Hip-Hop Academy

We get schooled in the College Night traditions at Delux

"Could you not put your hands on my chest while you talk?" I asked — fairly politely too, all things considered.

"I'm Latin," he said by way of excuse.

Shit. How could I be so culturally insensitive? Clearly, I needed some diversity training. In lieu of such a drastic self-improving measure, I excused myself.

Girls in the standard club uniform (sequin-laden cami-tops and either low-rider pants or miniskirts) were getting their backs into it, just as 50 Cent's "Shake That Ass" instructed. One woman drew a crowd of guys three deep around her, and I was immobilized by the sight. She was dressed plainly, accessorized by only kickin' curves and a willingness to "twerk it" (a term coined by the Ying Yang Twins — basically a Southern rap term for shaking ass).

Finally, I found the boys of summer. One — an FAU player — modestly refused to introduce himself. Instead, he introduced me to a smug former Florida Marlins player who — though drafted in the 39th round and now only a utility player for the minor league Vero Dodgers — acted as if I'd just been granted an audience with the pope.

Beau McMillan leaned against the bar, seemingly irritated by my mere presence. After getting through the logistics of his career, including his Lynn University alum status, I decided to play hardball myself.

"Is it true that you guys get lots of play?" I asked, pun intended.

"You a baseball fan?" he asked with just a little too much self-assurance. I never liked jocks, and now I remembered why. Just call me a "playa hata."

As DJ Shalomar spun sex-obsessed booty anthems (homophobic Beenie Man's "Dude") and mad tunes about life in the hood (Tupac's "All Eyez on Me"), I hit up hype man DJ Jazz.

Finally, I'd found a scholar. Majoring in international business, the guy's making a living that exceeds the hype: "It's all about how many people we bring to the party. Ten bucks a head, a few hundred people. You do the math."

I didn't need my college degree to solve for x.

Girls popped, locked, and dropped to hip-hop lyrics that filled the gap between sex drive and abstinence-only education. Proving that if parents and teachers don't teach 'em, someone else — like sexist rappers — will.

While I watched the bitches twerking it, I chatted up Udo, 26, a Lynn business student from Belgium who dreams of owning a company that exports to his original motherland — the Congo. He educated me on the comparative differences between this and Miami's scene. As a bouncer at a South Beach club, the football player was an expert: "All these people are local. It's different when it's international; they get really crazy."

Udo spoke truly. When I left just before the 2 a.m. closing, the cops outside were leaning on their squad cars, bored by the — to all appearances, anyway — law-abiding clubgoers. Po-po or no, I suspected many would be renouncing their crimes when they woke with Tuesday-morning hangovers.

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