AN OLD KNEEGROW'S TALE

When I was younger, I would see old ass men hangin out at my favorite clubs trying to push up on the young hotties. I made myself a promise back then that I would not end up like those old men: ravaged by time and alcohol, trying to look suave up in the club.

As with so many things I said I would never do, I recently found myself in a situation that reminded me of that promise, I made to myself, many years ago!

I attended a birthday party, at a club about 40 miles north of Detroit. The night started out pretty good. It's a very nice club, the staff is polite and the drinks are moderately priced. The DJ is average by Detroit Club standards but the management obviously believes he be jammin. As an unintended comic relief, a kid - who MUST be the owner's son - accompanies the DJ on timbales, cow bell and conga drums. The Kid is rhythmically challenged.

I arrived about 10:30. Back in the day, at that time of night, clubs were jumpin. These days, arriving before 11pm means you're early, so you can get a table and a drink with relative ease.

The club is one of the nicest venues I've been in, since the Climax was open. There are plenty of flat screen televisions and a bevy of twentysomething women with expensive hair dos, baby clothes, push up bras, skin tight pants, hi heels, and boots up past the knees.

Unfortunately, as the night progressed, I found myself in the midst of what felt like a bad hip hop video.

As I was tuning up with my second drink, Conga Kid began to annoy me. He was pounding on the congas like Curious George with a new 5 gallon bucket! The DJ was playing the same monotonous pap that you hear on urban contemporary stations. I know, I know, I know, I know, that my stuck in the 80's ass was not in the groove. Yeah.

I abandoned my station at the bar and sat with Birthday Girl and her friends. I watched as the new age kneegrows paraded around the second floor of the club. A kid staggered by holding a half empty bottle of Ciroc, stood at the railing doing a Kanye West inspired drunk dance, and appeared to be contemplating diving off the mezzanine. One of his partners rescued him from further embarrassment, grabbed him by the arm and led him back to their table.

There was lots of bottle service going on at tables. Management got the brilliant idea of attaching sparklers to the bottles that were served to tables, creating an impressive light show as the waiters moved through crowd. Bottle service at your table shouts that you're a Baller because you can afford to pay about THREE HUNDRED BUCKS for a fifth that runs about $30 at the licka sto!

By midnight the club was on jam. The overwhelmed waiter stopped coming to the table, so I made my third trip to the bar. The prettiest girls were getting served at the bar before the rest of us who foolishly waited patiently to be served. There was a nerdy lookin fucker standing on my left. I watched in mild disbelief as he reached over and grabbed a very fine chick, on the arm, as she was walking past. Nerdy Fuck made contact with Miss Fine Chick, just as she was walking directly in front of me! Miss Fine Chick looked at me like I had grabbed her rotunderous ass! I told her that it wasn't me attempting to fondle her, but with the blasting music and the bad conga drumming, Miss Fine Chick thought I was reacting angrily to her bumping into me! Miss Fine Chick made an Alice the Goon face and blurted out, "I SAID EXCUSE ME!" in response to my explanation. I turned to Nerdy Fuck and gave him my patent "I'd really like to kick your ass" look because I wanted to bitch slap his punk ass for involving me in his drama. Nerdy Fuck knew he was outed. He looked sheepishly up at me and said softly "You look nice tonight...", and went on to compliment my dazzling ensemble. I was sharp! I had on my Hilfiger dark blue 2 button suit, a peach colored 3 button long sleeved sweater and dark brown suede Calvin Klein boots. Nerdy Fuck's compliment didn't move me! In a nanosecond, Nerdy Fuck transformed from molester, too punk assed to approach Miss Fine Chick, to genuflecting metro-sexual. I love compliments, but hard legs attempting to placate my mesomorphic prone to violence ass is not on my menu! I grabbed up my drinks and headed back to the birthday party. En route, I had to demand that a wannabe hustler get out my way by giving him a little shove and declaring: "You need to be out the isle!"

When I got back to the table, this hi yella girl - slanted eyes, pretty face, big ass, very small waist - who had been posing at the bar, pulling on her leopard print skirt-cause it kept crawling up that big ass, walked over and stood directly in front of our table and commenced to leaning over the rail, playing peek-a-boo with my affections. I had enough drinks in me to want to make a Quest For Fire move on her. Standing beside Hi Yella, was a very athletic dark choklit beauty with pants that she had painted on. Miss Dark Choklit had an ass that looked like it had been drawn by Robert Crumb (dude had a mag called 'Big Ass Comix' back in the day)! Mister Wiggles began hyperventilating!

It was round midnight and the club was on jam. The women in baby clothes were clustered in groups of 4 and 5, all around Birthday Girl's table. Wannabe hustlers were congregating in the middle of the isle, forcing people to walk around them and the volume of the music had increased.

It was time to go home.

When I got downstairs, there were wall to wall suburban kneegrows posing like they were being immortalized on video.

When I stepped outside of the club there were fifty or so women and a hand-full of men waiting to get inside.

When I got to Stella Seville, I crept through the streets, until I got to I-96, least PO PO be lurking about.

A woman I met, that lives in Southfield, told me some time ago, that she doesn't party in Detroit. As I was driving home, I understood why she has no real need to venture into the City.

The clientele, at the club, where I attended the birthday party, to my surprise, was almost entirely black. I had NO idea we partied that hard so close to Brighton! I must admit, I'm a little country when it comes to the Burbs.

Back in the day, when we went to the Burbs to hang out at a club or attend a cabaret, a gang of PO PO would be waiting at the perimeter of the venue, at closing time, and would stop as many folks as they could catch, on the suspicion that we were driving drunk. I heard horror story after horror story of harassment, arrest and conviction of people whose only crime was being in the wrong hood after dark. I was fortunate to have never caught a case, while rolling through a hostile environment!

In more recent times, there have been reports of lots of ill treatment, attempts to charge covers to enter clubs that were free to others, and exorbitant charges for food and drink, in Southfield and Birmingham. Several clubs liquor licenses were revoke after local citizens complained about the clientele of several suburban clubs!

I was telling a partner of mine about the club. He reminded me of a club we had gone to in West Bloomfield, a few years ago. Later that night, we ended up at a club in Royal Oak. After we went our separate ways, he was arrested by Royal Oak PO PO, had his vehicle confiscated, was jailed overnight and paid fines in excess of $2000, essentially for being in the wrong hood! I realized after speaking to him why that night was so forgettable; his experience only reinforced my aversion to the Burbs.

I hate it when someone tries to 'harsh' my buzz, so I've partied in the City, almost exclusively. I don't like surprises and I know better than to go into shady hoods, unless I'm with my crew. When I roll solo, I valet, as opposed to walking around in isolated areas, at 2am in the morning.

I'm slowly coming to the realization that I am becoming a relic, out of step with what's going on at night, in metropolitan Detroit. There's a new kneegrow, born and raised in the Burbs, that went to private schools and only knows about urban life from BET, MTV, VH1 Soul and hip hop's portrayal of the hood. These neo kneegrow's media fueled lifestyles condone; drinking to excess, giving blow jobs in lieu of 'good night' kisses, having one night stands when meeting someone they like, tolerating a promiscuous mate is their cross to bear for calling the onenightstand after the one night stand, and spending money like they got a lot of it is mandatory to wanna be famous neo kneegrows. And they must always strike a pose, when in public. These modern social contrivances scare the fuck out of me!

The crowd that I encountered in Novi didn't seem to understand or care about the nuance of urban club etiquette. They were drinking far too much and were very discourteous to other patrons in their midst. I had to give a few of them a little push in the back or a tug on the arm, to get them to get the fuck out of my way!

A platinum chain, a plaid shirt and $200 jeans don't make you sharp or declare that you're a Baller! GAME RECOGNIZES GAME but if you've never had any and your only references of what game is comes from some lame ass producer who fucked their way into a position in the media or from some home schooled creep that transmogrifies into a young thug in front of a camera, you're not likely to get it!

My experience out in Novi illustrated to me that clubs in Southfield have become Detroit lite. The patrons believe they are partying in the Burbs but in reality have expanded the boundaries of the hood. People that are actually from the Burbs, born and raised, don't venture out of the Burbs much and have a very different take on what's proper in the club, based on their media fueled beliefs.

When you add voluminous amounts of alcohol to the equation, situations can become extremely volatile.

In the past few years, there have been noticeable increases in acts of violence, at house parties and venues in the Burbs. Don't get me wrong. Violence is commonplace in the City, but rarely occurs inside of clubs. I'm more than a little surprised when I hear about shootings and stabbings, at suburban parties, and a few day later discover that the culprits are black, when they show the fools at their arraignments!

I think I'm starting to get it now.

I have been in Detroit clubs and young guys have become very confrontational towards me, always in front of women. It appears that the neo kneegrow thinks that posing like Ballers and behaving "macho" up in the club appeals to women! I think not. Woman are used to men acting stupid in front of them. The only time they are interested in men being confrontational is when some other man has offended them but it seems men have yet to figure that out.

After years of extensive research, of the club scene, I think I'm starting to get why neo kneegrows behave so badly in public.

I'm pretty simple, so here's my simplistic take on how this dynamic evolved.

About thirty years ago, my peers, in search of safer, more nurturing environments to raise their children, moved to Southfield, the Bloomfields, Troy, Rochester, Northville and Canton. They optimistically sent their children to good schools and paid outlandish amounts of money to send said brats to good colleges. When the generation that has too much failed to succeed, to the degree that our generation had, my peers, their parents, blamed themselves, bit the proverbial bullet, raised their immature children's babies and continue to allow their progeny to leech off of them in quiet shame. It's the black middle classes' dirty little secret because society portrays that sort of thing as only happening in stank hoods!

The neo kneegrow, free of most adult responsibility languishes in a prolonged adolescence, playing video games, watching hip hop videos, getting high on shit that my generation only dreamed about having, and fantasizes about making it big, while their aging once optimistic parents suffer quietly in their suburban dream turned nightmare!

When I party in the hood or downtown, at the hot clubs, I know I encounter some of those young suburban kneegrows, but they are generally a little more restrained than when they are on their turf in the Burbs. You act too badly in a club downtown and you might get your ass kicked by bad attitude bouncers or thirtysomething versions of me! My friend Danger Man, who like me, adheres to appropriate ole skool social discourse, whenever possible, has been forced, on occasion, to bloody the faces of socially inappropriate neo kneegrows, in club restrooms, for failing to behave properly! Violating manlaw in the hood often leads to personal injury!

In the City, there is also an inverse relationship between the price of drinks and the amount of alcohol you receive in a serving. Unless you know the bartender, or s/he wants to fuck you, you're unlikely to get a good pour. And Ballers in the hood are more likely to drink champagne for $60 to $100 a bottle, in the club, because champagne attracts the honeys, rather than paying $300 for a bottle of Ciroc. Urban Ballers drink the Ciroc in the car on the way to the club!

I want to munch on thirtysomething women with father fixations but I grow tired of the mating dance. I still troll the clubs because I like hooking up with high profile women. Time and experience has taught me that thirtysomething hubris generally makes for a great time in the sack. Most of what women that age know about sex generally comes from porn videos! Thank you Super Head!

Access to my high profile demographic is getting to be more and more difficult, now that I no longer work in midtown, where I came in contact with over 2000 thirtysomething women daily!

I may have to resort to carrying my night stick under my suit jacket when I go out to the Burbs. If you see me being arrested on Channel 4 Night Cam, out in the Burbs, it will mean that I was literally caught clubbing(!) and that I will have finally reached the physiological dichotomy in which some men find themselves: tumescent but senile.

If you think you'd like save a relic and engage in some worthwhile activity therapy, please send me an email!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!