Then mow the cocaine instead :)

"Don't forget this fact, you can't get it back; cocaine.
 She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie; cocaine."


'Yes it do, yes it do, yes it do; cocaine.'

See the happy moron
He doesn't give a damn
I wish I were a moron
My God! perhaps I am!

Uh...can we take this over to the Music Association thread please?

Aardvark

This message was edited by MrKlaatu on 08/31/02 21:13.18.

It's Friday night outside Man-Ray. The men and women in black are streaming in, stiletto heels clacking, PVC squeaking, chains rattling on their fetish separates from Hubba Hubba. Scene fixture Cuzraque, the little Puss-in-Boots-looking guy with the big Three Musketeers hat (if you've ever dropped in on a Goth show, fetish fair or erotic-literature reading, you've probably noticed him), is the promoter for this evening's event, which is known as ``Hell.'' On his way in, he says he doesn't like to talk to the press.

Man-Ray owner Don Holland can't blame him. ``Every time something weird happens, they show up here,'' he says. ``I had calls from five reporters on the machine today.'' The sex-sational crime story of the moment is the S & M party bust in Attleboro, where a 38-year-old woman from New York was arrested for allegedly spanking another woman with a wooden paddle. According to Massachusetts law, you can't consent to assault.

``Wow, I would have been arrested a thousand times, including last night,'' says a young S & M aficionado who had not heard the Attleboro story before. ``That's stupid.''

Here at Man-Ray, he says, it's ``all just performance art.'' His friend explains, ``People come here to meet people with common interests. If you find a one-night stand, or one-night whipping, great.''

But the Man-Ray scene is more a social than sexual event, he says. ``The main difference is that people go to private parties for personal gratification. Things can get a lot more serious, so people have to use `safe words' that are decided beforehand. It's like, if you say `don't' and `stop,' people don't know if you mean `don't stop.' But if you say something like `aardvark' in the middle of it, and that's the word, that definitely means `stop.' ''

Another patron waiting outside for friends affirms that the scene at Man-Ray is not exactly Caligula territory, even during ``dungeon play'' with Mistress Mimi, keeper of the pillory. ``She's really a sweet lady. Her whipping is more like a massage,'' says David Gutska, a professional dancer.

The scene is a lot more fun than it used to be, he adds. ``Back in '92 and '93, it was just a fetish dungeon thing. No dancing - either you were a master or mistress. That was it.''

There are still a few people who ``take themselves way too seriously,'' says Gutska's friend, Tristan. ``But not many.''

Holland stands on the corner, greeting regulars in the the parade of arriving customers. ``You're not getting in in that,'' he says to a guy in khaki pants and a white shirt. ``What if I take it off?'' says the guy. Unless he's got all-black underwear on, he's still not getting in.

The dress code, Holland explains, is intended to weed out potentially troublesome voyeurs and louts stumbling in from other bars. If they respect the club's all-black dresscode, they're more likely to respect each other, he reasons. ``A girl can come in here scantily dressed and no one will bother her, because it's not a meat market,'' says Holland. ``It's more like a fashion show. See that guy? That's the teacher I just told you about, who likes to wear women's clothes. The guy in leather, he's a librarian.''

Holland says he's not familiar with the Attleboro private-party crowd but suggests there's another side to the story beyond the simple Puritan sex-raid theme. ``Forget about that `donation' crap. I think the guy was charging $25 at the door - it's an illegal party.''

A Cambridge cruiser rolls slowly by; the officer and Holland exchange some friendly banter. ``See, I don't need a detail. I haven't had a fight in here in 14 years,'' says the club owner.

Inside, the crowd dances to Loreena McKennitt in the traditional interpretive snake-dance style of the Goth/industrial set. No one openly gapes at the beautiful young woman in the vinyl thong and literal halter top (as in, horse's halter - her nipples are modestly concealed behind criss-crossed snippets of black duct tape). Bare-chested boys languish dramatically against the spiderweb of chains on the go-go platform; women walk around in corsets, carrying whips. People say ``excuse me'' if they bump into you. Nobody looks particularly hell-bent to inflict sexual violence at the moment.

``You're looking at a bad thing that happens to good people,'' reads the black T-shirt of a friendly regular named Paul. He thinks it's about time for one of the shows, for which the stage is cleared intermittently. His favorite productions have included a video spoof of ``The Blair Witch Project,'' in which a bunch of Man-Ray types walk around Cambridge in circles all night looking for a party and then wake up at the bus station, surrounded by eerily arranged beer cans. He also mentions a ``superheroes-and-sluts''-themed skit that featured a little girl with a lollipop beating up Superman.

As for darker adventures in fantasy, he's attended a few hardcore house parties that lasted from Friday night to Sunday, he says, but has never witnessed a genuine horror show. He doesn't doubt that the occasional psycho lurks within the black-vinyl underground but thinks the safety-in-numbers principle keeps things from getting too dicey.

``You can run into a psycho just about anywhere, but what are the chances of getting, like, six in one place? Pretty small.''

"MERCY" -- by David Lindsey

``You can run into a psycho just about anywhere, but what are the chances of getting, like, six in one place? Pretty small.''

on my ward it's not difficult

In my head, it's even easier!

Its the ones in my head who dont pay the rent who pee me off

I barter with mine . . . I give them shelter, and they give me a load of crap.

i tried evicting them all once, woke up in hospital with a guy in the next bed waiting for his toes to be amputated got the hell out of there and put up with them after that

"Voices-in-the-head" . . . can't live with 'em.......can't evict 'em.......can't control 'em.......can't ignore 'em.......

Oh well . . . what-the-Hell...........put on a show!

No, the only person who'll understand ROFF is Greg... but just know, that means I'm laughin pretty damned hard! ;)

how hard?