I’m staring down a mushroom stem that has been thrust in front of me. I consider it. I hesitate just long enough for the offer to be rescinded and I immediately slide into deep regret. I’m headed to Magic City, Atlanta’s iconic strip club, with a couple of rappers and producers, and I’m dead sober. I recall telling Key!, former member of Two9, earlier in the day that I would only entertain psychedelics if I were in the right circumstances: nature. Like a beach or something.
“The strip club is nature,” he replied.
An Uber comes to the studio to pick up Key!, his friend, his producer, and me, and we head to Magic City. When we pull up, I realize that not only am I sober, but I have a gym bag with a camera in it, which I have no way of disposing. No way are they going to let a herb like me into this cornerstone of contemporary culture, this palace where new songs are broken and stars are made. Atlanta is the hip-hop capital of the world, and Magic City is its House of Congress.
My clearly flawed logic is that I will become crossfaded enough to convince myself that I am actually tripping on mushrooms.
I’m nervous. I’ve never even been to a strip club before, and I don’t want to hold the crew back, swagwise. We meet Sonny Digital at the entrance, whose clout is enough to get nobodies like myself past the bouncers, and we head to the back. A corner table has been set up for us, replete with bottles of Hennessy. Tonight is a showcase. Various unnamed rappers get on stage with the strippers for a little exposure, and have to throw enough money around to make it look good. What this ends up being, naturally, is a number of struggle rappers paying to perform, while a few industry established people get to watch and make some money. The house always wins.
At this point, I’m so upset with myself for not taking the mushrooms that were offered to me that I begin to drink and pull blunts with reckless abandon. My clearly flawed logic is that I will become crossfaded enough to convince myself that I am actually tripping on mushrooms. Instead of that, of course, I simply become crossfaded enough to no longer care that I’m not tripping on mushrooms. The naked women, the struggle rap performances, the DJ shout-outs, and my companions all converge into a neon purple blur. I begin to take notes on my phone.
This is what I ended up with:
1.
This isn't found poetry. Don't worry, I'll interpret as best as I can.
"extracting for about the mom": This refers to a moment I observed from at least ten meters away. A gentleman had been receiving a lap dance from one woman, who at this point was entirely naked, for at least half an hour. I had been admiring the nonchalance with which he was approaching the situation. It seemed as though this was an everyday matter for him. He had been sitting there like a gargoyle, face stern, body stationary, for the entirety of the dance. I was shook. Just at the moment I was prepared to admit that he was indeed a statue, maybe a practice mannequin, he leaps up out of his seat with a newfound enthusiasm. He had extracted himself from the lap dance expeditiously, and began to jump up and down, arms flailing. Why? T.I. and Young Thug's "About The Money" had come on.
"lol Jon": They were playing Lil Jon deep cuts. Nothing funny about it, this was just a misspelled reminder to myself that I should revisit some of those songs, on account of their having been fire.
"handsome and wealthy": This is a Migos song that they were playing. It was also how the alcohol was beginning to make me feel, despite most likely being the brokest person within a twelve-stripper radius.
"drinking furiously": I was.
"tripped over": I have no explanation nor memory of this, but I do apologize if your Balenciagas got scuffed.
"hot person to partition": I was impressed, for some reason, that they had played Beyoncé's "Partition" immediately after Bobby Shmurda's "Hot N****." It was pandemonium. I'm also impressed right now, by the fact that I apparently continue to censor titles of rap songs when I'm half a bottle of Hennessy deep.
"acrobatics": Ok, this refers to the awe with which I had been struck, watching what the strippers were doing in between struggle rapper sets. There was a distinct moment when I was certain that a woman was going to die. She ostensibly fell from where she was hanging on the pole, which was at least ten feet above the ground. But it was no mistake. She had dropped directly into the splits, from which she flawlessly transitioned into a slow twerk. I wanted to give her a standing ovation but at that point I don't think I was capable of standing at all.
"struggle rapper backpack same as mine": My actual backpack had been stolen a couple weeks prior, so I was toting one of those nylon bags with like, strings as straps, that athletic types used to rock in public high schools. I don't know if they still do, but they're wild uncomfortable and look like shit. Anyway, I noticed that a particularly struggling struggle rapper was carrying an identical one to my own, and I resolved then and there that it was time to get a real one.
"nonsway": This refers to when Key! was walking around calling himself "Non-Sway." I was confused at first, then recalled the cultural watershed that took place when Kanye accused Sway of not having the answers. Key!, apparently, does have them.
"listerine": Apparently, they still make those translucent breath strips. What the fuck, man, those are vile.
"slapping beat": Again, a stripper's masterful facility with her own body had rendered me speechless. This time, a woman was jumping up and down, such that her breasts slapped together in a percussive, rhythmic fashion. I remember thinking that someone should be rapping over it. It could have gotten one of the struggle rappers a deal on the spot. Shit sounded like the "Grindin'" beat.
"i don't want to be a freak no more": This was the last song I heard. If you're not familiar, it's a Migos song based on the idea of strippers not wanting to be strippers anymore. The irony was not lost on me at the time and I began to wonder why the club would expect strippers to dance to a song about abandoning their craft. One might assume that a DJ would have a little more tact. I then began to look inward at my own, recent, hoe-ish ways, and found myself applying the thesis of the song to my own life. I was quite wasted. And quite moved, emotionally, by the music. I was having a mental breakdown surrounded by naked women. I felt like Kid Cudi.
Before I know it, my companions are ready to turn in for the night. Sonny Digital had left an hour ago, but the DJ was still pointing to our corner, yelling, "We've got the legendary Sonny Digital in the house tonight!" like every twenty minutes. We get in the Uber and I drunkenly remember to snap a picture, which you see above, of the building's exterior. The guy who was tripping heavily on mushrooms throughout the night had seemingly gone through an existential crisis of his own, and warns me ever so sagely: "Bruh, never do shrooms." With this notion in mind, I finally reconcile with my crippling fear of having missed out. Next time, though, for sure.
Alex Russell doesn't want to be a freak no more. He's on Twitter (@alexrussellglo).
