard (in Either/or) describes as laying between the aesthetic and ethical. This simply means that the monster itself is not one or the other, but walks the line between the individual using others and the world around him/her as entertainment, and being content in one’s own company.

The monster both knows the repression of the mask and the freedom of mastering himself without it. Though I think that social inequality has no rational basis, I believe that due to social circumstance there are several caste of monsters. Regardless, in walking the line between the sacred and profane some beauty and innocence is bound to get broken. All that we’re saying is that there is no need to seek permission.

Happy Port Tuesday.

In honor of Port Tuesday I am posting this banner that were used as event reminders via social media outlets. For the uninitiated, Port Tueday is a celebration that originated as the brain child of the storied A-Team (also referred to as "the seven madmen") at Jon's Pipe Shop in Champaign, Illinois. This local tradition was meant as homage to the spirit of generousity and the culture of sharing that had been long cultivated in the shop. However, it is also well-know amonst the regulars that the tradition also began as a joke. The very first Port Tuesday was held to spite shop employee, Michael LaDue, by enjoying his favorite adult beverage and having a good time while he was away and unable to partake.

Beginning in 2004, every Tuesday by 5pm a bottle of port would be shared amongst the Jon's Pipe Shop patrons and from that gesture a grand celebration would develop. In the years that followed, the Port Tuesday celebration would grow to include: food, events sponsored by tobacco companies, events held at local bars, etc. The original members of the A-Team may only rarely make appearances at Port Tuesday, but the recognition of the day and ensuing tribute goes on regardless. This day is the lasting legacy of Jon's A-Team and the culture specific to that shop. No matter where we go, every Tuesday is Port Tuesday. Starting in 2004, Tuesdays in Champaign have made Saturday look like just another day of the week.

Salute to all who can't be here with us to celebrate today. For some reason today I was thinking about the time when Family (aka Panda, aka Fruit, aka The Big Homie) so graciously passed me my first Lusitania (or "loosies" as we so affectionately call them). I will never forget that day he "traded" me for a La Aroura 100 Anos (possibly my hands down favorite cigar) in order to give me the opportunity to smoke what would become one of the best sticks I have ever experienced. It was only a trade on face value though. He had received a package containing an exquisite selection of cigars and let me choose the one I wanted. In return, I gave him what I had.

I remember taking my time with it and accompanying the flavor of the aged tobacco with a strong cup of coffee. I smoked it like it would be my last. It strattles two worlds as it is both a delightfully complex cuban and truely full-bodied. Family is a true friend not just for that but for many years of trust, compassion, and loyalty. On this Port Tuesday I raise my glass to you homie, to the seven madmen, and to our institution that seems to have taken on a life of it's own, ching-ching.

DSK Prefers Golden Showers Over Golden Parachutes

Dominique is another monster worth noting. He lothes poverty, loves money, and loves taking scattered ass more. Puffed up on power and influence, he allegedly ambushed and raped an unsuspecting housekeeper at a posh NY hotel. Please note the use of the word, "ambushed" in the previous sentence. What would make a man with so much influence, status, and money strip down bucked-naked (bucked naked?!?), surprise the housekeeper, and assault her with his pale-wrinkled penis (allegedly)? Well surprise, surprise. I just told you, he was "puffed up on power and influence” (i.e: full of ego and that new flavor of kool-aid we all know and love, homoeconomicus). He is a motherfucking monster.
Key point of interest here: it was in. his. own. room. No one decides to rape a housekeeper in a hotel on a whim (particularly in the room that you bought and paid for). Talk about being charged for incidentals. So, did he raid the minibar and decide that having spent so much money in his room he should get some complimentary pussy? Where do they do that at (no, really. so I can mapquest it)? Only an individual drunk on power or the sweet nectar of insanity would be capable to conjure up such a scenario, or maybe she’s lying. Or, maybe he’s done this before and believed that once he told her exactly who he was and what he could do (or pay) that she would clam up.
Me and one of my monster friends upon hearing of the situation instantly knew how that conversation went. It sounded something like this:
DSK: Bitch, do you know who I am?

DSK: Bitch, I bring entire nations to their knees! What makes your knees so special?

DSK: With the stroke of my pen I make or break economies for cities, regions, nations, entire CONTINENTS! So how could my stroke not be good enough for you?

Notice how in our scenario, she didn’t say anything. That’s the point. He never heard her say anything (such as, “no”, “stop”, “fuck you, I’m going to the police” (allegedly). Again, is it surprising that married men are the most monstrous of all? Ha. Don't answer that.

Green and White is the Color Of My Parachute

I guess I’m having what some would call a mid-life crisis. Yes, this summer I’ll be forty. No, I’m not looking to buy a sports car, or fuck a platinum blonde who’s half my age. Not that there’s anything wrong with those two things. But I’m having a mid-life crisis because at 39 and ¾ years, I’ve discovered that the philosophy that I’ve been living by is just, well, flat fuck wrong.

Let me tell you what I mean.

I grew up poor. Not ‘working class’. Not ‘at risk’. Fucking poor. Now that’s not to say I grew up in poverty. I had a big-wheel when I was little. And a bike when I was older. My clothes were never threadbare, nor dated. And when I was nine, my mother nagged the shit out of my father until he went in with her on a house. But being poor isn’t only about deprivation. For me, being poor wasn’t just a condition, it was a state of being. It was a continuous experience that I could never be free from. Being poor was going to your best friend’s house after school and keeping an eye out for cockroaches so that you didn’t bring any home with you in your backpack. Being poor meant knowing what store the poor people frequented when they were feeling particularly poor, and knowing by your mother’s pace through that store whether it was worth it to try to ask for an extra candy bar, or pack of gum. Poverty is a living, breathing thing. Like a virus, it has its own scent on a body, and whenever I smell it today on a person I avoid them like they have the fucking plague. The most ironic thing about being poor for me was that it didn’t limit my socio-economic aspirations (as theorized by so many social scientists) as much as it tamped down my material desires. For me, being poor was about learning not to want those $115.00 Air Jordan hi-tops, no matter how badly my father wanted to buy them for me to show everyone on the block that we weren’t poor. Those red and black masterpieces would have looked as out of place on my feet as bowling shoes on a fucking groom. And since I knew that I couldn’t sustain the discourse of the Air Jordan-ness throughout my whole wardrobe, I simply learned to un-want them. I know what you’re thinking; there’s nothing revolutionary in not wanting something you can’t have, or what’s more, feel you don’t deserve. But you have to understand, I made an art form out of the kinds of rationalizations necessary to remain spiritually intact through the process of rejecting nearly everything that one desires. Music lessons? Those were for my sister; I got the gift of a full set of World Book Encyclopedias instead. Cool clothes in high school? “Polo is WAY overpriced bro’, and that Bennetton…who wants that shit!”  Study abroad in Europe? “Why would I pay a bunch of fucking money to go see MORE fucking white people… you talk about a RIP-OFF!” Again and again and again, I found a way to make the repudiation of the trappings of wealth and privilege cool. Like I said, nothing new there. Poor kids have been doing that shit for ages, and some of them have even made a pretty good living telling jokes about their experiences. But here comes the turn: here and now, at age 39 and 3/4 , I fucking love money. FUCKING LOVE IT! When I go to sleep I think about money. When I wake up, I think about moving the shit around, about how I can get more money, or make my money go further. Hell, I’d even consider blowing a hundred dollar bill if the sonofabitch came in tens and twenties. And if I stop and think about it, I’ve always been this way. Always wanted those Air Jordans. I just was never able to face how much I hated poverty because I knew somehow that it would mean acknowledging how much I hated myself, my mother and father, my impoverished grandparents on both sides, my poor ass aunts and uncles, those broke motherfucking neighbors who lived up the street and would come to our house once a month for dinner. And I especially hated the way all of us would come together on this holiday or that holiday to cheerfully celebrate our poverty through "good food, fellowship, and song". FUCK THAT BULLSHIT! Today for the first time I understood that the cure for poverty isn’t the material aestheticism that I’ve been strictly practicing since the third grade; not logotherapy it’s simply NOT BEING FUCKING POOR!

And herein lies the underpinnings of the crisis. Because if I could just have acknowledged that fact when I was younger, faced up to the reality of the sum total of what I wanted even back in high school, I could have set myself on a different path and not ended up where I am today, someone with the spirit of Alex P. Keaton trapped within the life of Kwai Chang Caine. I want a new job. I want a new life. one with a whole lot of fucking money in it. So I’m here reading the latest version of ‘What Color is Your Parachute’ hoping that it tells me how to get more of that green and white, or travel back in time, or something….

...Worth a thousand words

Part white-supremacist, part misogynist, part narcissist…100% Gotdammed Monster. By now we all know that Arnold cheated on his wife. We know that Arnold had a kid with his mistress and that he employed her in his household for over a decade. We also know that this guy has always been out of control. Of course there's also a lot that we don't know, as the devil tends to be in the details (or so I've heard). It's hard to wrap your mind around the implications of these actions or his mindstate, which allowed him to orchestrate these events over the last decade (and change). The average person (by this I mean non-monster) could not begin to conceptualize the coldness and emotional vacancy that the man has to possess in order to sleep at night. Arnold is not to be idolized. He is not to be celebrated. Here at Monsters' Inq we don't have any intintions of aligning ourselves with him or making him the posterboy for our continued campaign into grown monsterhood. However, that does not mean that there isn't a lot to be learned from the spectacle that this man has made of his life. This guy makes my monster look like elmo. There's a lot I can do with that last sentence in reference to his past but I'm going excercise some restraint and leave it right there. Surely we'll pick this up in a more well thought out fashion in the near future.

The Weeknd - What You Need (Official Music Video)

Wicked Girls & Glass Table Games

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about posting a couple of paragraphs up here about something that I read or a discussion that I had. However, that rarely happens, but I am not the only one to blame. That is neither here nor there, it's family business.

Evidently, today is special. Today, I wish to play a little game of show & tell. I shared a musical interest with someone special this morning and during the course of our conversation about it, I realized how selfish the two of us were being by keeping this our little secret. So, with no further ado I present to you the music on my mind: The Weekend's 'House of Balloons'.

This groups' 9 track mixtape just simply appeared on music blogs all over the place a little over a month ago. Much of their notoriety and legitimacy is due to their project being linked to a certain mainstream emo-rap hipster that shares a hometown and penchant for moody soundscapes with them. A quick listen to any track off of "House of Balloons" should quickly remind the listener of the tone to songs like "Bria's Interlude", "Cece's Interlude", and/or "Paris Morton Music". But that isn't to say that the HOB mixtape is overly emotional or sensitive about anything. It doesn't make a grown man want to go shave his legs and slip into a pair of skinny jeans. It also doesn't inspire whining about social privilege to some other overly sensitive bastard who is too afraid of hurting your feelings to tell you, "do yourself a favor, go kill yourself." No, this is Monster music.

That is the very reason that I am posting about this music here. We're quite the musical bunch, though you wouldn't know it by reading our past blog entries. The music offered here declares itself deviant and embraces alienation in a way that I found particularly refreshing. In a market-driven medium that leaves little choice for artists other than to pride themselves on being in the "in" crowd, this group walks a fine line without ever crossing over it. The main vocalist sounds at times like the Dream, or Trey Songs, or maybe Frank Ocean;but he doesn't talk or behave has they would. Over sparse, electro pop and r&b melodies, The Weekend's songs embrace scandalous sex acts, and drug culture. Their songs sound of the deliberate act of throwing caution to the wind, without rage, angst, or regret.

This is the soundtrack to my scotch-soaked Port Tuesday after party. When played continuously it creates a soundscape to lusting after someone you shouldn't, and yet you remain undeterred. This is Monster music to creep to (*do you see what I did right there? nice). So start with track #1 "High for this" and let it ride. I'm not going to post links or anything for it. Simply google "House of Ballons" + mediafire and a link will magically appear for you to download the album & enjoy just in time for the Monster's ball.

Pissing Excellence in the Wind

Today (March 7^th, 2011) is the day that Prodigy of Mobb Deep is released from prison. I’m happy for him and his family. Prodigy is one of my favorite MC’s. That’s not to be confused with being considered one of the best. Wu-Tang has always been full with great MC talent, anyone of them who could conceivably maintain favorite status. However, only a couple of the noted rhyme slingers out of the Wu-Tang camp would ever be considered one of the best to ever breathe on the mic.

On the other end of the spectrum, an artist like Jay Z would probably easily gain a consensus of opinion that he is one of the best ever. This consensus would be achieved easily amongst both his peers and music fans alike.

However, this doesn’t mean that Jay is one of your favorite artists. At least in my case this is true. As I’ve grown older I have been able to greater appreciate Shawn Carter’s vision and approach to his craft. With that said, there are many other artists that I enjoyed much more than the Jay Z songs that came on the radio and many of my friends listened to incessantly.

Case in point, the Old Dirty Bastard. He wasn’t even the best MC/artist in the Wu-Tang Clan, but he was hands-down my favorite. While everyone was fixated on Method Man & his clever wordplay early on in their career, ODB was the one who I was listening for. Old Dirty had this ability to verbalize the sounds in his head and use inflection to capture his sentiment perfectly without the use of actual words. For example, one classic ODB line goes: “I’m cherry bombin’ shit, BOOM, just warming up a little bit, VROOM-VROOM.” Before Old Dirty, no one was crazy enough to even attempt a line like that without the fear of intense ridicule and career suicide.

Back to my point, Prodigy, one of my favorite MC’s comes home today. It makes me feel good to both publicly welcome back to this side of the “G wall” and to be able to use his work to make a valuable point today. Mobb Deep’s music (particularly the “Infamous” album) sonically captured the feeling of many youth on the violent streets of urban centers across America. In the song “Survival of the Fittest” Prodigy rapped, “There’s a war going on outside, no man is safe from. You can run but you can’t hide forever, from these streets that we done took, you’re walking wit your head down scared to look. You’re shook, cause ain’t no such thing as half-way crooks.”

The verse from “Survival…” is a classic. More importantly, the sentiment that it communicates is powerful and represents a turn in the genre where artists began embracing “reality rap”. Whether or not it was truly Prodigy’s first person narrative, he wrote in the voice of a young urban outlaw in one of the most dangerous areas of New York. He spoke to the mentality of youth entrenched in urban warfare, a game of survival of the fittest. Most importantly for the purposes of this writer & this blog he embraced his deviance as normative, he embraced his monster.

Sure, Mobb Deep is predated by the likes of N.W.A, Ice-T, and Kool G Rap. However, what makes them different is that their music wasn’t about them being “the guy”, the dope man, the quintessential gangster. Their music was more on par with a slice-of-life perspective of the low to mid-level everyman.

Here’s where things take an interesting and most unexpected turn. One must keep in mind that although there is a grain of truth to what is being communicated through Mobb Deep’s music, it’s still only entertainment. That monster music is there to entertain individuals with truths, half-truths, exaggerations, critical omissions, and flat out lies for art’s sake. Not even Mobb Deep is Mobb Deep (See Jay Z’s summer jam performance from 2001: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jay-Z_vs._Nas_feud). Prodigy (legal name, Albert Johnson) went to jail for losing his sense of balance, for letting his monster roam free without rules, for letting Prodigy overrun the will and conscience of Albert Johnson. Basically, he was imprisoned for going Charlie Sheen (the verb, not the proper noun).

It took my muse recently to direct my attention to the spectacle that is Charlie Sheen. It seems that everyone has developed an opinion one way or another about what has widely become recognized as his media meltdown. Up until the last few days I purposely looked away figuring that this had no bearing on me, or how I live my life. However, mark my words when I say that there is something that we can all learn from the grand unmasking of Charlie Sheen.

Charlie Sheen is not only a monster. One worthy of not only our acknowledgement but our full, undivided attention. He is a samurai without a master and no rules of engagement. He is THE monster, his deviance is unrivaled, his candor unmatched, and his filter, nonexistent.

We know that Charlie (CS henceforth) has lived a privileged life, and that’s putting it mildly. CS is the flesh & blood embodiment of Ricky Stratton from “Silver Spoons”, never having wanted for anything. He grew up to work in an industry where his career path is determined by his awesome talent of being born the son of a famous actor. There is no real reason care about the man as a normal human being one way or another.

But wait, as he grows older he begins to diverge from his path of normalcy in privilege. We would be remiss if we didn’t note that normal is a relative term and is most likely an unknown in this equation. So, we’ll equate normalcy with common perception given our socio-cultural metanarrative on what we should assume an upstanding well-to-do man to behave like.

CS has been berated, less for his lifestyle choices and general position in life than for his language and attitude of superiority. Surely, knowing what we know about CS up until this point in time, should you poll all Americans on if they would trade places with CS today, at least 80% would (and I consider that a low figure).

The man has fame, wealth, family, lives a rock star lifestyle, has an open relationship with two women (“the goddesses”…who also allow him to have orgies with porn stars), and just got fired from a job that is required to continue payment to him of millions of dollars. The man has tiger blood coursing through his veins. He is a miracle of science. He is right. That is winning. The media and the court of public opinion seem to disagree, but I don’t know that they should.

What his critics contend is that CS has lost sight the fact that it was not his reckless and deviant behavior that achieved his present lifestyle for him. The monster & drug that is CS is not perceived by the public as either virtuous or meriting his extravagant behaviors and attitude. In fact, common knowledge would indicate that it was the meticulous balance of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by his father that secured him the opportunity to embrace the monster’s ball that he calls life. The monster unchecked is a dangerous thing. No one can go all “monster”, all the time.

Nobody likes the monster to walk amongst us unabated, and even fewer condone his/her selfish indulgences in theory. No one wants to acknowledge its existence though we all have intimate knowledge of its whereabouts and how it moves through life. His (what the astrologer would call) “off the record” behaviors have become the CS narrative in its entirety. I personally think that it’s all a well choreographed act. Nobody during the course of one conversation drops that many priceless quotable statements. Dave Chapelle couldn't make up such an outrageous persona (Wayne Brady was good...but come on). No matter what, the material that he’s producing is of the highest quality. Either we are watching the epic self-destruction a solipsistic hedonist or maybe as CS says we should just, “sit back & enjoy the show.”

Welcome home Prodigy. I hope that you get a chance to check out the drug that is CS. No matter how you slice it, he’s winning. As Prodigy could tell you better than anyone else, life is a game. It is, “survival of the fittest, only the strong survive”...and all CS more than surviving, he's winning.

Enter: Alistair Cookie

As a youth, I was a big fan of Sesame Street and the Muppet Show. Of course I was. When I was around ten years old it was normal for kids my age to watch and enjoy those shows. Naturally, kids would be drawn to different characters and we would argue over our personal favorites. But I had a particular interest in the monsters that were featured on these shows. I enjoyed that the characters who were monsters had a tendency to “go monster” from time to time. The same case could be made for the characters that were animals (think “Animal” from the Muppet Show), aliens, and weirdos.

I think that what caught my attention and imagination most was that being a monster as performed on the shows meant being deviant or “bad” sometimes (and not necessarily at other times). Sometimes being a monster translated into being uncivilized or giving into “primal” or base urges. Such behaviors weren’t condemned but they did serve the purpose of reminding the other characters and viewers that they were monsters (and that’s what monsters do). There was a certain element of chaos and recklessness that for instance, Cookie Monster, could deliver but other intriguing characters like Ernie or Fozzy Bear could not.

My absolute favorite skit was the “Monsterpiece Theatre” bit from Sesame Street. The Muppet Show may have offered more nuanced themes and matured humor, but for some reason the “Monsterpiece” sketch resonated with me the most. For those unfamiliar or in need of being refreshed, Monsterpiece Theatre was a parody of the popular 70’s – 80’s program “Masterpiece Theatre”. The PBS show was well noted for its refined English host (Alistair Cooke) would introduce segments of an ongoing miniseries filled with drama and mystery. On Monsterpiece Theatre, Cookie Monster played a monster playing the part of a refined host (Alistair Cookie) of a television show, but prone to outbursts and erratic behaviors.

So, I would just fall out every time I caught the show. Here’s this monster in a silk robe and ascot, seated in a high-back chair, and smoking a pipe while talking broken English, slowly. I loved every minute of it. In fact, I probably love it even more now. In a certain light I relate to that character. Yeah, I said it. I relate to an imaginary, puppet-monster character mocking the performance of an aristocratic English gentleman. How is that so different from what I do now? I’m an invisible man who code-switches so as to not only be acknowledged, but embraced by a community that thrives on its ability to keep others like me (and sometimes me specifically) invisible...or at very least, a puppet. In some ways, the monster in gentleman’s clothing is how I see myself. To take the relation a step farther, the opposite is probably equally as true, I can also be a gentleman in monster’s clothing. That is surely an entirely separate entry however (tie a knot around that point and we’ll come back to it at a later date).

Since I was a youth I would watch personalities like Alistair Cooke (not Cookie), teachers, politicians, etc., and be amazed at how well they performed their identities. I would wonder if one could always stay in the moral, upright, dignified character. I would wonder who they were when they were “off the record”. I couldn’t believe that Alistair Cooke could be the Masterpiece Theatre guy at home and behind closed doors. What a bore he and others with similar performances must be if those characters were their totality (kill yourself Alistair Cooke...not "Cookie").

I am Alistair Cookie. I live in a small library and smoke a pipe. I am a cookie-eating monster posing as a refined gentleman with an innocent milk mustache. I am a man predisposed to erratic, monster-like behaviors. I am sure that the ‘Masterpiece’ host was too. It’s just that at some point I decided to own up to the fuzzy, wide-eyed monster hiding under the silky robe. 2011 is the year of the monster within. Reporting live from inside a couple single malt highballs, somewhere deep in a thick fog of pipe smoke, planning your untimely demise.

The Problems With Birthday Sex

Conventional thinking would have it that birthday sex is a cause for celebration.  After all, what’s more individually satisfying than sex, and more self aggrandizing and gratifying than one’s birthday?  The mere thought of combining the two should naturally conjure thoughts of fireworks and reckless breakdancing fits.  As far as that last thought is concerned, maybe it’s just me who gets excited and explodes in to dance moves like: the robot, the schoolcraft, & the cabbage patch (I can’t breakdance, but if I could it would be the ultimate expression of joy).   As a footnote, I have to include that when dancing is inappropriate or space is constrained, I simply Earl Flynn to myself (some of these are regional dances, but visual reenactments may be found via You Tube. Try: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zO5hRRr7JWQ or http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxvzqbnT4Vk ).

But I digress, getting back on topic, culturally, we celebrate the idea of sex on our birthday.  One’s birthday is a special occasion for a myriad of reasons.  Not only is it an occasion where the individual celebrating the birthday is allowed excessive gluttony and self-serving behavior but others are expected to both cater to and encourage it.  One’s birthday is also a rarity, occurring annually with no exceptions, so it holds a treasured status.  Combine this understanding of accepted birthday behavior with the very concept of sexual intercourse and all sorts of deviance and indulgences (if not prohibited, then simply unpracticed) are added to the field of play. 

Popular music even has a song celebrating such an occasion entitled, “Birthday Sex”, by Jeremih.   The title of the song, like the physical performance, purposely lacks poetry.  It’s egregious in its sense of purpose and general approach towards its craft.  The chorus of the song simply repeats, “birth-day-sex, birth-day-sex, birth-day-sex.”  It is melodic though painfully simple and uncreative.  It drones on at an obnoxious pace forcing its way into consciousness.  Yet again, I digress.

Sex on one’s birthday is an expectation that grows with age.  In one’s youth, sex is far more common and yet, still very new and exciting on a consistent basis.  However, as the brutal harshness and redundancy of everyday life begins to take its toll, one’s birthday in and of itself becomes a refuge.  And on this day of the year when selfishness is virtue, those drunk on the wine of immodesty want the ultimate power, sex.  Yes, sex gives the power to an individual to completely dominate (or allow one’s self to be dominated by) another, physically and/or emotionally.  Without it being explicitly stated, our cultural understanding is that birthday sex should be easily the ultimate sexual experience.  It’s a once-a-year 24-hour free sex pass.

So, what’s wrong with engaging in birthday sex?  What evil lies in engaging your most erotic sexual whims if only once a calendar year?  And should we not find any moral/ethical grounds for choosing an anti-birthday sex stance, where did I develop such an unpopular political leaning?

Well, it should not come as a great surprise that the concept of birthday sex is anathema to me by virtue of its own narcissism.  It is often assumed that such narcissism is normative and all individuals expect the privilege of birthday sex, which is somehow owed through birthright.  In fact, such selfishness is so normative that the very concept of birthday sex becomes cliché through the perspective of age.  It loses its creativity, vigor, and edge in becoming formulaic over the years.  Furthermore, the power dynamic can be contrived and cumbersome.   Finally, the pageantry of birthday sex takes from the sexual performance one of its major positive characteristics, spontaneity ¾or more specifically, the perceived value of being an organic object of affection.

To narrow the scope, I can speak for the married man and long-term boyfriend by acknowledging that the requirement of sex can make it a chore.  Maybe it is more true for women in these situations.  The birthday becomes a physical and emotional obligation.  Sometimes the obligation requires one to perform special sex acts and other times to be bothered to care in some capacity one way or another.  It’s assumed that two people in a relationship want to have wild, deviant, uninhibited, sex.

My conclusion is that birthday sex is a cultural artifact that tends to go overlooked or at least it travels below the radar of common discourse.  Though it may be of tremendous benefit if only as a last rights to sexual intercourse for some monogamous parties, it is largely a single person’s game.  Those who can most appreciate birthday sex in our culture are those who are single or in a short-term relationship.  For them, sex often retains a premium value.  In fact, birthday sex is little more than another excuse to have sex.  The fact that this occasion is due to a birthday establishes that the sex must be special and particularly pleasing to the sexual honoree. 

This typically is not the case for the married and those in long standing partnerships.  The power dynamic of sex between partners shifts and changes in many ways over time.  Birthday sex still has meaning, but what that meaning is will vary from year to year.  History has a way of shaping power relationships, and therefore sex, over time changing perception, passion, and overall drive. 

This all brings me back to my point and the genesis of this article.  Last week I was confronted with the ultimatum that is birthday sex and felt the need to balk on the request.  Instantly I was faced with what felt like the rejection of someone else’s natural rights.  But then came the perplexing question of how the violation of someone else’s natural rights could be dependent on my inaction.  The answer was easy, because birthday sex is not a natural right, it’s a cultural practice (& a foolish one at that).  Why should one wait until their birthday to fulfill their sexual desires and engage their sexual imagination?  What exactly is the purpose of making an event out of sex and inhibition when it is so readily available to us? It's a game of power and the illusion of compliance. That is the problem of birthday sex. I, for one, want no parts of it.

The Anticipated Loneliness of the Strip Club

Something about most strip clubs these days bothers me. And no, it isn’t the objectification of the dancers, or the way they prance and grind and pop and swing for dollar bills. I love that shit. That shit is the whole reason that I go to the strip club in the first place. It’s the owners, the designers, the architects of the strip club that usually get it all wrong. And I know what you’re thinking, The premise is simple – men pay to enter, women dance on stage and then come out and try to separate as much money from the men as possible.’ But there’s so much more to it, at least for me. If I could design my own strip club, here are some of the things I would feature:

The Entrance: First off, you have to get the entrance right. It can’t look like you are entering the backalley entrance of some all-night crap-game. No steel doors please. What we need is an entrance, non-descript, but something with a decent lobby to appropriately transition you to the world you are about to enter.

The Lighting: Next, you have to get the lighting right. The worse thing about the strip clubs that I’ve been in (and to be honest, I haven’t been in that many) is that they don’t use the lighting to their advantage to set the mood and tempo of the place. Personally, I feel like the house lights should rise and fall when a new dancer comes out on stage, like the way it does when one goes to the opera, or to see a live play. You have to recognize each woman’s performance as a performance, a three-act play with an opening, climax, and conclusion. As the woman is finishing her dance, the lights would go up (as if to say this act is over) and they would stay up until another dancer is ready to come on stage. So much of sex and sexuality is about picking up on non-verbal cues, about knowing how to read the signals, the signs. Varying the lights would compel the patrons to pay attention even on a subconscious level, and that would help alleviate the biggest downfall of the strip-club (see below).

The Tempo: One of the most common mistakes I’ve seen strip clubs make is not allowing some time to pass between dancers. There have been times when I wanted to go to some owners and tell them: “You know, even a teenagers dick needs to go soft every once in a while”. For god’s sake people, give us five minutes between sets. Let us mill around some, go to the bathroom, get up and get a drink without feeling like we’re going to be missing something. In other words, let the iron cool for a minute before you heat it back up again. I know it seems like a simple concept, but if this doesn’t happen, I think you very likely increase the chance the biggest downfall of the strip-club happening.

The Anticipation: I know I’m going to get a lot of disagreement on this one, but I personally think the strip-club experience would be greatly enhanced if all the dancers didn’t take off ALL their clothes ALL of the time. I think dancers should be prepared to take it all off, but should reserve the right (as part of their professional judgment) to leave the g-string on if they so desire. Frankly, if they feel aren’t getting the enthusiasm (or the tips) they deserve, they should be able to leave it on. Tell the truth, wouldn’t you be more likely to throw dollars at the stage if you though that by doing so you could make something happen?

The Other People: Perhaps Jean Paul Sartre really knew what he was talking about when he said ‘hell is other people’. It certainly is in the strip club. In my perfect world, strip clubs are designed more like opera houses, with a woman on stage below, surrounded on all sides and above by box seats (I know this presents an obstacle to the whole ‘throwing dollars on stage’ thing but we’re really moving away from paper currency anyway). That way, while sitting in my box seat, sending dollars to her via credit card (with her running total of donations flashed on a sign above her head) I could maintain the illusion that I am alone there, in the strip club, with only my melancholy, and a lone dancer taking off (or perhaps NOT taking off) her clothes to comfort me. I certainly can’t speak for anyone else, but the times of my strongest desire to go to the strip club are when I feel the most lonely and detached from the world, and when I am feeling that way, I want to seek out other people who are lonely and detached. And what is the description of a dancer at a strip club if not that? Who are they if not those who have to pretend to pretend to pretend? The truth of the matter is, I don’t go to the strip club to see the dancers, or touch them, or talk to them, I go to the strip club because they are times in my life (hours, days, weeks) when I feel like I am them – just a person going through a series of motions to get paid. And at those times, they are the only people I feel can understand what I’m going through.

The Biggest Downfall of the Strip Club: Boredom, plain and simple. Believe me, there’s nothing worse than that moment of recognition in the club when one asks oneself: “What the hell am I doing here? Isn’t Sportscenter on right now?” And boredom is exactly what happens when one stops being engaged, I dare say, when one stops being surprised by what happens at the strip club. At that to me is the fundamental irony of the strip club. We all know, as humans, that what we crave most is occasional variation, particularly in the realms of sex and sexuality. But most strip clubs these days are an exercise in soul-crushing monotony. Which is funny, because the very thing that most women think men go there to get, something ‘new’, is the very thing that most strip clubs don’t offer.