Tales From the Rooster
by Anonymous

I’m inside the club. There’s a five-person orgy going on right in front of me. Witnessing it with me tonight are Dave, one of my good friends from LA who is now a Vegas local, Brad, one of Dave’s buddies, and Sean, Dave’s neighbor and Persian partner in crime. Sean, who is known as “Shady,” started hanging out with the guys when they all realized they were devout herb smokers.

Back to the orgy. It started out when a woman in a tight, black dress who looked around 50 started going down on her “partner,” but as soon as they get heated up two older men in Member?s Only jackets each take a breast and a mullet-head in a white Spuds McKenzie tanktop then joins in on the fun. I don?t think she knows the other guys, but she isn’t exactly complaining about it. Apparently, once some action breaks out anyone is welcome to take part. For the most part, there is no shortage of willing participants. They are all going at it when all of a sudden, Shady sneaks into the lineup. I have to admit this was a traumatizing scene, but I’ll continue.

Shady discreetly slips into the lineup of horny guys and you can just see the anticipation on his face. As soon as the guy with the mullet finishes up with the broad Shady goes in for the kill. Only there’s one problem. Shady is having serious difficulty getting his rubber on. Under the stress of the moment, he can’t figure out which end is which and has to try it both ways before getting it right. There are two guys standing next to in nothing but towels who comment on Shady’s fumbling with some derisive chuckling. Adding to the comedy is the fact that Shady doesn’t even bother to take his leather jacket off for the occasion. As a matter of fact, he is totally clothed, shoes included. Shady finally gets his hat on and goes in for the kill. While he’s pumping away, Shady accidentally knocks over a plastic party cup full of used jimmy’s. After a few minutes, Shady takes care of business and makes way for the next guy in line. “That was real dirty, I didn’t expect that,” Dave whispers to me as we leave the orgy room.

We’re at the Red Rooster, a local swingers club and must see for the next Vegas trip. My friends have been telling me crazy stories about this place for a while now, so my curiosity got the best of me when they suggested we go this time. Located in a seedy industrial area miles away from the strip, getting to the Rooster is an adventure in itself. I comment that I feel like I’m being taken out to the middle of the desert to be killed and left behind, just like in the movies, and the guys tell me not to worry about it because we’re almost there. We pull off the main road and into a dusty dirt lot next to a small bungalow with a neon rooster on the sign above.

According to Rooster tradition, since I’m the rookie, I have to go in to buy the tickets. The guys tell me it?s $40 per person, so I collect $160 for the four of us and head inside the bungalow. Inside, I see a few guys loitering around the security camera monitor and a white-haired older man with glasses and a blue and white checked cowboy shirt sitting behind an old-school, manual cash register. When I ask for four tickets, he tells me it’s $200. Supposedly, they raised the cover charge, or “donation” as they prefer to call it (undoubtedly for legal reasons). In no mood to argue, I throw down the $200, get the tickets, and get the hell out of there. We’re almost there.

As I walk across the parking lot back to the car, I notice more cars pulling up. Most of the people are your typical-looking swinger crowd. You know, that Wal-Mart, Middle-America look. The procession of Buicks and Oldsmobiles with out of state license plates from places like Iowa and Ohio confirm my observation. I get back to the car with the tickets and the fellas congratulate me on a job well done, for a rookie. From the bungalow, we take a short drive up the street and turn off into a poorly lit gravel parking lot. We park the car and start walking up to a large, 70′s era house straight out of Boogie Nights sitting on a hill next to the parking lot. It’s almost showtime and I’m getting pretty excited.

As soon as we step inside the house, I see a coat room to the right and a small bar on the left. I feel like we’re in someone’s house. At this point I can really feel the anticipation building inside me. The feeling that comes with witnessing or taking part in something taboo is hard to describe. The place doesn’t serve alcohol, but you can bring your own and leave it at the bar. The bartender will even put your name on it and serve it to you. We drop off the twelve pack that we brought with the brother working the bar and I start taking in the action. There’s a hardwood dance floor in the main room and a cheesy cover band is playing tunes on a tiny stage in the corner. Small, round tables surround the dance floor and there are couples dancing and having a good time. So far, it’s pretty G-rated, but it?s only about 11:00 p.m. The night is still young.

Next, we head into a small room a few feet off the dance floor with a couple of beat up couches and an old projection-style big screen TV playing pornos. Just past this room is a larger room with stepped queen size beds along the velvet lined walls and a 20-inch TV up in the corner playing more pornos. This is the orgy room where Shady did some of his best work tonight. As I look around, I notice that it?s pretty dark, especially in the farthest corners away from the entrance. Aside from the occasional outbreak of giggling, which is frowned upon, there’s a subdued and hushed vibe in the room, despite the extra-curricular activity going on. Once you step through the glass door leading out of the back of the house you are in a large covered area with an indoor pool and hot tub. Although it’s dark and steamy, I can make out a few couples lounging in the hot tub engaged in various stages of foreplay. God knows what is floating in that water. I hope there is plenty of chlorine in there. There are deck chairs arranged around the pool, but I don’t take a seat. There is too much more to see for now.

At the far end of the pool room there’s a sliding glass door leading to a carpeted locker area and a dark hallway leading to a bathroom and a number of private rooms where the real action is probably taking place. According to the rules which are prominently posted on a white sign in the hallway, all of the private rooms are fair game. If a door is closed, no entry or knocking is allowed. After taking a bathroom break, I notice an open door to my right and a bunch of guys standing around in various states of arousal. Although I can’t see inside, I can hear a woman moaning loudly. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even want to know what was going on in there. After Dave peeks in, he tells me it’s the “stirrup room.” I take his word for it.

Now that I’ve had the chance to take everything in, I can take a seat at a table near the dance floor and start doing some serious people-watching. As I look around the room, I notice a lot of people who seem to know each other, probably regulars. Most are older couples, again mostly of the Middle-American, white trash variety. Stereotypical swingers. I haven’t seen this many mullets since hockey season ended. As the night goes on, however, what surprises me is the number of younger couples and seemingly normal looking people just hanging out and taking it all in, just like myself. I even see a young, hipster couple straight from the Hard Rock Hotel getting it on on top of a table near the bar, in front of everyone to see. Pretty soon they are the main attraction. After they finish their business, they even get a round of applause and some awkward high-fives from some creepy older guys who caught the show. The more I think about it, I get the feeling that what is thought of as a seedy, underground scene is piquing the curiosity of more and more mainstream people looking for something new to do in Vegas. For those of you normal and not so normal people out there, the next time you’re in Vegas and looking for something new and different, check out the Rooster.

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Please note, that I (Han Q Duong) did not write this article. Respond directly to this column by clicking on the Comments below.

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The Road to Perdition opened this weekend, hoping to rack in some bucks and start the Oscar sweepstakes a bit early. The film has a tremendous pedigree, starring Tom Hanks, Paul Newman, Jude Law and Stanley Tucci, directed by Sam Mendes and lit by ace cinematographer Conrad L. Hall. Based on the graphic novel by Max Allen Collins, Road to Perdition follows Michael Sullivan (Hanks), a mob assassin forced on the run from his own old employers with his son in tow when the kid witnesses a gangland killing.

The movie itself is technically pretty close to perfect. The acting all around is very, very good, including the rare decent performance from the child actor. Tom Hanks and Paul Newman give commanding performances, especially Newman, who dominates the screen in his few minutes of work. The design is wonderful, and Hall’s cinematography is a mortal lock for an Oscar. Mendes has a pretty good eye for staging and blocking, and everything looks incredible.

And yet, with all this, the film feels like a disappointment. The problem isn’t so much with the execution as it is with the entire approach to the movie. The book is essentially a John Woo version of Lone Wolf and Cub set in gangland Chicago, complete with religious melodrama and two fisted shootouts. The core of the book consists of the numerous bank heists the two Sullivans pull, with each heist getting dicier than the last, the two bonding and the younger Sullivan learning more and more about himself and his father. The characters are developed through the action.

The film takes a more dramatic approach, shuttling the action set pieces into a few montages, and adding many more character moments. As a result, the film runs at a very deliberate pace. Every shot and scene is so meticulously rendered that the material tends to lose its immediacy, its urgency. It never quite feels like the Sullivans are on the run, or in grave mortal danger. As the ending closes, it seems more obligatory than it does triumphant or tragic. You keep expecting it to break out physically and emotionally, but it stays calmly measured.

I don’t want to get too down on Road to Perdition, because it’s a good movie. But it never really becomes great, mostly because Mendes seems so intent on making something important and award winning that the film feels stifled.

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It always seems I’m always on pins and needles waiting for the new Sleater-Kinney album to come out, and each time it’s always worth the wait. Two years after the magnificient All Hands on the Bad One, the Pacific-Northwest trio returns to the fold with their sixth studio effort, One Beat. As expected, it rocks with unparallelled ferocity and precision.

Like all Sleater-Kinney releases, One Beat rides along on Corin Tucker‘s inimitable wail and the intricate guitar interplay between Tucker and partner-in-crime Carrie Brownstein. Without a bass player, S-K relies heavily on the drumming of Janet Weiss to provide cohesion and movement. This lineup has rolled through four releases, and they’ve nailed down their trademark sound. Like all great bands though, they’ve been able to produce work that sounds remarkably different while still sounding like Sleater-Kinney. Early work on the eponymous Sleater-Kinney and Call the Doctor is raw and caustic, while the newer releases show off more luscious textures, including some gorgeous three-part harmonies.

So what does One Beat bring to the party? Building on all the previous albums, One Beat expands outward and pushes the band stylistically. It’s still hard, muscular grrrl punk, but the record goes beyond that, dabbling in soul and funk (Step Aside) and blues rock (Sympathy, which also cribs Stones’ “woowoo” from Sympathy for the Devil). Strings, keyboards and even a horn section make an appearance, but alas, still no bass guitar. As for the core sounds, the drums are more prevalent than previous records. Brownstein’s riffing seems sharper and more angular than before. Her guitar lines seem to poke in and out of songs, from around corners and from above the wall of sound. Emphatic notes always seem to come in moments of empty space.

Despite having much more instrumentation, One Beat never feels cluttered. It moves and breathes from propulsive rock to sweet melodies and back without any effort whatsoever. The songs have been stretching longer and longer since Dig Me Out, but nothing ever drags or feels flabby. Corin’s hypnotic verse phrasing’s getting better too, as many songs lull you into a sing song rhythm before unloading a soaring chorus. Every note is a setup for something even more powerful, as in Hollywood Ending, which builds and builds until the finale explodes like the Who, complete with instruments in pieces on the ground. A slight giggle can be heard as the ladies survey the destruction they have wrought.

Lyrically, Brownstein and Tucker continue to put together good work on topics personal and political while avoiding the navel gazing introspection that marred some of the material on All Hands. Not to say there’s no message. On Step Aside, Tucker leads a call and response soul number reminiscent of the other girl groups with a modern twist “Ladies, one time can you hear it? [Disassemble your discrimination] When violence rules the world outside [woohoohoo] and the headlines make me want to cry [woohoohoo] it’s not the time to just keep quiet, speak up, to the beat.” Like Le Tigre, Step Aside couches important sloganeering in danceable, ra-ra anthems with infectious success.

On the less bouncy numbers, Tucker’s forceful scream delivers the payload with a deadly sense of urgency and importance. Tucker sings as if everything were on the line, bringing immediacy to everything they have on record. The purity and intensity of her vocals on One Beat and Light Rail Coyote wash over you like a wave. The best part about all this is that when Corin hits the hardest, Carrie will almost always have a soothing, anchor vocal as a counterpoint.

Occassionally, I get people telling that I should write more, especially about music. They like the way I write about music. The thing is, I only ever want to write about Sleater-Kinney. Bands of this quality compel me to write, because I want to convince people to listen. Work like this moves me to advocacy. I tell everyone I know to buy their record, I make mixtapes with Sleater-Kinney songs on them, I push and prod them to check out their blistering live show. One Beat is, quite simply, the best album I’ve heard this year, and Sleater-Kinney has proven itself once again to be one of the very best bands on the planet.

One Beat hits stores August 20th.

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At least they didn’t subtitle it Back in Black. Or maybe they did and I just missed it. Men in Black II hit theaters last week and provides just about everything the original did. By that I mean it’s practically the same movie.

The production’s sharp and the acting’s fine, but the script is cloned and the junks are lifeless. The few decent bits were revealed in the massive advertising blitz, so there’s very little in the movie that won’t give you deja vu.

Men in Black II’s the kind of movie that angers you more as you gain more distance. Immediately leaving the theater, you just dismiss it as another lightweight blockbuster. Three days later, I get more and more aggravated by the fact that nobody even seemed to care about making anything in this movie good.

The way they draw the logo up as MIIB makes me think that it’s a Men II Boyz movie.

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I am not ashamed. I watched the Powerpuff Girls movie. While it’s wrapped in all the cute trappings, at its core, PPG is a superhero story. Given the chance to expand its scope, Craig McCracken cuts it loose and brings some really huge epic action to the screen.

It gets slow in parts, but when they decide to blow stuff up, Powerpuff Girls has more collateral damage than any other movie I’ve seen this year. The action is just tremendous, and it’s more fun than a barrel of superpowered monkeys with oversized brains that burst out of their skull.

A final note on the gender politics of Powerpuff: I think it’s great when girls can learn that the only solution to anything is to be the living snot out of it.

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The Greatest Hitter Ever

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There’s simply nothing more American that completely gorging yourself on hotdogs. Every 4th of July, there’s a hot dog eating contest, where contestants throw back a staggering amount of dogs. Last year’s winner set a world record with 50 hot dogs in 12 minutes. Mull over that for just a little bit. Over the past few years, this event has been dominated by a string of skinny, skinny Japanese imports, completely embarassing the American entrants.

So just when you think “competitive eating” can’t get any more ludicrous or disgusting, this year’s even brought new controversy. Apparently the champ knocked out 50 1/2 weiners this year, but had a little incident where he vomited…. during the competition. Or actually, maybe not. He vomited, bun came through his nose and everything else, but judges ruled it was after time was up, so he retained the Mustard Championship Belt of Gluttony, or whatever they call their trophy.

I hope next year it happens again and it causes a massive Stand By Me chain reaction yakfest rivaling ancient Roman vomitoriums on live television.

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I got tired of staring at white and blue and orange so I changed up the site a little. Nothing big, just a color change. It looks like an eggplant now.

There’s a really weird little bug in the code that I can’t quite figure out. Occassionally, the left hand column won’t display further than the very bottom of right hand column. Hitting refresh on your browser fixes it, but I’d be curious what part of the style sheet is bugging out. It’s pretty minor, because when it happens it just cuts a fairly old blog entry off.

Linus got bored and started a little message board for no good reason. It’s mostly for his Education Abroad Program friends, but there’s a little section there where I beg people to come see Blue Crush with me.

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