Fatboy's Adventures in Live Performance: A Lesson in Frustration

Part I

Gabe called me in november. I was mildly surprised. The last time I
had hung out with Gabe, he threw a 40 bottle through some preppie's
rear window and shoved a gun up under the man's chin. Needless to say,
I had to run from the cops that night. Country cops. Because we, and
my 10 friends, had inexplicably decided that we should spend that
night hanging out with a bunch of closed minded xenophobic fucking
rednecks at the oversized hoedown they were throwing. And when shit
inevitably popped off, because no one I hang out with in Salem knows
how to fucking act, people got gun barrels poked up under their jaw.

Long getaway boiled down--everyone in my car ducked out clean.
Everyone in the car behind me got rolled. One of my friends got 2 1/2
years for violating the terms of his suspended sentence. One got her
car towed and impounded. She got to ride past it and look at it as her
friends picked her underage ass up from the podunk jail after being
released on Minor in Posession charges.

Gabe jumped in my car. And so Gabe was calling me 3 months later. Gabe
had rented out a new-to-Salem, struggling nightclub. And he wanted me
and Mayhem to perform. And Mayhem was itching to do it. It was to be 5
bucks a person, 21 and over, full bar, food on order, and we had the
place from 8 to 4 in the morning. all for 200 bucks flat. Gabe would
put up the money. That meant only 40 people would have to show up for
him to break even. We could pull 40 people in our sleep. No problems.
May had been calling and was itching to do it. We'd last performed in
Salem at the Game Dog records coming out party. Bad omen for Game Dog
that no one remembers any of their recording artists from that show.
They DID however, remember our 5 song set, which blazed the 300 some
odd people in the room. Remembering back on that night, and
considering how cool it was, considering the bar would be ours until
4, considering it would essentially one huge house party subsidized by
someone else's money, I told Gabe I was down. It was set for December
19th. We'd do about 15 songs, and I'd spin for the rest of the night.

Yes, I still remembered Gabe being responsible for my boy catching 2
1/2. Yes, I remembered that at age 25, I was once again running from
the cops in my car like a dumbass teenager, taking backroads at 95
miles an hour because of Gabe's dumb ass. Yes, I felt equally stupid,
disgusted, angry and sad about the turn of events. But this sounded
like it'd be bigger than Gabe, and that aside from putting up the
money, Gabe wouldn't really factor in too much, and I really wouldn't
have to deal with him aside from making sure shit at the venue was
cool. Plus, when was the last time lazy ass Mayhem ever showed this
much ambition? He was more gung ho about it than I was. That jazzed
me. That pushed me over the edge to agreeing to do it.

This was my fucking idiocy stepping in and taking control. This was me
gambling, hoping that just this once, for once, it'd all work out,
that we might actually get paid for this shit for once, that there'd
be no fights, no cops, no drama, no guns, no one getting beaten to
shit as soon as we were done rapping. This was me assessing the
situation, and instead of preparing for the worst, I just hoped for
the best. Blind hope.

Blind hope is fucking dangerous.

I kept in contact with May. We planned out a set list. I went to work
re-producing all those old beats from the janky sounding "OCK TAPES"
that made the rounds via dubs and dubs and more dubs back in
2000-2001. We talked back and forth, figuring how to fit verses into a
more manageable length, what to cut,
what to keep, how to re-work. We practiced every weekend, and I burned
plenty of miles and gas fumes running back and forth from my new city
to the old one, hauling my recording equipment back and forth, going
over shit, re-writing and such, and hammering a set list and a show
script into place.

And then Gabe expressed interest in performing. Now, the promoter
should typically NEVER be the performer. the shit just doesn't work.
if you're paying for the venue, if you're collecting profits off the
gate, it'd behoove you to pay more attention to the door, to the
customers, to the bar, then it would for you to be worrying about
remembering lines and getting up on stage.

Oh yeah. This is the part where I should mention Gabe has nationwide
warrants out for his arrest and he's looking at a 10 year bid if he
ever gets locked up. And now he wants to bust a rap and put his rap
name up on the flyer. His rap name? "Nationwide"

but then again...Gabe's paying for it. He bought the place. He bought
the time. And what he wanted to do with the time was perform. I
shrugged my shoulders and said "Sure, man, it's your show" So we
tinkered with the set list some more, trying to fit in a spot for Gabe
to get a verse or two off.

And then Triple F productions came through.

Triple F productions is the crew I posted about before--the ones who
wanted me to DJ for them at a show...except I wouldn't get paid, I'd
have to reproduce beats, I'd have to RE-LEARN how to produce beats,
and I wouldn't get paid, and I wouldn't be able to actually DJ on
stage with them, because they wanted more room onstage for their 5 man
crew. Oh yeah, and I wouldn't get paid.

Ysa (pronounce it "eesa") from Triple F is a friend from way back,
predating Triple F ever coming together. Gabe wanted to rhyme with him
as well. So we worked out a song where we all do verses. Recorded it.
Fit it in. Cut a couple songs from the set list to make room and trim
it up. Ysa's verses were real fucking sick. This was a dope addition,
something unexpected turning out good. Everyone expressed
satisfaction, and now we were down to the nuts and bolts of just
rehearsal, rehearsal, rehearsal.

And then it turns out that ALL of Triple F wants to be in the show
now. And now Gabe is on the phone with Jimbo, the guy who
unsuccessfully tried to talk me into being his non-deejay DJ at his
show. And somehow Gabe has guilt tripped this kid into performing as
the second act at OUR show for NOTHING. Of course, now this means we
gotta chop our set list even SHORTER to fit in another 8 songs by this
other group, who are now going to come on in the middle of our set
after the group song featuring Gabe and Ysa. So we cut the shit out,
re-arrange, plan it all out, call it good.

One week later.

Gabe wants to do ANOTHER song. I find out when he calls me after I get
off work and asks if I can whip up a beat real quick. I tell him I
left a cd of beats over at May's, anything we're not using at the show
(about 70% of the beats on the CD) he's free to use. I get a call back
a day later. Now he and Ysa are wanting to do a song together. I say
"That might work, you come on in the middle, Ysa comes on, then me and
May jump in and we all do a song, then we go back to just me and May,
that'll work" and Gabe agrees, BUT:

"Ysa don't really like none of the beats on that CD"
"Well, May's got another one, I thin--"
"Oh, I got one too."

I pause, because I don't know why this motherfucker has one of my beat
cd's, since he's not in my crew and I sure as fuck never gave him one.

"You got one?"

"Yeah, May let me have it."

Fucking Mayhem.

"Oh. Well, run that one past him, see how he feels about that."
"he don't like those, neither. He says he aint feelin em."
"well, shit. Is there anyone else you know who got beats?"
"Yeah, there's this one cat, ysa's supposed to be bringing those beats
through
later tonight."
"well, cool. check those out. I'll just go ahead and chop another song
or two off the--"
"Yeah, that's another thing. We gotta make sure the bitches stay
around, man, make sure the bitches are happy, and I dunno, that set
list is pretty long, the bitches might get bored and shit if we don't
do some clubby shit."
"Uh..me and may don't have any clubby shit, man, you know that."
"Oh, I know, I'm saying like, when you spin afterwards, man. I think
we gotta get to that sooner in the set."
"Okay..so, yeah, I'll just chop a couple more songs out the set list
then, like I was saying."
"Cool, awright dog. This is gonna blow up, man, this is gonna be the
shit."
"You know it. Get back at me with the word on those beats."
"Awright man. Good lookin out."
"Peace."

I get a call the next day. We have about a week until the full
rehearsal, one day before the show.

"those beats homeboy brought through were wack."
"Damn. Well, can you talk Ysa into rocking over one of my beats, even
if he's not really feelin it? It's just for one show in one night,
maybe.."
"I dunno man. Hey, I'm gonna ask you a favor--"
Oh shit.
"Uh..what?"
"Can you like..uh, chop me up a beat real quick?"
Jesus Christ.
"I dunno man, this is some real short notice. You sure I don't have a
beat that fits the style already?"
"Well, I got this one song, from this Spice 1 and Celly Cell album,
and I was thinking if you could find it and loop this one part for me
and then.."
Ugh.
"Yeah, fine, I can do that."
"YO! Thanks a million, man, thanks, hook that up"
"You want typical 16/8/16 goin on?"
"Huh?"
"16 lines a verse, 8 lines a chorus, 3 verses a song."
"Yeah, do that. Thanks Fatboy."

I begin laying out the sample and figuring out some semi-decent way to
freak this without it being karaoke hour at the OCK show. Gabe calls.

"Hey, Fatboy, I got an idea."
"What up."
"You haven't made that beat yet, right?"
This is the night before the rehearsal, keep in mind.
"I'm doing it right now."
"Man, you're gonna hate me."
"PLEASE do not start your question off with a statement like that,
man."
"Could you make a beat out of this one track on the Criminalz album?"
"you want me to jack a completely DIFFERENT beat now?"
"Could you?"

...he gives me the track information and I chop the beat up, make it
something at least a LITTLE different from the original, and finish
the new-new-new-NEW-revised set list and master it to disc, in
order--by 2 in the morning.

I have to be at work at 7.

I still haven't packed up any of my equipment to load up in the trunk
and take down to the show to set up one night prior.

I fall asleep at 3.

Part II

I work at a call center. Specifically, a Utility Notification Center.
What happens there is that homeowners and contractors who are planning
on digging into the ground for whatever reason, are legally bound to
call us, and we then take their pertinent information, and forward it
to the utilities in the area so they can go out there with their spray
paint and mark out, on their property, where the underground lines run
so they don't dig them up and fuck a whole bunch of shit up.

In laymans terms, I sit on my fat ass all day, plugged into a headset,
trying to make sense of some mushmouth 3rd grade redneck dropout from
montana. What's even more depressing is this toothless barnyard rapist
OWNS his busines, and I'm answering phones FOR him. And having to eat
shit and grin while I choke it down, because HE doesn't know what
fucking STREET he's on.

"We don't have streets here."
"Well, sir, I can't really do anything for you without a named street
to work with. Does it have a number or anything?"
"I just told you, we don't have streets here."
"So, you're on an unpaved dirt road in the middle of nowhere?"
"YES, GODDAMMIT."
"Well, sir, I'm sorry, but I just can't send this out unless I have
some sort of street name to give the utilities so they know what
you're talking about."
"...It's Johnson Gulch Road."
"...The street has a name?"
"yeah, goddammit, it's right here on this paperwork."
"..okay. Do you know what the closest intersection is to Johnson Gulch
Road?"
"There is none."
"Even if you gotta drive like, 100 miles away, there's no intersection
with Johnson?"
"Goddammit, I just told you there's no intersection."
"you gotta turn off of SOMETHING to get to this street, sir, it
doesn't just start out of nowhere."
"...Road 31"
"So it INTERSECTS with road 31?"
"yes, goddammit, why do you have to ask all these fucking questions?"
"So the utilities know where you are."
"I KNOW what's out here, goddammit, just send them out here."
"I don't know who to send what to, until I map this thing out and.."
"Well this is just (hawks a loogie and spits) this is just
reeediculous"
"Do you know how far away you are from road 31?"
"...about a quarter mile"

And it continued like this with about ever 3rd caller FOR THE WHOLE
FUCKING DAY.

And then I got to drive to Salem (the bane of my existence) Oregon and
spend the rest of my night rehearsing. I tried not to think about the
fact I'd have to drive back to Portland after I was done and go BACK
to work that next morning.

I get to the venue. It's a renovated pizza place. The oven and kitchen
are still there, just roped off by a curtain. The DJ booth sits right
out in front of this, and it looks like the booth used to be the
order/pick up area. Not a bad layout. There's a little VIP room
section off in the corner, and another little pool table room in
another corner. Both spots perfect for after show pimping.

But then again, this is me getting way the fuck ahead of myself. As
per usual. I start setting up the equipment. And I start to plug in
the mic-mixer that May's friend Korey managed to score off his
crackhead cousin in-law. I guess it wasn't all that easy, the geezed
sonofabitch kept bugging Korey on the cellphone about it, as if we
were gonna break it or something. Like his tweeking ass knew how to
use it.

I plug it in.

Buzzing like a motherfucker. I switch plugs. Low level buzzing. I
switch outputs. Mid level buzzing. I plug back in to a different jack
and switch outputs. Back to buzzing like a motherfucker. I run it
through MY mixer. Amplified buzzing. I start all over and try the
different combinations of plug-in and connection like I'm trying to
solve a goddamn rubik's cube.

Nothing.

So now there's going to be 7 MC's at ONE show--with 2 microphones
total. And after we figure all THAT out, an hour has passed and the 10
people we brought with us are getting nicely soused up and hitting on
the semi-attractive bartender working the liks. I ask Gabe if it cost
extra to shut down the club on wednesday night for the rehearsal.

"The bar aint shut down."
"Huh?"
"It's still open."

I look around at NOBODY else in the bar but who we brought.

"It's like, 9pm, man."
"I know."
"Is this their TYPICAL wednesday night business?"
"Yeah."

Jesus. This place was like a fucking tomb and we were supposed to pack
this joint on a THURSDAY NIGHT in the middle of DECEMBER? I wasn't
even sure people knew this place existed.

"Don't sweat that, tho, Fatboy. Check this out."

There was a blurb in the paper about our show. Well that was a little
relieving. The owner came over to talk to me a little bit. I made
small talk. It turns out the police had called him a couple times to
tell him to lay off on all the flyers being posted around town. He
hadn't put them up, of course, Gabe did, but apparently downtown got
Plastered. So I felt a little reassured after that. Plus I
remembered--we could get 40 people in our sleep. We'd at the LEAST
make Gabe's money back. So I was cool.

Until rehearsal actually started.

First song. First line. Mayhem fucks up. Start over.

First song. First line. Mayhem fucks up. Start over.

First song. First line. Mayhem nails it.

..fucks up the 2nd line.

We run through it flawless after that, and proceed through the set
list point by point. Me and may are ironing shit out. The other 8 cats
there, Ysa and Gabe included, are busy paying ZERO attention, flirting
with the bartender and tossing back various rum n cokes and other
mixed drinks. by the time Ysa's ready to do the Triple F parts and
stand in for his crew on rehearsal (they didn't even bother to show
up, by the way) he's pretty faded. and then we do our group cut. It
takes 2 run throughs, because Mayhem has decided sometime during the
middle of the week to switch out his original verse with a completely
DIFFERENT verse. One that doesn't really fit.

"May, what was that."
"What, that's was my verse."
"Since when? I thought you were doing the "Sayin I aint got gaaame.."
"No, man, I'm doing this one."
"Why?"
"It fits better."
"But I programmed the beat to fit with that other one."
"It fits with this one, too."
"..you finish your rhyme 3 bars after the beat cuts out."
"It still sounds good."

FUCK.

"..Okay, I'll fix it when I get back home tonight."

Ysa does his stand in routine again, and then it's me and May to close
the thing out. Everyone basically clears out, drunk and playing pool
and paying zero attention to the show or the cues. Which is fine, at
this point, because I'd almost rather the motherfuckers left so it'd
be easier to concentrate. And we're halfway through "Click with Clout"
when mayhem suddenly stops rapping.

"...what's up."
"You're supposed to be scratching right there."
"What?"
"after that one line, I just stop and you're supposed to start
scratching right there."
"Noooooo. That's never how the song's gone."
"Oh, I know, but I was thinking, it'd sound better this way."
"But the beat isn't even set up that way."
"So?"
"So...we can't do it that way, I have it set up to go how it's ALWAYS
gone, May."
"Can't you fix it like that?"
"No, man, I don't even know what line you're talking about, and on top
of that, it'd sound like shit."
"No it wouldn't man.."

I AM THIIIIIS FUCKING CLOOOOOOOSE

"May, let's just do it the way it's always been done. it's easier that
way, we don't have to try to remember any changes and.."

I'm interrupted by three middle aged men entering the bar. I'm just
basically shocked because it's 10:30 and these are the FIRST
legitimate bar customers I've seen the entire time. and they're
shitkickers. The bar is called "the house of funk" and the only
clientele at 10:30pm is crew-cut shitkickers. But fuck it. The
rehearsal must go on, and chances are they'll just turn up their nose
and be out once they hear our horrible affront to melody and go back
to their S-10's, Alan Jackson blaring out of the stock deck.

Mayhem is eventually talked into doing the song the old way. And then
I start in with "Product of Society." Some of you RMHH readers are
familiar with this cut--it's the story rhyme about a trainyard bombing
run/confrontation with local police. The chorus has a charming little
piece that goes

"Fuck them one times/Fuck them cops
Fuck them piggies cuz the shit don't stop
Kaos Cru gon' do what it takes
so fuck all busters, buck all fakes"

And I'm ripping through, and as is typical, my drunk friends come out
of their hidey holes to hear this. and the rednecks have started
paying serious attention all of a sudden. I notice this, and I'm
mildly curious. The song aint THAT good that I'm converting these
hee-haw motherfuckers, am I?

I finish the song with a loud, triumphant blast of that chorus printed
above. My boys go nuts. Drew comes up to give me pounds and a hug. He
leans over and whispers in my ear. I don't hear him at first, so while
still hugging him, I'm like "what?"

"Those guys are cops."

Blink.

Every shitkicker there has pulled out their cellphone and is dialing,
back turned to us.

"I'm out, Fats."

And thus, Drew was out. Good riddance, Drew. I've got a story about
Drew. I'll post it later. You'll like it.

Anyway, Gabe comes up and tells me the same thing, except in a more
agitated, sketchy manner. I front like it didn't bug me that much.
Gabe calls me on it. I've had enough.

"What the fuck, Gabe, they can't arrest us for rapping."
"Awright man, awright, but lets just shut the shit off for--"
"We can't, me and May still gotta go over that first song again,
because he fucked up like, 4 straight times in a row"
"Okay, right--"
"Plus you still need to work on your song, cuz you came in a bar too
late on the intro and on the 2nd chorus."
"Right, yo, Fats, me and Ysa here, we were thinking..."
"No, I'm not gonna make another beat for you."
"Nah, it aint that."
"What is it then."
"Well, the set, it's a little long"
"It's about an hour or so, maybe an hour 10."
Ysa chimed in: "I clocked it at about an hour 30"
"yeah, but that's with all the breaks and start overs and whatnot."
"Okay," Gabe said, "But still, you gotta remember, we got all the hoes
to be thinking about."
"An hour aint bad, an hour of rapping and then we get to the clubby
shit and then we've got the feminine side taken care of for the whole
rest of the night."
"I think we need to move it up sooner."
"What, cut an extra song or two?"
"Oh hell no, people are here to see you."
"...then what's the deal?"
"I think we need to break it into two sets." ysa said. Gabe nodded. I
blinked.
"What?"
"Like, after our first set" Ysa started, "We just kinda, break for a
little bit, and then--"
"And then you and May come back on, we go some more, and then after we
do the group cut, we spin some more clubby shit, and then we come back
on after--"

It was all fuzz after that. Really. I just laid my head down on my
mixer and waited until the droning falling out of Gabe's mouth
dwindled to nothing. I reached for the set list and held it up.

"What the fuck happened to this thing, you guys? Didn't we all agree
to this set list? didn't we say this was cool?"
"Well, yeah, but that was before we rehearsed it" Ysa said.
"The show is going to take an hour, tops, all the way through. there
is absolutely NO space for us to break, spin some fucking club shit,
and then come back into the show."
"Why not?" gabe asked.
"Because we have it set up like THIS. everything is set to go like
THIS. THIS RIGHT HERE."
"Man," Gabe started, "You're not understanding me. you're like, not on
my level or something."

Oh my fucking...he did not just...

"No, Gabe, I guess not, because last I talked with you motherfuckers,
you said 'Sure, Fatboy, this is cool, set it up just like that,
program all the cuts, go ahead.' and yunno, what, that's JUST WHAT I
FUCKING DID."
"But we're going to lose the bitches, dude, they're not going to want
to listen to a full hour of OCK shit, man, c'mon."
"What, you just NOW thought of this shit? It didn't occur to you that
we're not very CLUB FRIENDLY before you asked us to perform?"
"Nah, it aint like that, I just think we should make sure that we keep
the hoes here for the whole show, and in order to do that, I think we
need to break up--"
"I'm NOT GOING TO FUCKING DO THAT. Jesus, you wait until 11:00 on the
night BEFORE the show to come up with a bright fucking idea to
COMPLETELY REARRANGE the song order?"
"What rearrange, motherfucker? Just stop the show and play some club
shit to make sure the hoes--"
"And what makes you think that giving them 20 minutes of "Work It" by
Missy Elliott only to go back to "Fuck it, I'll admit it, All I do is
Talk Shit" is going to keep them in the club, huh? You think after
being in a mindless dance mode that they're gonna want to hear a bunch
of graffitti geeks rap about how much better they are than their
fucking punk ass boyfriends?"
"...oh. yeah, didn't think of that."

We cool down. May runs through his shit one more time. Nails it. The
Cops leave once they figure out I'm not going to tell any more stories
of my friends killing their dogs and beating them down with paint
cans. Gabe runs through his song. We shut everything down, load up
into our cars, give daps, and roll off into the night.

On my way back down I-5, I think I hear a slight knock in my engine. I
roll down the window. Yeah. little knock in my engine. Not that bad,
tho. At least I dont' think so. Maybe it's been there for awhile, I
didn't notice because my music's been turned up? Nah. I'd have
noticed. I notice these things, and I'd have noticed a mild knock in
my engine. Besides, I just got the oil changed about 3,000 miles ago.
It'll be fine. I'll just let it cool down, no problems.

No problems.

I fell asleep at 2:30. Haven't seen my roomates in about 4 straight
days. Work at 7 again.

no breakfast. Cup of tea. Lock the door behind me.

Turn the key in the ignition.

Part III

My roomate and his wife like to clown me about my poor treatment of my
automobiles. I typically shrug it off, because they don't know what
the fuck they're talking about 3/4ths of the time. Okay, I'm
exaggerating. it's only about 1/4th of the time. And yeah, maybe I'm
not as nice to my car as he is to his, but then again, his shit has
gone in for repairs just about as much as mine has, so fat lot of good
his babying the motherfucker has done, right?

Okay, so I'm bitter because his car runs better than mine. Whatever.

So, I'm hearing his voice in my head as I let the car warm up a little
longer than I usually do. It's not exceptionally cold or nothing, but
still, I remember the knocking the car was making the night before,
and I figure maybe if I give the old bitch an extra minute or so to
idle, she'll feel better.

This is a blatant display of my ignorance concerning the internal
combustion engine.

I pull out and start on my way to work. And my engine, to repay me for
the extra warming up time, talks to me. I blinked in shock, my engine
talking to me.

My engine says "Ca CHUNK CHUNK CHUNK chink dink dink chink ca CHUNK
CHUNK"

I say "Oh, fuck no no no no no fuck no, not today, please, not today,
please"

and in answer, my car shuts up. I join in the silence. My eyes wide,
staring straight out at the road in front of me but not really paying
attention to it, which is why the red light kind of sneaks up on me
while I'm focusing solely on my engine, with my ears. I brake kind of
harshly.

No knock.

The light turns green.

I hit the gas.

"BRICKABRICKAJICKABRICKA CA CHUNK chunk chunk chunk."

"OH JESUS CHRIST GODDAMMIT MOTHERFUCKING SONOFAGODDAMNBITCH FUCK FUCK"

"CHUNKA CA CHUNKA"

And then the car started in with this horrible SHAKING as the
transmission tried to go from first gear to 2nd. and I, in my
inifinite wisdom, saw fit to mash my foot as hard as I could on the
gas pedal in the hopes it would jolt the car into second.

"chunka BA BLARK BLARK BUDUDUDUDUDUDUDUDUDUDUD"

And with one last horrendus shudder, the car lurched forward into
second. I had a half hour to make it to work still. And no cell phone.
and I still had to drive this all the way down to Salem. As if the
fucking car could read my mind, the loud shuddering kicked back in. In
a new rhythm, this time. And I remember thinking to myself that the
rhythm was actually kinda dope, this syncopated polyrhythm, and for a
second I was actually DIGGING on the sound of my car COUGHING ITSELF
TO DEATH as if there wasn't a care in the world.

the car managed to make it to work. By this time the only reason I'm
making it to work is because it's on the way to the auto shop and I
don't have a cell phone to tell them I'm not going to stay at work, I
have to get this thing to the nearest shop and have them fix this
motherfucker so I can get to salem and do this show that I've put in a
good month straight of planning and preparation for, basically just so
I can get on stage with May for the first time in a year, fully
expecting the show to blow up in our face as Gabe fucks us over one
way or another.

Storm in the office door. Christmas decorations everywhere. And now
I'm feeling REALLY happy, because I'd forgotten it was the Christmas
party at my work, and everyone's basically taking NO calls and
grubbing like a motherfucker off the HUGE potluck laid out in the
middle of the office.

And I get to sit in a mechanics office all day while they suck every
last ounce of green out of my already skimpy wallet. MERRY CHRISTMAS!
HO FUCKING HO.

The car limps to the mechanics. I step up to the counter, look up at
the TV. it's playing one of those evangelical pentecostal sing along
things where cheezy muzak keyboard christian rock is belted out while
psychotic, lonely people cry and wave their hands in the air and fall
down twitching and foaming occasionally. I look across the counter--no
car mags. Just "Pentacost Weekly" or some shit like that. A stack of
about FIFTY of them. I look over at the waiting table. two stacks of
fifty THERE, too. I look over by the register. BIBLE. I look up at the
walls to see the certifications. And there's a poster hanging in the
middle. A poster advertising the positive effects of THE BIBLE.

The TV is still singing at me. I look closer at the crowd. There's a
good 4,000 people in this little ass gym. and they all know the words.
And the lead singer, a stringy haired blond guy who I can TELL is just
another failed rock star who's there because he snorted too much coke
in his delusional daydreams of Kiss-style stardom, is jumping up and
down like the EMF keyboardist in the "Unbelievable" video. Praise God,
Amen.

They take my car apart. It takes an hour. In that hour I learn that
the TV is a tape loop. every half hour, the same 6 songs repeat. "More
of your Power. More of your Glory. More of your Power, O Lord." My
eyes start to glaze over. The Mechanic comes in and tells me that it's
probably a the rocker that fell back, they'll need to take off the
whole front and re-adjust it, it'll take about 4 hours and cost about
500 bucks, praise Jesus, more of my money, o lord.

I shit in my pants.

I tell him to go ahead and do it, because what the fuck ELSE am I
going to do? I can't drive the thing to another mechanic and pay them
another 150 to take apart my car and tell me they're going to take 4
hours to work on it. thing is, I don't HAVE an extra 500 in my bank
account. I have about 300. And rent is due in a week. and rent is 360.
So I did what any self respecting young single man would do in such a
predicament.

I called my mommy.

She threw 250 into my account, I thanked her profusely and silently
berated myself for being such a lazy, no good, irresponsible shiftless
waste of a son to have to call my mom at age 25 to please pay to fix
my problems because I'm too busy running around Salem playing rap star
with my fucking do-nothing friends stuck in their blissful rut in that
god-forsaken city. Still not having a cell phone, I used my phone card
to call Mayhem. The phone rings. there's a click. I hear may's voice
in the background. I hear other people talking. But no one is
answering the phone.

"Hello? Mayhem?"

No answer. just idle conversation in the background. I keep on with
the hello. I'm on the phone for a good 3 straight minutes, just
SCREAMING into the reciever hoping I'll finally get a hello. But
nothing. May has apparently turned on his phone and FORGOTTEN TO
ACTUALLY ANSWER IT AFTER HEARING IT RINGING.

Sometimes I hate that weedhead.

I hang up. Try to call back so he knows that I'm going to be late and
he can get the word out. I get his voice mail, because he STILL hasn't
shut off his first phone call from me. I leave the message, cuss him
out for not knowing how to fucking ANSWER HIS GODDAMN CELL PHONE and
hang up. I go to call my roomate.

"You have no minutes on this card."

And then, with 3 hours left to kill, I watched the Two Towers at the
theater down the street. Priorities, yunno.

Movie let out, I walk down to the shop. We have a problem with the
car, more of your money, more of my power, o lord. It's not the
rocker. He holds up this little metal rod. It's a little bent. He says
"this is a lifter. This is collapsed." I say "Oh." He says "I'm going
to have to replace the lifters on your car, it's gonna cost another
300 bucks on top of that. Now we have the parts here, so we can finish
it for you tonight, you'll be out of here at six--"

Last rehearsal STARTS at six.

"--and everything should be as good as.."
"Wait," I say, pointing to the list of charges he had marked down. "Is
it only THAT lifter that's collapsed?"
"Yeah."
"This says you're replacing all six."
"Yeah, we recommend you replace all six."
"But just the one is broke?"
"Yeah."
"Then just fix the one."
"the labor is the same price either way"
"Hey, I don't have all that much money, obviously. you see what I
drive, right? If I can get out of here just fine with you fixing ONLY
the broken lifter, I'd like for you to do that."
He agreed, knocked about 150 off the total price and grunted something
before he went back out the door. The videotape looped over one more
time. More of your Glory, keep them tears flowing, checks can be made
out to Brownsville ministries, PO Box blah blah blah.

Now I've not only shit myself, I just puked in my own mouth. I trudge
out the door, back to the phone booth, call my mom collect and try to
tell her I need even MORE money to sink into this piece of shit car
before I pass out and curl up in the fetal position right there at the
bottom of the phone booth. Mom, being a mom, is understanding and
sympathetic. Me, being the self-loathing insecure little shit that I
am, feel guilty and worthless as I hit my mom up for money I should
HAVE in my bank account if I was actually WORTH a shit as a human
being, right? And the low feeling, mixed with the impatience boiling
in my stomach, combined to make me....hungry.

So after I got done playing ms Pac Man at the deli and scarfing down a
toasted turkey sandwich on sourdough, I go back in the office where
another poor woman is suffering stringy blond burnout and the
Hallelujah band asking God for more of his Power in about 30 different
variations of the phrase. And the mechanic isn't working on my car,
but telling a story. about HIS car.

"So, just about every 3 or 4 months, like clockwork, my car's engine
just catches on fire. Really. It's just the way that model of Dodge,
in that year, it's just the way those are, because, the distributor,
it's faulty ,and all that energy, well, it's just that every 4 months,
my car just catches on fire, and on top of that, it only seems to
happen JUST when I pull into the parking lot here, so the people
across the street ALWAYS see it when it happens, can you believe
that?"

The mechanic I have working on MY car can't even fix his OWN car. And
his car actually BURSTS INTO FLAME UNDER THE HOOD every three or four
months. And I realize I'm NEVER going to make it to this show in time.
Why I'm still worried abou this, I don't know, I just went about a
grand deep into my mom's checking account and I have NO idea how I'm
going to pay her back. And on top of that, the cult chant that's been
looping on the TV is now FIRMLY entrenched in my brain. I half expect
to drop the needle, grab the mic and bust out with "MORE OF YOUR
POWER, O LORD!!"

Six O clock rolls around. They just finished wiping my car down. It's
time to cruise, so I go, to the House of Funk on commercial st, to set
up for my show. The car's runnin real fine--okay, enough of the
"Summertime" bite. the car is running okay, so I permit myself a
little relaxation. I've gotten to the club at 7:10 pm. Not bad for
bombing through interstate rush hour. I quick change in the bathroom,
grab the phone, call may. it rings. AND HE ACTUALLY ANSWERS. I stand
silently amazed for a second, then tell him and everyone else to get
down to the club.

"Which club."
"The CLUB, May. Yunno. The one we're rocking tonight."
"Oh, you're in town?"

Jesus Christ.

"Yes. Hurry up, we can still get an hour of run through in right quick
before the doors open at 8."
"Okay, man. Hey, how come you didn't stop by Gabe's earlier?"
"Didn't you get my message?"
"What message?"

JESUS H CHRIST.

"Nevermind, man. Just get over here, okay? We got a show to do."
"hehheheh..yeah. Word."

They show up. a HALF HOUR LATER. We run through one song with Jay and
do Gabe and Ysa's verse. Ysa's crew has yet to show up. The clock is
ticking over. I'm straightening my shit up. Got my records lined up.
The cd in the deck. the show ready to go. Lights dim. Strobes go.
Flashers go. Mirrorball starts spinning. the doors open.

There's nobody there.

Part IV

You know that feeling you get at Christmas, the one you're not supposed to
get, but you get it anyway? Right in the pit of your stomach? It works its
way up to your eyeballs and no matter how much your brain yells at you, you
can't stop your eyes from registering the fact after all the work and effort
you put into getting people gifts, the wrapping, the running around and the
shopping, dealing with the legions of ninnyhead numbfucks stalling lines of
cars 20 deep just to watch some tard in an SUV play with his brake lights
for 10 minutes before he finally backs out of a parking spot.. You go
through all of that, and in return, you get a poorly wrapped box of knitted
gloves from great aunt shirley. In Puke green. 3 sizes too small.

Thats about what I felt like when the doors opened at 8 pm.

I started spinning the pre-set set. You know what I mean. The JV squad set.
The set that includes all those one hit wonders from 1992 that weren't even
hits, they made it to number 6 on Friday Night Videos top 10. That shit. The
shit that makes you ask yourself what the fuck you were thinking, wasting
valuable crate space with this dreck..

People start filing in at 8:30. and then a good 50 people drop in all at
once at 9:00. Now, either Salem is all of a sudden on Hawaii time, or these
motherfuckers are under the mistaken impression that arriving fashionably
late is actually fashionable .This aint the goddamn Academy Awards. It's OCK
Cru with Triple F productions at a bar/club on a Thursday night in the
middle of december. But nevertheless, peoples are packed in their club best,
grinnin, homeboys lookin sideways at the homegirls, homegirls all lacquered
up, looking to get liquored up. I'm recognizing about half the faces. The
others I'm wondering about. There's this one chick I keep eyeing. She's
eyeing me back. This looks promising. I move from the JV set to a legitimate
set, packed with mid nineties west coast jams. another 25 people filter in
at around 9:30. We've cleared our bottom line easy, so I'm not sweating any
of that anymore. Hell, I might actually get fucking paid, provided Shady ass
Gabe doesn't front.

He will front, what the fuck am I thinking about. Forget about the goddamn
money, that chick is still fucking eyeing you. Dig them guts, kiddo. You're
going to dig them guts if you dont' fuck up.

Yeah, but May..does may still remember when he comes in on the first song?
And should I try to run out from behind the decks, or position this mic
stand so I just stand here behind the tables all night and rap while I'm
scratching.

Can you even rap while your'e scratching? You've never tried that before.

I'm not about to practice now, the room is moving, and hey..she's all about
my nuts, jesus, look at her. Hey.. HEY, who the fuck is that talking to her
like he's got a shot, what a sucker, lookin like Jared from Subway,
goddammit, what's he...oh SHIT

Oh SHIT, that's my old roomate Mike Devlin.

Only the precious few of you RMHH'ers will know of whom I speak. Michael C
Devlin was my intro to RMHH, and many of my very first posts come under that
name, since I used to log on under his name at his school library and post
inane shit to the group.

I walk over, give props, catch up a little. Yeah, he's still a dork. He
looks like Jared and Adam Corolla's little brother. He's adopted Corolla's
sense of humor, apparently. He was always dorky, but now he's smarmy and
dorky. But he wears it well. As well as you can wear that shit, I guess.
He's brought his friend with him. His producer. Mike has a cable access TV
show called "The Rack" and it's essentially a low-rent "Man Show" that, due
to its' being on cable access, is allowed to show titty and bush shots. So
inbetween really dumb gags and sick photoshop pics as punchlines, you get
random visions of nipple and clit.

Mike had the owner switch the bar TV's to his show. Right on cue, some
nipple pops up. "Aint no Fun" is playing on my deck. A whoop goes up from
the crowd. Another 15 people have snuck in between now and 10:00. We're
right at about a hundred.

Gabe, however, is tripping the fuck out. Because he heard from the owner
that the police might be driving by at random to make sure nothing bad is
going on. Suddenly, Gabe does not want to work the door. Gabe does not want
any PART of the door. Gabe has been hanging out in one of the VIP rooms
since the door opened and is babbling high speed at me, wiping invisible
sweat from his brow and looking around nervously, like a tweeker trying to
find his last pack of juicy fruit.

"I don't know man, I don't know"
"What the fuck are you tripping on."
"The cops man, he said cops might be coming by."
"So?"
"SO? I GOT WARRANTS, MAN"
"you JUST NOW realized this, Gabe? Jesus, you put your fucking name on the
FLYER as NATIONWIDE. Besides, this is Salem. Can you think of a single time
Cops HAVEN'T showed up at any gathering of youth? Huh?"
"What the fuck, it happens all the time, bro, cops don't--"
"Bullshit. They showed up at the LAST show we did, too."
"No they didn't, c'mon now."
"Fuck yes they did. As a matter of fact, they showed up because YOU beat the
fuck out of some kid in the parking lot."
"They did?"
"Yeah.You were long gone, of course, you missed em. But they came through.
They ALWAYS come through gabe. Just don't give em no reason to come in,
that's all."
"But what if they ask about me, what if they ask the owner who's throwing
this"
"Oh, Jesus, Gabe, nothing is going to fucking happen unless you give the
cops a reason to come up inside and LOOK for someone to fuck up. Nothing is
going to happen. look at this place, man."

And we have about 100 people, drinking, smoking, dancing, talking,
grinding, sitting, eating, the lights accenting the blue/grey haze hanging
in the air, the music not quite drowning out the low hum of shared
discussions and buzzing anticipation.

"Does that look like a fucking fight is going to pop off? They want us to
RAP, man. And when the fuck are we going to do that, anyway?"
"I dunno, bro, I don't fucking know, I don't wanna get.."
"I say we go on in about a half hour."
"A half hour? I say we wait."

Oh, suddenly Gabe aint concerned about the fucking cops anymore. Jesus.

"Why, we got about 100 people up in here. Maybe more. Why not start now.
They're gonna get antsy.
"Naw, lets wait a little, get em all ready and shit."
"they've been ready, Gabe."
"Naw, c'mon dog, dont' rush it, don't be all hasty..let's just wait till
11:00"
"ELEVEN??"

Does this fuck live to annoy me? And only to annoy me? Just five seconds ago
he was shitting in his pants because he realized just how dumb it is to have
nationwide warrants and PROMOTE YOURSELF AS A PERFORMER IN THE GODDAMN
NEWSPAPER, but as soon as I suggest something, oh, time to play field
general.

"Okay. 10: 45...11:00 somewhere around there."
"What time is it NOW?"
"10:30"
"10:45 Gabe. We're gonna start losing people if we do it any later."
"Hold on, I wanna check somethin."

Gabe disappears. I start yelling for Mayhem. He stumbles up 5 minutes later.
"What up" he says.
"You ready?" I says.
"Oh yeah."
"Word"
"what song are we doing first again?"
"Jesus Christ, May. we're on in 10 minutes."
"I was just fucking with you..it's..uh..."
"Here's the list"
"oh yeah, coo. You know there's like, a plate of cookies in the back here?
Chocolate chip. With M&M's in em."
Oh jesus christ, he's worried about fucking cookies and he--

--

"Cookies?"
"Yeah."
"Word, I'm gonna get some."
"Yeaaah! They're still chewy and shit. I'm gonna get a beer, I'll be right
back."

Cookies and Beer, man. I think that says something. I don't know what. But
it says SOMETHING.

Triple F shows up. Bring in their beat machine. I hook it up. Test it
through the headphones real quick. I get the run through from Ysa's boy
Andrew. I gotta punch this button and this button, wait for this song and
this cue on this song, and then we're all good and then we hop to this song
and..

..and what the fuck, that beat sounds pretty goddamned familiar there..

"Yeah, we used one of your beats, that string one, you know which one. It's
pretty dope man."
"...uh, word."

WHAT IN THE FUCK?? Anyone stop to think of calling me and telling me THEY
WERE GOING TO USE ONE OF MY BEATS WITHOUT MY FUCKING KNOWLEDGE?

"you just, uh, come up with this track?"
"Nah, we've had it ready like this for about 2 weeks now."

I don't have time to start asking questions, because May's tugging at my
shoulder. Gabe is all of a sudden up at the booth, nagging to start the show
already, we're going to start losing people. There's about 150 in the place.
It's crowded. I haven't even gotten a bite of my fucking cookie, but now I'm
getting that pre-show rush going on, the rush where I know I'm going to kill
every last motherfucker in the crowd and they're going to smile and thank me
for it when I'm done, and ask for more. The goosebumps start their slow race
up and down my arms, and I make sure everyone knows what's going on. They
answer me, but I'm zoned. My brain is only letting in responses that sound
remotely like "yeah" and everything else is getting lost in this swirl of my
lyrics running all on top of each other and the music on the turns echoing
and dubbing out in my head. May grabs my arm one last time, "you ready?"

Zoned in. Snapped back. Focused.

"Yeah."

Fade down the club shit. Fade in the intro. Kill the lights. The sound of an
orchestra tuning up slowly rises over the speakers, drowns out the club shit
completely as it goes silent. tune-up gets louder, until the sound of the
baton hitting the music stand clicks everything into silence. The crowd. the
music. No noise. "Second Nature" starts in. The strobes blink into
existence. intensity brightens. The music rises with the notes in the
arpeggio, climbing. climbing...climbinnngg...

Bass drop. Bassline. Lights full force. Crowd goes apeshit. I straighten my
Kangol and look up at the crowd. Big cheer. I nod. My time.

"Fuck it. I'll admit it. all I do is talk shit. Fuck you, your wack style
and that bitch you came with
and fuck your dumb lines, is you out your damn mind, tryin to run mine?
I split your spine with one rhyme, break your teeth off at the gumline.."

The Drums drop, and that's fucking it right there. The crowd is bouncing in
unison, rushing the stage. I'm on the one like a motherfucker. The vocals
are clear. not rushed. Not yelled. but there's some force there. I've got
this crowd eating out of my fucking hand already, and I'm loving it. Chorus.
Now we've REALLY fucking got em when the strings come back in and May gets
up off his ass. Wow, he's just doing the chorus and they're hungry for his
ass. Chorus winds down, strings hold...Mayhem. Mayhem..

"I'm telling you like this cuz..uh...uh...Oh fuck."

The crowd sez: "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
I sez: "Oh Jesus Christ motherfucker Goddammit.."
"Hey, dude, start over."
"No, Mayhem, REALLY?"
"Yeah. Start over."
I roll my eyes, the crowd laughs. I think maybe I can salvage this. maybe.

I start publicly ridiculing him, and turn it into a joke on the spot. The
crowd goes for it. I set up May's verse.

"Go."
"no, start it all the way over."

I cannot believe this idiot savant motherfucker right here, I swear to God I
can't...

"Huh?"
"Start it all the way over."
"What, do my shit all the way over again?"
"Yeah."
"are you fucking SERIOUS?"
The crowd answers for him. They answer in the affirmative. Loudly.
"Oh Jesus. Fine. FINE. Okay, fine, I'll do this shit over again, and you
motherfuckers better be goddamn appreciative, because now I'm all pissed and
shit."
The crowd roars back like I'm russel crowe in gladiator or something.

IS THIS NOT WHAT YOU CAME FOR?? ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED??

So the beat drops again. And now i AM angry .I AM stomping. I'm spitting and
throwing my hat and kicking shit. And the crowd is fucking bananas. Apeshit.
They know the words to the chorus now. They're joining in. Viciously. And
now it's Mayhem. They back off. They're waiting for the fuckup. I'm waiting
for the fuckup. The strings play out. the last note holds....

"I'm telling you like this, cuz you got weak styles, I been trying not to
laugh out loud the whole while.."

On FUCKING POINT for the rest of the goddamn song. And on the last chorus, I
slap the vinyl on the platter, cue up the spot, and bust the classic "One
One one..HOO HAAA" from PE. Cutting the fuck out of it. And 2 seconds after
I twiddle the fader for the first time, I can't hear NOTHING. Not a goddamn
thing. Just the crowd noise. I lose my spot on the beat because for a split
second there IS no beat. Just that crowd noise

And this is what I did it for. Right there. I continue to cut, kill the song
with the stop button on the 12. Crowd erupts one more time. I smile. Tell em
"Thank You." and do the introductions.

One song down. The whole rest of the show to go.

Part V

Now, when I called Mayhem an idiot savant, I wasn't just being an asshole.
Well, I was, but there's a glimmer of truth to it. Mayhem's never really had
to practice shit. He could just do it. The man is an incredible artist, and
as far as I know, he's never read an art book, taken an art class, none of
that. he just picks up a pencil, a pen, a sharpie, a can of flat black--and
he creates some of the most amazing art I've ever seen. And he just does it.
Has always been able to. The first time I met him, back in like, 9th grade,
I walked into his bedroom, and I saw a sketch of something on his bed. I was
like, "Oh, you draw?" and he was like, "Yeah, a little" and I remember
thinking "Wow, he's got a really weird voice. Maybe he's just high." And
only later did I find out, no that's just how his voice sounds and yeah, he
was pretty high.

So I looked up, and there, above his bed ,was an amazingly detailed, starkly
drawn portrait of a homicidal psychotic leprechaun with a bloody pot of gold
and a glock pointed at the viewer. I jumped back, startled. "jesus christ,
that's fucking crazy."

May did his may giggle and said "Yeah. It's awright. I did a better one,
with the grim reaper fucking slitting this cops throat, it's fucking cool.
Hold on." And as he went to his drawer he started rapping some shit to
himself, and the flow on this kid was goddamn amazing. Rapid fire B.O.N.E
type shit. I didn't catch all the words (a problem he's never really managed
to outgrow, if you've listened to his recorded shit) so I asked him what he
was singing.

"Oh, this song I made up."
"You rap? I make beats. Well, kinda. I don't have shit but two tape decks
and a shitty turntable, but I kinda pause mix em and bounce em off each
other until I get like, a 4 track beat made. I"m getting decent at getting
the hiss out and shit, but--"
"Yeah, I rap." he interrupted
"well, bust one for me."
"Cool."
And he rapped for about 6 minutes straight with no breaks at full speed. And
my jaw hit the floor.
"Jesus. How long did it take you to memorize that shit?"
"A couple days."
"Man. Yo, where's the lyrics at, I wanna check some of that shit--"
"I don't write none of it down."
Jaw went through the floor. Dented the plumbing. Killed a rat in the
basement closet.
"NONE OF IT?"
"Nah."

So is it any wonder I was on stage with this kid about 10 years later,
Nodding my head and jumping in on the choruses, making sure my cuts were in
perfect time with his accents on the verses, watching everyone else get the
same sense of utter amazement I got when I saw this longhaired goofy white
kid with the funny voice absolutely tear the shit out of the mic with no
sign of effort or sweat? Oh fuck no. And sometimes he's hard to understand
when he's recorded, I don't know why, but live--this guy OWNS the stage.
Everyone understands him perfectly. They leave the show humming lyrics in
his weird twangy accent. Talking to each other in that low whisper reserved
for moments like watching some kid at the playground pull off a disgusting
dunk. "did you see that guy? He looks like a fucking bricklayer or
something. But Jesus Christ he can rap his ass off."

that's my rapper. Even if he's otherwise *this* close to socially retarded
,that's my boy. And he was holding it down just fine. And then, about 4
songs in, it's time for Triple F to take the stage. And the vibe is
completely different--but they hold it down themselves. they have an almost
effortless give and take between the 4 mc's up on stage. it's a little more
easygoing, the beats a little more keyboardish and processed, but the crowd
has made the transition from rough, sample based big meanies talking loud
shit to more club-oriented party rap without missing a step, and I'm busy
cueing up records and getting ready for the next set. We're doing well.
We're doing real well. the next 4 songs by us come off without a hitch. and
now it's time for Gabe to step up.

I'm a little worried that the motherfucker is going to flake out completely.
If he's even still in the spot. But I do his introduction, and sure enough,
he bounds up onstage full of piss and vinegar. Or beer and weed. One of the
two. I drop the chopped up Criminalz bite and the crowd is feeling it, and
Gabe actually goes the fuck off. I'm past mildly surprised, I'm pretty
fucking amazed. And after that, Ysa comes up, and it's the crew combination.
We do our group cut, and even THAT comes off without a hitch. The girls rush
the stage, and I've got about 15 of them grinding on me as I bust my verse.

OH FUCK yeah I'm digging guts tonight, busting gills. There's no way I'm not
and--hey, did someone just grab my dick? No fucking way. I didn't even fuck
up the line, either. WORD! I didn't--HEY, there's a GUY in there. He better
not have grabbed my dick, I swear to God..no, wait, there's that ONE CHICK.
I bet you anything it was that one chick, I see her in that tangle of hair
and tits writhing in front of me and ..oh, shit, what's the line that comes
2 lines in front of this one, jesus, don't--no, I got it fuck yeah.

"Like you aint ready to stay sweaty till the headboard burn to the floor
like you don't want me to tickle what's itchin
like the insides of your thighs aint involuntarily twitchin.
Now quit bitchin, cuz I don't wanna hear shit
If I wanted lip out of you I'd peel it off of my dick
and one last thing, before I begin teaching class?
I'm bout to fuck the SHIT out of every last INCH of your ass."

Oh yeah. Dig them guts. Bust them gills. Hey, is that Lara?

Lara?

Oh shit. I'm fucking thrown. How ironic--I finish doing my little sex rap
and I turn into Jimmy Olsen because my ex girlfriend shows up. Lucky for me
it's the end of my verse and Josh is taking over and then Triple F does
another 4 songs, which is good, because my ex-girlfriend is in the house and
now I'm wondering about how this whole deal is gonna go down, because bottom
line is this:

I'm a goddamn simp.

You know what I'm talking about. The Boyz II Men song off cooleyhighharmony?
You know the one. "Simpin aint eeaaasssyyy." They're goddamn right. Simpin
is hard work. Maybe it's the circumstances. Maybe it's me not getting laid
all that much. Maybe it's me being one of those cats who overthinks
everything to death and romanticizes his memories in the meantime. Maybe
it's a combination of all these things. Maybe it's the fact Lara is the dark
haired New Year's girl from 2001 that got away, but that I ended up getting
the night before my brothers wedding in August of 2002 (how's THAT for
serendipity--and who would have thought you'd have seen a reference to
serendipity and busting gills in the same post, huh?), and that she's
probably the only other person on earth who thinks remotely like I do,
reacts like I do, laughs at the same shit I do--but AMPLIFIED. She's me,
turned up to 11, all my faults, my neuroses, my shortcomings, my pluses, my
sense of humor--all overloading the amp and blowing the speakers.

So of course we're awkardly estranged.

I have shitty timing, that's all. Made shittier by the fact that on my way
to see Lara, the One Chick has moved up. On me. Pressed up. Discussion is
meaningless, but our lips keep flapping anyway. exchange numbers. We keep
talking lower, keep leaning in to hear what banal dialog we're tossing each
other's way. Moving in closer. Not even talking now.

What the hell.

I throw my tongue down her throat. 2 of her friends show up. Bare their
chest. Give me a pen. NO FUCKING WAY. This is just ridiculous. You're joking
right, You want me to really sign.. your..

half of Triple F and Mayhem have already signed these chests. Ysa signed the
nipple, silver dollar and all. How can I refuse? I put a sick little "Fatboy
OCK" on their chests and stroll towards Lara with a smile. She smiles back.
Luckily she hasn't seen any of this shit. Why am I thinking about it that
way, tho? We're not together. Haven't been for a long time. Hell, she just
broke up with some other fucking schmuck that wasn't worth the scraping off
the bottom of her shoe. So why am I a little nervous now? Why am I a little
sketched to be talking to Lara? but damn she looks good today. Got her hair
done with this little flip thing going on at the bottom, and she's wearing
those glasses that I like and..

..uh..

..uhm...

Jesus Christ, am I 14 all of a sudden? This is awkward as hell. We're making
small talk but our eyes aren't really meeting--and when they do, we just
sort of stop talking and look at each other like..like..like I dunno, man,
and how the hell am I supposed to be playing the role of the shit talking DJ
ready to kick your ass when I just tongued down one chick, signed two other
girls titties and now I'm sweating like it's prom night in the presence of
my ex-girlfriend? I'm so caught up right now that I hear my beat being
rocked by those Triple F cats and I'm not even really sweating it. But that
does remind me that me and May gotta do our last 4 before we close our shit
out and start with the rampant clubbing. And Afterparty. Oh yeah. the
afterparty. Maybe Lara will be there? But then what? We're both long past
the "meaningless fuck" stage, because every action has a deeper meaning now.
There's ramifications and shit. And didn't I just make out with that One
Chick? Plus I don't even know if this shit isn't just all in my head and
that she doestn' even THINK of me that way anymore. What the fuck do I know.
I know I can cut a beat up sick and that I can tell you I'm better than you
are in about 40 different ways, most of them funny, but if I knew what I was
doing as far as females go, I still wouldn't be getting frozen in my tracks
at the sight of an ex girlfriend who probably shouldn't even be an ex if I
stop and think about it and

JESUS CHRIST STOP FUCKING SIMPING. TIGHTEN UP YOUR GODDAMN PANTIES, NUT
CHECK, BITCH. NUT CHECK. YOU HAVE TO GO ONSTAGE. NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF
THERE AND..okay, well, give her a hug first, but then GET THE FUCK OUT OF
THERE AND NUT UP ALREADY.

So I do. May hasn't had one single problem through the whole show, the crowd
hasn't wavered one time, and on top of that, more people have showed up and
they're ALL trashed to shit. I think they've broken about 10 glasses on the
dancefloor. It's beautifulness. I cap the show off with "Asshole" and 150
people are chanting my name at the top of their lungs. The bomb goes off at
the end of the song, and it's deafening in that little spot. Crowd noise,
bomb noise, it's unbelievable. about 15 people just climbed up onstage to
maul Mayhem with props and pounds and whatnot. And before the club shit
begins, a couple wannabees in the crowd beg for the freestyle session. Gabe
looks at me nervously, like "We're gonna lose the bitches." I know better. I
start manually chopping a beat on one 12 and let the MC's go. One kid
fumbles, and Andrew from Triple F eats him alive. The kid doesn't know when
to quit, tries to come back. Jimbo just utterly DESTROYS this kid. The crowd
is loving this shit, this little bonus track at the end of the CD. NOW it's
time for club shit, because there's no way we're topping that. "Saturday" by
Luda starts the set off, and we're off and runnin. it's about 11:30 pm. Bar
is still open for another 3 hours. glasses are dropping as drunk girls grind
with a pent up, lustful sort of..fury, I guess. They're not even stopping
the dancing, they're just going off on each other as the glass gets ground
beneath their heels. The floor is a sticky mixture of sweat, beer, raw liks
and powdered glass, and Goddammit if this dancefloor aint one of the most
perfect things I ever saw. No cops ever showed up. No fights. No one's
passed out in a booth. No one's getting fresh. I can't believe it: I'm at an
OCK function and everything is ...PEACE? No fucking way. I'm dreaming.
Right? I'm dreaming.

well, fuck it. If I'm dreaming, might as well start thinking about
Afterparty...

Oh shit, wait. what about getting paid...

Part VI

Now, I know what you're thinking. One of you has said it already: You've
already seen this video. It was called "It Was a Good Day" by Ice Cube.
Directed by F. Gary Gray. He laid back in his 64 all day and nothing but
dope shit happened to him--craps, basketball, fucking some hot chick at a
hotel after she rolls him a blunt and his squad wins the game on TV. And
you've been slogging through all this self-indulgent, wordy, drawn out
story, and now You saying "you built up all that pretense, all that
frustration, the bullshit, the dealing with your dumb ass friends stuck in
the ever tightening downward spiral that the city of Salem inevitably sucks
almost everyone into, all that culminated in one problem free paid
appearance where you sign some titties and get free lapdances on the dance
floor?"

Don't ya'll remember how the video ended?

Fuckin Helicopters and 40 cops at his front door. Because sure, the sun
shines on a dogs ass someday. But the sun's gotta go down. And there aint
nothin new underneath that big burnin ball of shit in the sky, you all know
that. And you all know that tigers don't change their stripes, leopards
don't change their spots, (substitute your own animal kingdom cliche here)
old dogs don't learn new tricks, they just end up getting old doing the
same old shit and crawling up under your porch to die. That's how the world
works, and it don't matter how nicely this night is going to pop off,
there's too much liquor in too many fucking knuckleheads, and too much time
left in the night for me to expect anything but drama to pop off before I
collapse into my bed at 6 in the morning.

Who's bed will I be collapsing into? that's the pressing question right
about now. And the One Chick is trying to answer it. I'm looking behind door
number two at Lara. Door number 3 holds this girl named Christina from about
5 years back who never paid me no mind back then because she was busy
fucking with the knuckleheads and I was trying to stay out of fucking county
and working on this scratching and beatmaking thing while keeping my bills
paid. And I'm looking different, yeah, I was Fatboy then, literally, 5-6
240, b-cup titties and lovehandles spilling over my belt, hidden behind the
pockets of my oversized champion hoodie. And now I'm about 5-7 170 because
I'm poor and broke and working all the time. And she's got a kid with the
type of numbfuck loser that was the guy that apparently looks good to
teenage girls. The kind of guy that grows up into the shiftless beerbellied
mooching motherfucker faux-hustling at the club, talking all day about old
war stories, remembering old war stories, and looking for excuses to create
NEW war stories, almost for the sole purpose of being able to talk about it
sometime in the future over a game of Madden or a game of spades. The kind
of guys I'M hanging out with. The kind of guys my crew's grown up into. But
hey, we all make poor judgment calls sometimes, and GODDAMN she's looking
fucking fly, her and her blond little friend who keeps touching her chest
and rubbing her hips on Christina's lower regions.

If I wind up NOT getting laid tonight, I might as well turn my dick in at
the door before I leave and resign my gender membership card at the nearest
meeting hall, because this shit is just ridiculous.

I'm interrupted. Jimbo and Gabe have come over, smiling ,with that look in
their eyes. I'm being moved on by two budding show promoters, I'm looking
like fresh meat and they're smiling like saber-tooth tigers. I turn to tell
the girls hold up for a second--DREW has snuck in. FUCKING DREW! Goddammit.
What the fuck is Drew doing, I saw him try to push up on the bi-blond
earlier in the night, all damn night, over there by the fucking video poker
machine, watching her feed dollars into it, making dumb jokes, sneaking in
little touches on her back and her arm, all that shit, and she finally went
to lead him out onto the dance floor and the punk motherfucker just STOOD
THERE. he SHRUGGED, even. She's trying to grind and shake that ass, watch
yourself, shake that ass, show me what you're working with and he's glued to
the floor, about as funky as Treebeard. You had your shot Drew. You're
not--oh FUCK, jesus, what do these two wolfish promoter motherfuckers
waaaaaaaaaannnn..

"We're doing a show on the 14th" Jim says.
"They want us to get down" says Gabe.
"They want us to get down?" Says I, stressing the "US" because Gabe is no
part of "US" as far as me and Mayhem last checked.
Gabe misses the accented syllable. "Yeah, on the 14th, they can put us on
the tickets, on the posters, all that, you
gonna be down?"

I look out at the floor. Lara's grindin. The one chick is grindin. Everyone
is fuckin grindin. Drinking and Grinding sweaty and smiling.

"Sure, why not. Call me up, Jim, lemme know details, man. So we can get to
work."
"You think we gonna be able to do like, a collaboration?"
"Yeah, you get ahold of me ahead of time, give me enough lead time, I think
we might come up with something."
"NICE. This show came off fucking SICK"
"Yeah, you killed that poor bastard at the end there."
"Oh, no doubt. So you're down?"
"Yeah. Gimme a call so we can start planning this motherfucker."
"Word" said Gabe. Practically salivating. Him and Jimbo slide back into the
crowd, talking to some other cats, talking to some of Triple F. I turn
around--it's That One Chick and her short little fattish blond friend. Wow.
It's like a revolving door here at the end of the bar. I refuse to believe
Drew actually pulled those girls, but I don't see them OR Drew anywhere.
Damn. If it was that easy, maybe I'm not really trying to fuck with Ol
Christina. Besides, she does have a kid. Does that matter really? Why am I
even stressing that. As if having a kid makes her damaged goods or
something. I'm not trying to have a relationship, and it's not like the
kid's going to be trying to crawl up out of the vagina while I'm hitting it.
He might walk in the ROOM tho, but who HASN'T done that...but do I want some
3 year old traumatized by the sight of my naked ass goin to town on his mom?
Really? What if I--

I'm looking for excuses. Be real. Excuses. I'm already trying to NOT get
laid. All I want is to bust a nut to cap off this almost perfect night, but
I'm subconsciously trying to SABOTAGE my chances and making excuses, what
kind of shit is this, what the fuck am I doing. Like it matters Christina
had a kid. I'm not marrying her, I'm hitting it for the night and getting
out before the jizz dry on the mattress. I can't believe me sometimes, man,
I just cant..fuck this--

I Throw my tongue down that One Chicks' throat right quick again. Ahh.
Refreshing. See, that's what I'm talking about. I know why she's here. I
know what she's doing. I know what she came for. There's nothing past that.
No expectations. Like "6 minutes of Pleasure" by LL--I aint sayin nothin.
Are we basically treating each other like slabs of meat to masturbate with?
Maybe so. I don't care, I'm busting gills, i know it, That's it, that's..

..Oh shit, here comes Lara. Sidestep. WAAAAAY sideways sidestep. Fucking
electric slidestep. Morris day and the Timestep. There ARE expectations
here. Be careful. You've fucked this girl up enough .She's fucked your head
up just as much. And there's a lot of weight, a lot of consideration, a lot
of feeling tied up in every moment we're talking, touching, looking at each
other, and this reckless kind of "I just want to nut" shit aint gonna fly
here, so you better think REAL hard about whether or not you wanna pursue
nothing with Lara tonight, because there WILL be strings attached, there
WILL be repercussions, you WILL see her after tonight, many times, and
you're going to have to be able to look at her in the face, you can't just
start the debtmobile and fly out before the sun comes up. So what you gonna
do, Fats. What you gonna do.

..Give her a hug. Make the right small talk noises. She has to go to work
tomorrow. I nod. smile. Hug again. Hold it. Kiss her on the forehead, tell
her goodbye.

Lara has left the building.

I'm happy, disappointed and relieved all at the same time. This feeling is
puncuated by YET another glass hitting the floor like a small liquor
grenade. The owner is talking to me about it. Okay, this is nice: Apparently
the Owner thinks I'm the responsible ringleader of this little show, yet
GABE is the one that the Triple F kids are huddled around, discussing show
details with. They'll be in for a shock the instant they tell gabe to pass
me a message and they find out Gabe hasn't told me shit. Because that's how
flaky ass Gabe is. Fuck Gabe. The One Chick is telling me about the spot
where the afterparty is going on at. I get the info, commit it to memory,
and watch in amazement as her little friend just walks up to the mic, turns
down the volume, and tells EVERYONE in the club where the party at. If
EVERYONE'S gonna go over there, why even fucking LEAVE the club? And right
after she gets off the mic, a good 20 people are out the door. This shit
should be popping. And one advantage to this afterparty? A club dont' have
bedrooms. The One Chick gives me a squeeze and "That look" over her shoulder
as she steps to the exit.

About an hour later, the bar owner gives me the sign..it's time to shut
down. I start the announcements, one every 5 for the next 15 minutes. Kill
the music. Half the crew has already bounced out to the afterparty a block
down the way. I lost track of Mayhem a LONG time ago. I think he bounced
with his wife. the other half is a bunch of kids i don't know, but they're
asking me to spin some rave shit. Nothin doin, you candy ass glowstick
swinging simp motherfuckers, I only fuck with funk. Yeah, when the candy
ravers swoop in to pick at the carcass of the party, it's time to go.
Goddamn buzzards. There's drew. Holding roses. I hand him a crate and tell
him to take em out to my--yo, wait, why the fuck you got ROSES, man? I
thought I was simpin. He sets the roses down on the table and carries my
crates like a good crew b-teamer should. Gabe better not be out on me yet,
because I'm trying to see how much I'm collecting. 5 bucks a head, 200
rental costs, 150 people showed up, that should be a good hundred or so,
hundred for May, figuring Gabe being skanless and lying about the count like
I can't add or nothing, but I knew what I was getting into. And the show
finale was payment enough, I guess. What was I going to be doing this
Thursday night anyway. Sitting in front of my computer typing really long,
boring stories to a bunch of kids I never met before? What fucking fun is
that?

but show finale cheers aint putting gas in my debtmobile. And there's gabe.
I'm not even trying to beat around the bush, fuck that:

"How much you pull, man?"
"uh, hold on, It was like..uh..Fifty."
No fucking way.
"Fifty?"
"Yeah, right around 50 or so."
"How the fuck? Did you let a bunch of those motherfuckers in for free?"
"Well, the owner asked if I could kick down the guy working the door, and
the bartenders got some too, and the guy checking ID's"
"Did you HAVE to pay them?"
"No, but yunno, the guy said that if this show comes off alright, we can
come back here like ,ALL the time."
"What, he didn't make enough money off the 150 people at the bar drinking
all night?"
"Guess not."
"Yeah, I guess not."

Shoulda known better. Shoulda known better. Shouldn't have even walked over.
What was I expecting, man, what was I doing even RAISING my expectations
like that? This motherfucker won't even admit that our homeboy caught 2 1/2
because of him, I still remember this motherrfucker trying to jack one of my
old BEAT TAPES back in 98 and fronting like he "Found it" in the house later
when I called him on it. "Oh, Fatboy, check it out, I found your Beat Tape
over here in the kitchen, someone must have heard you bitching and like,
dropped it off or something." yeah you motherfucker, I remember that shit,
Gabe, like you were gonna DO something with that tape. And I bet you resent
me for taking it back, like I was holding you down by not letting you STEAL
MY BEATS, you fuck you fuck you fucking cheap ripoff artist diaper wearing
piece of

"So, what up with the afterparty then, Gabe?"
"Oh, I'm on my way over there right now. You all packed up?"
"yup."
"C'mon over?"
"May over there?"
"Yeah."
"awright."
"I'll see you there homie. We blew the doors off this motherfucker, didn't
we?"
"yeah, mos def."
"We're doin it again on the 14th, man."
"If they call."
"What you mean if?"
"I don't trust em, man, remember that time they tried to get me to DJ for
em?"
"That was BEFORE they saw us destroy this fucking club, man."
"Awright man. I'm on my way over there." and thumb towards the party.
"I'll already be there."

So I get my final pounds done. I go back in to thank the owner for his time,
and maybe to find out what's up with Gabe "paying" all these people money. I
don't find him. I don't see Christina or Drew and his roses. Jesus, man,
fucking Roses. It's December 19th at 2:30 am, where the fuck is he finding
ROSES at? The club is dark. Someone's sweeping up the mess on the floor. I
shrug, pick up my bag from behind the booth, turn and hear the door latch
behind me.

I pull up into the driveway of the afterparty just in time to see David,
Gabe's friend, drop a shot to this one kids jaw, and watch the kid stumble
backwards into his car and drop to one knee on the pavement. A small crowd
swarmed around, but for some reason, no one descended on the guy. Normally
this would be the part where everyone starts throwing shots on the poor guy
up on all fours on the concrete, raining blows on him while he's still
stunned from getting stole on. I've seen it too many times. It's like a
sport in salem. I can count on two fingers the times I've gone to a party
and something similar hasn't happened right around the 3 am stage. No one
knows how to fucking act, man. They get drunker and drunker and they're so
loud and insecure and so sure that someone is talking shit, someone is
trying to clown and make them look bad, that they find any excuse to go and
smash some poor kids face right the fuck in. And his friend. and his friends
friend. And anyone at the NEXT party unlucky enough to say he KNOWS that kid
is more than likely to catch an asswhippin too, just for the association,
and I can't think of a time in my adult life when it hasn't been like that.
And that's fucking depressing when I stop and think about it. I remember
it's one of the reasons I moved.

But why the hell am I BACK here so often if it's that bad?

Obviously, the spot is blown. I REALLY need a distraction now, because I'm
seeing the perfection of this show slowly swirling down the toilet bowl. I
go over to Heidi's car, she's on the cellphone. She's talking to Elissa.
Elissa knows where the party is at, she's already there. Heidi is drunk, and
she's not communicating well. I snatch the phone from her hands and get
directions. The other cars are coming down the drive, trying to haul ass
before homeboy stumbles to his feet and tries to get rowdy, resulting in
cops probably being called. They stop, one by one, at the curb I'm standing
on, and I'm giving them directions to the meet spot like I'm a parking
attendant. All I'm missing is a flourescent vest and a toy lightsaber. I
finally get in the car with Heidi's cell phone and roll to the 7-Eleven a
mile down the street, Everyone's lined up, waiting, as Elissa negotiates
with the owners of the house about 25 of us are just going to pile into. The
people at THIS house weren't expecting a whole shitload, that's what the
OTHER spot was for. We're waiting..waiting..waiting.

I'm still Fatboy. I still have my nature to contend with. I'm hungry as
fuck. I go into the store after about 10 minutes straight of sitting in the
car, and grab me a baby ruth and a vanilla coke. And just as I'm paying, I
notice EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THE CARS IS PULLING OUT OF THE GODDAMN PARKING
LOT.

"No fucking way" I say out loud.
"What?" Says the attendant.
"They wait there for 10 minutes and then I get up and go into the store and
suddenly they can't wait another fucking minute for me to buy some goddamn
Vanilla Coke?"
"Wow, man"

and he's taking about 30 minutes to ring up my two items. I throw 2 bucks
and change on the counter while he's still punching numbers, I grab my shit
and fly out the door. The door shuts, my foot hits the gas, the car drops
into drive as the ignition turns ALL in one motion, and I'm peeling out just
as the last set of taillights pulls around a corner. Now I'm in Andretti
mode.I actually pass the poor chump who got dotted in the eye, walking home.
I speed on. I catch em. I'm on the cell phone, yelling at Elissa for just
bouncing out like that. We all storm this cul-de-sac, cars bumper to bumper.
There's a good 15 people crammed up in this tiny garage. 25 of us are going
to squeeze in. I don't know how many people are in this little 2 bedroom
shack, but I hope to God none of em know that kid that just caught one.

Through the garage door. There, in the corner. it's that One Chick. Her
friend is WAY in the tank and won't shut the fuck up. And won't leave.
Suddenly she's like, velcroed to this girl, dipped in superglue and hopped
up on crystal meth, and this is REALLY killing my opportunity to dig up in.

All my...good..will...slowly....draining....

there's may. We discuss the show a little. He's drunk as fuck and the plate
full of weed being passed around the garage aint helpin none, either.
Various pipes and bongs and Swishers get packed and lit as more beer bottles
open with a hiss and a clink. I sidle up next to the chick. She gives me a
sideways glance and a sly smirk. but it's sloppy. the glance is unfocused.
She's halfway in the tank and if I don't move quick, she's gonna be past the
point of no return and I can't have that, I really can't have that at all,
goddammit, not tonight, today was a good day, the lakers beat the
supersonics, I had the brew she had the chronic, and I can make that
asssssss drop.

The garage door opens

IT'S THAT FUCKING CHUMP.

I hear a knuckle crack.

No fucking way.

Part VII

You think Redman got his start by beating up fans after they paid to see
him? Really? I mean, it's something to think about--Maybe Method Man, or Ice
Cube, or LL or fuck, even DMX--you think they ever went to an afterparty,
mingled with the fans who just spent good time and money to be in their
presence, to hang out with them, and then, sometime in the middle of the
afterparty, just up and BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF THEIR FANS? Thanks for making
me multiplat, thanks for buying a ticket, thanks indirectly for this benz
and this tour bus and this girl currently sucking my eyeballs out through my
dickhole, and oh, by the way CROWBAR TO YOUR FUCKING DOME, BITCH, BLEED,
MOTHERFUCKER!!

Nah, I don't think that shit ever happened. Because it's kind of hard to
build up any kind of local fanbase with which to stand on and recieve
attention when your fanbase tells stories the next day about how the group
onstage brought some kids with them and they damn near put a couple kids in
the hospital. I'm sure Rakim or Guru don't have stories like this, yunno?
Because they're actually successful. Because any budding businessman with
half a brain knows that physically assaulting your target audience isn't
doing you any favors. Right?

Now, this is something my boys, Gabe, Mayhem, this is something that's
apparent to them, right?

Chumpy from down the street walks in, his eye red and angry. He recognizes
the faces. David isn't at this party, he boned out after stealing on Chumpy.
But he recognizes the people that were in the swarm, tho, he sure recognizes
those. But he's quiet. He doesn't say anything. He moves to a corner of the
garage. MY Corner. He's trying to talk to the Chick. I'm this close to
siccing the dogs on this sad motherfucker right now. She lolls her head over
in his direction and gives him the "No fucking way, limpdick" look. He
responds accordingly, and starts hitting on her velcro friend. Suddenly I'm
this chumps biggest fan. She detaches herself from the Chick, and chumpy and
chubby are deep in conversation. The boys are deep in conversation, too.
They look like a huddle. A Defensive meeting at the opponents 15. They're
looking like they want a safety.

I know that's EXACTLY what I want. Some goddamn safety. I whisper in the
Chick's ear. She smiles. And just then the Chump walks INTO the huddle. And
starts making some kind of half-ass peace speech. And I'm incredulous,
because the crew is BUYING it. They're saying the same things. They're
parroting each other with their peace offerings, and suddenly I'm hearing
the Isley sample and that "coooooaooww" noise on the 2 again. Today is a
good day. They're actually talking football now. Who's gonna do what in the
playoffs. A football appears from somewhere, and now chumpy is actually
playing CATCH with some of the guys. The stereo gets turned back up, the
conversation level rises to drown it out, and everyone's back to normal. And
this is my cue. I grab her hand, lead her out the door, and into the house
proper.

Empty.

WORD.

She says she has to go to the bathroom, and she wanders down a hall. I
follow her. She enters the bathroom. I go to enter in my damn self, I'll
take her on this sink right here if it's gonna go down like that, or fuck
it, in the tub, just make sure my clothes stay dry, set em out of the way
and doublecheck to see if there's towels in the linen closet before we get
up under the water and get real dirty and if she..
..
..if she SHUTS THE DOOR ON ME?

What the hell is all this shit. She actually really has to piss? Well, I
guess that aint so unbelievable, she is starting to get nicely tore down
drunk. Whatever she's gotta do, whatever filters it out of her so that she
stays coherent, consenting and vomit free, because I dealt with a super