Friday Night: Fat Tony And B L A C K I E At The Mink

Photos by Marco Torres
Fat Tony and B L A C K I E. See what Tony was up to before his big night in our slideshow.
Fat Tony, B L A C K I E
The Backroom at the Mink
November 26, 2010

10:48 p.m.: Ah, the age-old Jacket Dilemma: Tonight, it is 40 or so degrees outside. And the only viable (free) parking spot near The Mink is more than a block and a half away. The predicament is clear: Wear a jacket from the car to the bar, knowing that once inside the cramped, sweaty Backroom at The Mink it will be rendered useless, cumbersome even; or leave the jacket in the car and freeze for the two minutes it will take to walk to the venue's door, but be free and unfettered once inside.

Typically, this is an easy decision to make; little is as frustrating as keeping an eye on a coat in a crowded room. But tonight, it's a decision being made only under the pretense of cold-weather casualty. The jacket is new. Brand new. And supercool. It has buttons on the shoulders. And we want everyone on the planet to see it. "What's taking so long," the wife asks. Think, think, think.

10:52: Fuck, it's hot in here. Totally should have left this jacket in the car.

10:59: Man, in examination, Fat Tony has strange fans. Not weird fans - weird fans are expected - but strange. One guy looks like he just walked off the set of From Dusk Til Dawn, another looks exactly like what you'd picture a racist guy to look like.

11:34: B L A C K I E, perhaps the most violently pleasing performer in the city, is minutes away from performing inside the suddenly shrinking venue. Doom, as they say, is impending. Have you ever seen a Ron Jeremy anal scene? Knowing what B L A C K I E's about to do in here is akin to knowing what Jeremy is about to do right before the scene gets started; i.e. he's going to be fucking some shit up.

11:34:30: That simile in the timestamp above, we mentioned it to our wife (who is here tonight as well) as soon as we thought it. Her response: A slow, disapproving headshake, followed promptly with a, "Can you explain to me again why I let you father my children?" It seemed like a clever simile is all, we respond. "No, it seems like I made a mistake," she retorts. Women never appreciate a good anal-sex reference.

11:44: B L A C K I E is sound-checking: "Microphone check, break a nigga's neck. Microphone check, break a nigga's neck. Microphone check, break a nigga's neck." Jesus, this guy doesn't even warm up normally. Wouldn't it be excellent if every one of the rote memorizations normal people learned growing up exist in B L A C K I E's universe with some sort of similarly perverse tail end to them?

How ill would it be if he were there teaching his son (blackie, no caps, no spaces) how to tie his shoes and was like, "Okay, son. There's an easy trick to remembering how to do this. It's a simple rhyme. It goes, 'Over, under, around and through, stomp a bitch in the teeth with your steel-toed shoe.' Got it? Great, son. Great."

11:53: He's started. Let's see how long it takes before he jumps down into the crowd.

11:53:02: And he's in the crowd.

11:55: By the by, the Hipster to Human ratio is pretty absurd right now. Just about everyone in here has on at least one piece of clothing they'd likely categorize as clever or ironic.

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