Minsk nightlife, or The orphans' strip clubs

The fundamental problem with the world is that the #1 and #2 worst things you can do, in exact order, are being disloyal to the wrong people and being loyal to the wrong people, respectively. What's worse, these two are so far outlying the rest of the list, there's absolutely nothing coming even remotely close. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that fucking either of these up is enough in and of itself ; getting absolutely everything else right will still not suffice to offset it. Which brings the problem home : how the fuck do you know which are the wrong people ?

You don't, basically -- and the problem's not even limited to "big things". Every single everything perpetually everywhere is an exercise in this, the worst thing you can do writing is ditching the wrong thing, be it expression, form, structure, style, anything whatsoever. And the second worst thing is sticking with the wrong thing. And nothing else you do can make up for doing either one of these, regardless, stand on your head or pluck your own eyeballs out all you want.

This is the basic underpinning of all sadness, unhappiness, failure, monotony, ulcers, etcetera. Not "original sin", not anything else -- the fundamental problem with the world is that you're stuck with two fractal unknowables that will determine everything else and fuck you.ⁱ

Sucks, huh ?

Above : sovok glory days conveyance, meanwhile relegated to road sign. Because this is the function of artefacts : first they direct the life, as part of civilisation ; and then they direct the imagination, as part of culture. And then they direct the dreams, as part of forgotteness.

Below : the Excelsior contraption.

Above : learned men of the 1773, explaining the new metamagical operation called addition : feather to the left plus feather to the right comes to feather to the left and feather to the right.

Below : sleepy titties in hat.

Above : Oktoberskaya street, a shockingly accurate copy of Buenos Aires' "night life" street in Palermoⁱⁱ, existing inexplicably in a timeslice ten years or so prior to 2014.

Below : Willing Hotel. Where you take the chicks that aren't.

Above as below : photographic proof Minsk's miniTimisoara (or vice-versa).

Above : Belarussian haberdashery, principally a male preoccupation here.

Below : Downtown, sorta-close to one of the main clubbing areas (Monastery street).

Above : absolutely excellent (and rather large) bistro off the side of Niamiha. Check out their soup menu!

And thus fortified, we'll be starting on a whole night's worth assessing Minsk night life! Our first stop is Moulin Rouge Show, depicted below. This item, that was originally described ( for the republic's everlogs, a week ago) as

the "moulin rouge", top best cathouse-cunnyshack. driver takes us to a... well... i dunno, construction yard ? narrow dark alley betwen a concrete wall and some metal panes delimiting an earthy ditch.

very much lives up to its reputation!

Are you ready to see what's inside ?

Are you sure ?

Yes, that's right.

This utter atrocity, completely the fuck emptyⁱⁱⁱ, extremely fucking loud, to the point nobody could hear anyone unless screaming directly into their ear, and then the smell, my god, the smell... I didn't know feet could even get that stale.

Anyway, this utter atrocity, I say, had no show! There were no girls. There was nothing! Nothing at all!

We left ten minutes after coming in, while a very dazed & confused bimbo kept muttering "but it has show right in the name"!

She has a point, you know ? (Oh, btw -- the wedding party didn't actually go in ; they were just stopping there on the side of the road to mill a little and then get back into the hired limo. It's what they understood from watching F!TV, see.)

Above : "oooo, huge bear! did you see the huge bear ?!" "go hug it" "umm... it's ... it's kinda dirty..." "shut up and hug it, bitch". #whorelife

But time moves on and so it's time to move on. Next on the list, Rich Cat ("It's about seven blocks from the main market, and if you ever want to go like... nowhere, you just keep walking past it. It's like little Romania over there. I thought maybe I run into another subway entry, but eventually just backtracked.")

Two dudes korty-ing it up around a cig inform us that it's too early, place's not open yet. So when does it open then ? In ten minutes!

Well... ten minutes we kinda got, seeing how nothing exactly is happening in Minsk on a Friday night. Even the cab that brought us here is the same guy that took us to Moulin Cringe -- not by any kind of previous arrangement or anything, mind you. We just dropped him off there, came back out, and picked up the cab with the dood dozing in it, sorta a little down the way. Spoiler : we will actually find him, dozing undisturbed, twenty or so minutes later yet again, also a little down the way (but only after we chuckle past the shaved dude with an unmarked car asking us whether we want a taxi in the parking lot).

So for ten minutes, bimbo runs into boxing machine ("oh my god this is so soviet... so it's right here so the doods can take the girls over to show off their mafia brawns ???"), and then...

... chickfight!

This, for the record, has been the most show anywhere or anyone has seen that night in all of Minsk (and therefore, all of Belarus), and by a wide margin, at that.

Anyway, we go inside, there's a retarded older woman in an overcoat doing the very institutional thing with a picture-perfect avatar of any whore's nightmare customer : this fat, sleazy, confused Indian dude.

While she's having me wait without as much as a gander (imagine this dumb shit, as if there exists such a thing as a club anywhere in this fucking world that can afford to keep waiting on the doorstep a dude looking like me with some chicks in tow looking like my harem -- not in their fucking dreams do they get better custom, it's just not fucking possible this side of 1999) she's going through some retarded "reservation" circles with the Indian dude, as fucking if a "reservation" is a thing that happens to pretend-venues in the sticks with a queue at the door consisting mostly of their own employees^iv! Then she moved on to explaining they want a 500 pre-paid "just in case". Imagine you this cheeky clipjoint shit, 500 Belarussian rubles are almost 250 dollars. To be paid to some stupid old cunt in a trench coat ? For just in case what the fuck, for just in case they discover there's not a single female in the whole building and torch the damned place as well they should ?

Inconceivable, this nonsense. It makes some sense to open a night club in the Hrusceba forest of nothingness : so that young females misfortunate enough to have been born there can sell themselves cheaply to the first comer and therefore get the fuck out. That's the logic of the place, that's why I went there, that's why you even call it "Rich Cat". Yet when you go examine the actual thing they implemented... what the fuck backwards nonsense is this ?!

Just simply inconceivable. So I bellowed, "nevermind, she unsold me" and we were out of there. Twenty minutes of my time and 0 dollars of my money -- in fact the dozy cab driver made more money Friday night than the entire collection of Minsk night clubs. At ten dollars the "champagne" bottle... (yes, I bought one back in Moulin Fudge ; no we didn't drink it).

Ten minutes later we're looking upon the next stop on our (apparently, lengthy) list of possibles : PinCode, also in a Hrusceba forest of nothingness, except across town.

In we go, and the round vestibule is dominated by a...

No, seriously, guess. What dominates the ~20 square meter vestibule of a Minsk nightlife thingee ?

You can't guess, can you. Fine, let me tell then : a chick. Dressed. I don't mean, a little dressed, carmel lozenge on nipples and floss through the cunt. I mean she was more dressed than my private whores, what. And no, not dancing, nor moving about. Laying down, like sourdough, on a circular sorta pedestal, atop some fake fur or something. That is their display centerpiece, a woman laying down. Cuz what the fuck is wrong with these people ? How can you be that fucking troglodyte, your idea of sluttery is simply... what the fuck was she even doing, "not running away faster than we can give chase" ?!

The traditional by now old-woman-with-no-business-there (seriously, go be a dentist's hygienist or something, nobody needs "professional" oldcunts for anything aite ?) accosts me with some moontalk. "Hello", I say. "Hello" she answers, unmoved. She doesn't seem to perceive more is needed : I said hello, she said hello, good enough. Neh ? I gesture impatiently for her to fucking proceed, fucking development delayed poster child, and she does : "this is stripclub".

This is what I mean about the institutional mindset : this stupid old cunt imagines that what things are is predicated on what things are called. Much like the stupid old cunt of Oslo, distributing mothercunt largesse in the shape of things-that-very-much-aren't-though-they-try-to-pass-for-cabs, much like the stupid old cunt of Timisoara, expecting to be paid for, basically, "being herself", the stupid old cunt of Minsk imagines that her saying "this is strip club" helps anything. What sort of fucked in the head logic is this^v ? If I can't tell your stripclub's a stripclub directly and i-mediately, what the fuck are names in a light word sauce gonna do ?

At which point it fucking dawned on me : Minsk has what could only be described as an orphanage nightlife. You know how orphan children are taken to a special concentration camp where they get whatever simulacra of the outside world their inconsequence affords them ? The relationship between a restaurant and the orphanage mess hall is exactly the relationship between night clubs in general and night clubs in Minsk-ular. It's not that the girls are trying to get the fuck out, and in consequence the Hruscheba forest cunnyshack see exceptional cuntmeats at record low prices. It's that the dudes are trying to get as close to what the instagram and pronhamster show, and the institutional Mommy does what she can [be bothered to] in that general direction.

Which leads us to the directly obvious if strictly (see what I did there ?) necessary conclusion : ye males of Belarus ? Get the fuck caged already. You're not men, you're just extras.

Time to move on yet again, this time to the terminus station on this sad periplus through stupidity : Max Show.

I suppose you will want to know what the girls also wanted to know ("why the fuck is she dressed"). I do not know.

Above as below : 100% of all the show that happened Friday at Max Show.

Above : yeah, that's right, the toilet is a hole in the ground. For what it's worth, we nearly walked out again, because other than looking just like a bus stop from the outside, the place also looks just like a mall multiplex on the inside, all the way down to Hollywood-produced posters for reasonably recent Hollywood productions adorning the walls. There's just no way to tell, from environmental clues, that the place ain't a cinema.

Above : inside. As you can probably predict on the basis of the obliterating Cherenkov radiation, I did not stay for very long. Who the fuck told people it's okay to use that unfriendly blue light for places people go to indulge the senses !?

Anyway, I didn't miss much -- a sad little rural discotheque from the 80s, containing a visibly mentally deranged female, overdressed for the street, moving pitifully while gazing ahead about a thousand yeards doth not constitute anything. The music was bad, the drink selection shitty, I would not deem the place adequate for holding the quincenera of a third rate Mexican mobster cousin's greatson twice removed. It could have made a decent chicken coop as about the maximal extent of economic utility one could wring out of the sad hole.

Below : regulation leather jackets. Cuz they all gotta end with the ribcage, see.

Thus ends our attempt at Minsk night life. Friday night, July the 12th there was one ball gag (jeweled buttplug not depicted) and one foxy tail about this sad little village -- and they all belong to me. That's it, absolutely, irredeemably, uncontestably it. Once I move away in a week or two, the Minsk scene, Minsk night life, Minsk counterculture etcetera will drop 100%, going back to the exact and precise 0 it had been lo these many years.

Goodnight!

———

1. Note how all human history can neatly be retold in this paradigm, and with some notable gain of explanatory power, at that. Oh, "divine right of kings" ? Of course, deals with the #1 and #2 neatly enough, so one no longer needs to. Wait, you mean "democratically elected", on the basis of a totally non-religious, purely "rational" and "scientific" advanced etcetera ? Oh, but how advanced, and yet how very same. And on and on in this manner. [↩]
2. Honduras, off Juan B. Justo, a little further up than Niceto Vega. A dingy, motheaten atrocity creeping among long-abandoned warehouses and decaying, century-old brownstones, cut inconveniently by a slow, loud ferrocaril (Linea San Martin), at the time replete with "clubs" trying to charge insane covers for no reason, patronized by a baker's dozen working class dudes eager to explain all about "it's too early" at 2am in response to any inquiries as to why the fuck do they and everyting around and about them suck such balls.

   Much to my delight, all the spurious "clubs" and "bars" and "discos" and such pompously labeled assortment of garages and outhouses gave up the ghost sometime in the intervening years. All of them, each and every last god forsaken one! Not even the femstate's dream machine lists any of them anywhere anymore ; though the ruin and sadness perdures pretense like it perdures all things :

   

   

   Yes, that thing to the left was a "club", Hannah recalls it vividly. It looked about the same five years ago, but they were charging thirty or so dollars a head in cover, to get to see their sausagefest menagerie. [↩]

3. Don't give me the "not right time" bullshit, not ever. A night club works by getting the naked hired cunts to await, in the beggar's ready position, the eventual customers ; not the fucking other way around. [↩]
4. Speaking of which -- they had two whorehouse/vocational school rejects carry a flag advertising the club through downtown during the afternoon. The fucktards wore sneakers.

   Do you suppose it makes even an inkling of sense to go on a nightclub advertising march in sneakers ?! Whole fucking idea is to look better (and not a little better -- way the fuck better) than everyone else there, thus making the point for me, "hey, maybe it's worth going to whatever spaceship these two landed with". These two sad ambassadors of detritus didn't even make the top 100. [↩]

5. Upon examination, there are two fundamental modes of stupidity in the world : the high self esteem stupidity, yielding things like UStardia, and the low self esteem stupidity, yielding things like "patriotism". Yet superficial "differences" and assorted nonsense aside... they're both the same exact thing : fucking stupid. [↩]