Posts Tagged ‘High’

There are so many words in the English language that cannot properly be translated into Danish. Mainly because English has so many more words, but also because some words have a very precise meaning or are only used in a very specific context and thus when translating, you run the risk of having to use a much broader and general term. This way you tend to lose some of the original finesse and meaning the word bears with it.

I deal with this on an almost daily basis, but what really throws me, is when it happens inversely. Every once in a while I will stumble upon a Danish word that cannot easily be translated to English. This especially happens when describing bodies of water. We have a lot of terms for those. This country doesn’t consist of 443 islands for nothing.

The reason behind all this rambling about words and translations is, that it happened today. I sat down to write an anthropological piece, because I know you guys like those, but I floundered when trying to translate the name of the LGBT subtype I wanted to portray. I thought long and hard, I Googled, I searched Urban Dictionary, but I came up empty-handed.

The word that gave me so much trouble was Kamplebbe. A literal translation would be Fight Dyke, the closest I could get to what she is like, is Bull Dyke, but she is oh so much more than just that. What is she? Well let’s once again (muff)dive into the mysterious world of The Gay Bar and learn about the strange creatures that frequent it.

The Kamplebbe is usually a short, broad (but not fat) butch. “How butch?” you might ask, my reply: “The butchiest!”. Let’s take a peek at her.

Fauxhawk on top. Always styled with enough hairgel to allow one to commit Seppuku with it. When she’s too lazy to shovel on the hairgel there is her extensive cap selection to chose from, all still with the stickers on, naturally. Sidenote: If you get in a fight with a Kamplebbe and you want to make sure she hits you first, just flip the cap from her head. Insta-fight!

T-shirts. Always T-shirts. They can be woman’s style or men’s oversize, but she never wears anything more feminine than that. Often they will have some kind of design, the more misogynistic or “gangsta” the better. We’re talking slogans with “bitches”, “hoes” or “pussy”, dollar-signs, silhouetted guns, gang signs or strippers. Real classy stuff! These things apparently make our Kamplebbe feel pretty badass. I know I’d feel real badass too if I had “Big Booty Bitches” plastered across my chest.

The Kamplebbe’s pants are always baggy, probably hang down below her ass. How else would the world know she wears boxer briefs? Sidenote: I wholly endorse wearing boxer briefs, they are so friggin’ comfortable compared to panties, and I can’t even think about thongs without shuddering. It’s the “everyone must know the brand and pattern of my underwear”-mindset I don’t understand.

Around her thigh and ass will at times hang the international sign for “I will punch you without a second thought”‘; The wallet Chain. Known to instantly boost your coolness-factor by at least 20%, this item is a must have for a Kamplebbe. I swear I’ve seen dykes carrying a credit card holder and still wear a wallet-chain, that’s commitment!

On her feet we find the obligatory sneakers. Preferably the clunky skater-type and the more tattered the better. As with the wallet-chain this sends a signal that the Kamplebbe is just badass. She is literally too cool  to care.

Her girlfriends are always incredibly femme. You know how the worst question you can ask a lesbian couple is “so, like, who’s the guy and who’s the girl?”. Well here the question is both valid and superfluous at the same time. Valid because they will actually take on these roles and will most likely give you a straight answer. Superfluous because you can tell from 100 meters (109.4 yards for the inventors of anal bleaching (we all look upon your in terror) and 0.54 international cable for the merry men of the sea) away exactly who’s the dude (hint: it’s the Kamplebbe).

Not only are her girlfriends femme, but they are a special brand of femme; the low self-esteem kind. The Kamplebbe treats them like crap and they put up with it because they sadly don’t think they deserve any better. Don’t think domestic abuse doesn’t happen simply because both partners are women (or men for that matter), it does. It is a big problem that it’s so invisible because the victims often feel they have nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

Sometimes being a sexual minority makes seeking help for things, medical, mental or other, very difficult. Simply because you are always afraid, that that your divergence will in some way be used against you or as a means of rejecting your experiences. A lot of people in that situation feel the only viable option, is drunkenly blurting out their burdens to their friendly neighbourhood gay bartender. It breaks my heart every time.

But back to the Kamplebbe. Now I know I have written on the subject of drugs in relation to the Powder Puffs, but I feel that if I do not mention it, it becomes a silent issue much like domestic abuse, the over-sexualization of young guys and the heterophobia that are all thriving in the community, simply because no one will address the issues.

Drug and alcohol abuse is not just common among the Kamplebbe-demographic, it’s the norm. I mostly bust them with coke, MDMA and speed (not counting the copious amount of cannabis I find), but heavy drinking is also a crowd pleaser. Simply put they’ll try anything that will enhance and prolong their nights out. And nights out are not kept strictly to the weekend either, any reason to party, they will use and abuse it.

Being a bartender I’m all for the party-crowd, but after a while you start to see these guys breaking down. The drugs and alcohol take over and they no longer party for fun, but because it’s a necessity. They fall apart and waste away in front of your eyes and there’s really not much you can do about it.

Now someone with a bit of knowledge about the LGBT community might rightfully state, that many of the above statements fit very well with the description of a standard butch. What then makes the Kamplebbe so unique? Well the name sort of explains it; Kamp means fight or battle and that is the final defining feature of the Kamplebbe. She is incredibly short-tempered and will never back down from a fight. Actually she will often be the instigator. She feels the most badass when she gets to intimidate or even hurt someone, both physically and psychologically. She gets off on it. It makes her feel large and in charge.

After reading this description of the fascinating Kamplebbe, you can imagine the trouble a couple of them can cause in a nice little gay bar such as mine. Luckily they mainly frequent the parties and there I have my bouncers to keep an eye on them. Still 90% of the ‘incidents’ we have at the parties involve one or more of them. We catch them with drugs, they start fights or just misbehave in some way and I’ll tell you one can get pretty fucking tired of chucking out the same cunts every month. I ban them for as long as I can, but they sneak in and when I catch them and chuck ’em out again, the trouble starts up anew.

There’s one silver lining though: I’d say you’ve never really lived until you’ve seen three barrel-chested bouncers struggling with a tiny little lesbian. Her face distorted in a scream of expletives that hold no truth or meaning to anyone but herself and her limbs flailing like a shipwrecked sailor’s when vainly attempting to attract the attention of a passing ship. It is indeed a show-stopping routine and even with a replay every month it never ceases to amaze and astound me.

Everything the Kamplebbe is and wants to be, is based on attitude and perceived image. This is my main issue with this sub-group. Why is it so important to look cool, that you would give up any individuality for it? Why act like someone else when you could simply be you? Aren’t the coolest people you know the ones who don’t try to be cool at all?

I guess I’m just not cool enough to understand.

Advertisements

As I have mentioned in earlier episodes, along with my position as manager of a gay bar, comes also the management of monthly gay parties that draw quite a decent crowd from around the country. At these events and at the bar we have very strict policies about narcotics and whenever we get the chance we enforce them as publicly as possible. Setting examples is proving very, very effective. So with all these strict rules how did it come to pass that I, last August, was to be found, at one of these parties, on duty and tripping balls? Well if you’ll allow me to tell you, please read on.

It was early August, the weather was about as warm as it gets here; a balmy 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit for the people who still find it relevant to discuss whether abortion should be legal. Yeah I went there, it’s 2013 you guys, come on! And 545,7 degrees Rankine for the engineers) and I was heading out of my front door. It was early afternoon and about that time when I get started on all the party-prep that can only be done on the actual day. I pointed my nose in the direction of the bar and was looking forward to a short walk along the river, where all the beautiful girls would be sunbathing in the grass wearing hardly anything. It was going to be a good day. As I was crossing the wooden bridge near my home my phone rang. It was Ray. He’d had last night’s shift at the bar and had heard some of the lesbians talking about someone bringing some coke to tonight’s party. We agreed we would keep an eye out and see what would happen.

A few hours later and the temperature had dropped a bit, but it was still much too hot for a bunch of Scandinavians. I was hot, sweaty and happy. Warm temperatures meant a rise in beer-sales, not a bad trade-off. It also meant that the smoker’s courtyard would be filled to the brim which makes patrolling for rule-breaking easier. When everyone is in one place and they can’t scamper off, it usually means we catch a lot more people and get to have a little chat about what one does and does not do at our parties.

Around 1 AM my walkie blew up like a 4th of July fireworks display (Bastille Day for the French, National Day of the People’s Republic of China for the Chinese). All I could hear was “Courtyard” so without knowing what was going on I rushed there. There was a struggle, the always calm and gentle Eugene was doing his best to hold on to a young woman I had never seen before. She was kicking and punching him to get loose. Ray appeared a moment after me and used his enormous frame to carve a passage through the mass of bodies. He grabbed the struggling woman by the shoulder and the weight of his hand made her calm down instantly. All Eugene could get out between gasps was “Kitchen…now…bring…her.”

The kitchen serves as a sort of backstage area, this is where we sort bottles and run dirty glasses through the dishwasher, but it’s also where we go to discuss things out of earshot of the guests. Now we marched in there all four and as Eugene slowly recovered he told us what had happened. The woman had apparently been trying to sell drugs in the packed courtyard. As she went around she eventually got to Eugene, she asked him If he would like to buy some coke, he responded by grabbing her and shouting for staff. Someone repeated it over the walkie and that was the story so far. We called the police and had one of our bouncers watch over her so she didn’t make a run for it.

So far so good right? I mean how unlucky have you got to be if you incidentally offer coke to the owner out of 400 guests? She was smart enough to shut up the minute we got her in the kitchen though so all that was left was to wait for the boys in blue. They would search her, book her and charge her if she had anything on her person and we would issue a lifetime ban from the parties and the bar and that would be the end of that. Right? Well…no, not quite.

The police showed up, two nice lads in uniforms and the gays got all excited. We hurried them into the kitchen to spare them from too many cat-calls and “You can cuff me anytime sugah”s. Once in there one of them checked the woman’s pockets while the other asked me some questions. Did we know her? Was she a regular? Had she come with anyone else? Had we checked her pockets before they arrived? Had she said anything? Just like when I ask girls out, the replies were all negative.

The other officer called his partner, he hadn’t been able to find anything in her pockets and they both had to be present for him to legally search her any further (I’m not talking cavity here, just your standard lifting up the shirt to expose your stomach and such). Suddenly the woman decided to speak. Well yell is more accurate. She had been totally cooperative with the officers until that point, but the words “search her further” made her lose her cool faster than a broken freezer in the middle of the desert.

“You ain’t touchin’ me you fuckin’ pigs!” (I didn’t say she was eloquent or even original). The officers tried calming her down, but she would have none of it. “Getcha hands off me you fuckin’ perverts!” The officers were now trying to restrain her; she managed to get an arm free the hand of which she promptly dug down between her boobs. “You wanna get the stuff, have it then!” And she pitched this little baggie right at me.

Now this wasn’t a Ziploc baggie, it wasn’t even one of those that work kinda like a Ziploc, except you have to press the little plastic things together yourself. No it was a very thin, very worn regular bag about the size of a deck of cards. It wasn’t full, but it was full enough that when it hit me square in the face, I got dusted. Now even for me, with all the crazy things that happen to me at work, getting drugs from a cleavage thrown in my face was pretty damn shocking. And what does one do when one is shocked boys and girls? One gasps!

I gasped…

I took a hit like I was a professional athlete! Tony Montana had nothing on me! I could have beat Sheen and Lohan easily! I was on top! I felt good! I felt like nothing or no one could touch me! I felt like shouting! I was the king! I was on top of the fucking WORLD MAN! YEAH!

The cops dragged the woman out in cuffs. They were real nice and told Ray to look after me, but that I would probably be fine. If I started getting dizzy or my mouth went dry I was to say something immediately, other than that there was only the option of riding out the high. Yeah, right on, I was up for that!

Ray wanted me to go to the hospital; I told him “fuck it, I’m good, I’m perfect, never been better!” Then he tried to make go sit down, but I was way too excited for that. He wanted to at least take my walkie and make me go off-duty. But nah man, I was ready to kick some rule-breaking ass! In the end he gave up, he resorted to checking up on me every five minutes and doing his best to keep me out of trouble. He was a pain in the ass. (And an awesome friend!)

In the end it wore off. I got really tired and cranky and mainly just sat in the backroom giving orders over the walkie. When we had finished up Ray insisted on taking me to the ER to have me checked out (suck my free healthcare!). Everything was fine and they said there was nothing to do but sleep the come-down off. When I woke up the next morning I felt like I’d been trampled by a drunkenship of cobblers wearing their own clogs. (Look it up, like a murder of crows it is really called a drunkenship of cobblers. How great is that?) I was completely wasted and just could not drag myself down there for the clean-up. Luckily I didn’t have to, Ray had called in some favors and told me to “stay the fuck away and have Neil (my roommate) make you some eggs and bacon or something”.

After that experience all I can say is hugs not drugs you guys. Drugs’re bad m’kay!