We didn’t think it through.
When we planned to have Night of the Night Monkey, we put it on a payday weekend, so nobody would have an excuse not to go.
What we didn’t think of, however, was that we our selected night for Night of the Night Monkey was the first night of NBA All-Star weekend. In retrospect, how could we have known? The only person at White Wolf who cares about basketball is Stewart, and he lives in Chicago. Okay, Dean, too, and probably Raphael, but Raphael seems to like college sports more. Heh. College sports. Oh, well. Me, I didn’t know there even were other sports besides pro football and the occasional hockey game (which, I admit, I mostly attend just to drink and hurl execration upon the referees). At least basketball is a sport, unlike golf and baseball. I mean, come on — a fat guy hits a ball thrown directly to him and then sometimes runs 90 feet. Woo.
Right, so the NBA All-Star game is sort of like football’s Pro Bowl, only it’s a basketball game they play and they play it in Atlanta. Needless to say, that brought out all manner of cretinous basketball fans, who descended upon our city like the Greeks descend upon anything with an orifice. It was as if someone opened the doors at all the lunatic asylums and handed Escalade keys to any maniac who staggered near the direction of the exit.
You think football fans are bad? Nah, forget it. They’re mostly middle-aged fat dudes who maybe used to play ball in high school and vicariously experience their glory days through gridiron warfare mixed with American beer. Basketball fans are fiends from the deepest pits of Hell. It’s like someone took a Nelly video and upped the number of extras by three orders of magnitude. The city was gridlocked. Yes, the city. If you’ve ever heard of "Freaknik," this was its reincarnation. They closed a mall because it didn’t have enough security on staff to keep the villains — excuse me, "basketball enthusiasts" — from pillaging the stores. Atlanta’s main downtown thoroughfare, Peachtree, was shut down to keep people from parking their fucking shitbox Hummer H2s in the middle of it and having informal "baller bashes." They literally stop in the streets to converse across the lanes with one another. Guys holler incoherently at girls in hopes of impressing them with their clothes that don’t fit, hats angled absurdly on their heads and styles cribbed from jailhouse fashion. And the cars — you know how I am. Don’t get me started on the cars. Suffice it to say that every other vehicle was either an Escalade with chromed wheels or a four-door behemoth, also with chromed wheels. I could barely keep a drink down, I was laughing so hard all weekend long. (To be fair, there were some pretty zoot cars out there, too. I saw an incomprehensible number of Lorimer and AMG Benzes. Then again, they all had chrome wheels, as well.)
Such was the night we chose to stage Night of the Night Monkey.
At the costume rental place, they were all like, "So, what’s the monkey costume rental for?"
"Um… a dinner. Some friends are in from out of town. It’s, like, a joke or something."
No way was I telling them I was going to take their monkey costume into a nighclub district on Retarded Thug Weekend, especially since they were putting a thousand-dollar deposit rider on the rental contract.
In practice, Night Monkey was a mixed endeavor. Chad initially wore the costume, but he’s a pretty introverted guy and no one really went out of their way to come over and talk to the monkey. I took over for him about an hour into the gig and hammed it up. In my experience, I gleaned three things:
1) Girls like it when a Night Monkey comes up to them and acts a fool.
2) Guys hate it when a Night Monkey comes up to their girls and acts a fool and their girls like it.
3) It’s fucking hot in a Night Monkey costume. So hot, I damn near dehydrated, even though I was drinking water faster than an Irishman drinks his breakfast whiskey.
The night itself was a bit of a blur, and the photos below will bear some testament to the general feel of the evening, even if no particular highlights occurred. Wait, I did get hit in the face with a hula hoop, jacked by a cop and hassled by the club manager. That dude was skeevy.
Here are 24 — 24! — shots of hot, hot Night Monkey action.
Night Monkey visits the Cheat’s lightswitch rave.
Eight minutes into the affair, Night Monkey has had it.
Night Monkey is quite the ladies’ man.
"El Night Monkey" confers with "El Presidente." War follows.
Night Monkey visits briefly with Nicole before resuming his harangue of other female patrons.
Shelly’s through with Night Monkey. That was the most painful thing to realize. Briefly and out of context, a guy in a gorilla suit is sort of stupid-funny. Two hours of exposure to the Night Monkey, however, wears significantly thin, as it stops being comical about 30 seconds into the act.
Note Night Monkey getting crazy play from the ladies. Note dumpy dude in T-shirt standing forlorn and alone. Advantage: monkey.
Just look at the sort of shit that goes down once Night Monkey turns loose his animal magnetism. This is what is known in monkey slang as "getting one’s freak on."
"Check it out. I’m in a monkey suit. Wanna dance?"
"Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Anything to get me away from my dillhole boyfriend." Operation: Night Monkey is an unquestioned success.
There’s just something about a monkey and a camera that makes the ladies think, "Fuck it, I’ll have my picture taken with a guy in a cheap gorilla suit. Oh, and I’ll need more beer."
Shit, maybe I need to wear the monkey suit more often.
Night Monkey, like all men, occasionally strikes out. Your loss, Miss I’m-Too-Cool-To-Have-Fun-With-A-Monkey. Also, check out those guns the monkey wields.
Night Monkey felt constrained on the dance floor, so he shared a tender moment with the go-go girl the club had dancing outside in 20-degree weather.
When pushed to his limit, Night Monkey does not fear to attack.
Night Monkey is so charismatic, even he cannot notice all the lovely ladies trying to get near him to bask in his force of personality. He’s like Dio that way.
I just like the kineticism of this picture. That monkey — he’s fucking getting down.
These girls were all, "Oh, my God! We’re dancing with the Night Monkey! This is the moment we’ve been waiting for all these years! We’re so crazy!" For the ladies, this was a formative moment in their lives’ experience. For the Night Monkey, it was Friday.
Being Night Monkey certainly has its perks, not the least of which is being sandwiched by some of the raddest honeys in the joint.
IT’S GETTING HOT IN HERE, SO TAKE OFF ALL YOUR CLOTHES.
Night Monkey is wearing down. He has a glowstick stuffed into his eye socket.
Rejuvenated by contact with the sweet, sweet ladies, Night Monkey does what fails to pass for "the forbidden dance."
That’s how fucking hot it was in that costume.
"Ah, why me? Why must all this passion be locked into one mere Night Monkey?"
In general, I’d call the night successful, but not wildly so. We had a good time, we laughed, but the joke, admittedly, got old quickly. I was so beat that I had to split, soaked to the bone with sweat and not wanting to brave either the bone-aching weather or the scrutiny of the doormen ("You’re too sweaty. You can’t come in."). Indeed, I missed aftermath of the Night Monkey incident, which involved Coyote Ugly (which is okay, because I’m banned from there anyway) and former WCW Nitro Girl Spice, who now goes by the name Nitro. But that’s a story for another time.