Mine father rangeth the phone yesterday morning to tell me he was "waitin' for the bobcat" to come and dig him out of the snow surrounding his house. He was watching television, eatng canned food, bored out of his skull. I was like, "shiiit, Do Your Thing could melt some fucking snow."
Who's still listening to this?
(Do we talk about Castle D like he's not here?)
Household chores have improved on all fronts: 1) focus and determination 2) dexterity 3) knowledge about solvents and floor-shine
Dudes in the mailroom came through on a Friday afternoon.
Ran home. Plopped the CD in. Set dials to :destroy: as the Mrs. and I cooked/washed dishes (the grown & sexy "goin out on Friday night").
There are certain parts of Soulstrut that I share with her. Like the 8am calls from iDOX (it's the guy with the deep voice from Toledo), or Cosmo (everyone loves Cosmo). She knows you as "Castle D, that one dude from Chicago." She asked what we were listening to, and I said, "Castle D, that one dude from Chicago, sent a b-boy/b-girl mix." Her: Uprocking? (You'll have to see her uprock in person sometime). Chessboxin' got a "Ooooooh, that's niiiice!" from her, which is the equivalent of a head nod from a tough dude playing the wall, nursing a drink, dressed in Roca-Wear, only much friendlier.
I love it. All the late night mp3 trade sessions from the last year make sense now. Those were pieces... Castle D has been working overtime. Peace to letting us in on the process. And top o' the props for concluding it. You did a solid.
(This thread seems like a good place to mention that I think the Ill Noize??? Crew is to Soul Strut what the Philly crew was last year. That is, those thick with native tongue. The dialect the dickriders dissect, in other words. The Bay looked like they had it locked with Thizzness for a while, but Chicago obviously wins. Jawn is out, "Do the James" is in. I ain't mad, we could use a little literacy around here. Castle D as the new Dinosaur, discuss...)
Man I got that whole 80 minute mix at my house ever since I got it my floorwork has improved dramatically.
I blew the dust off my footwork while doing the aforementioned dishes. (Just after the Mrs. hollered at "Raw like cocaine straight from Bolivia.") My footwork was in the cellar, too. Like, ancient. Sad, even. Since '84.
I only know it was '84 because "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" was dominating the radio waves. That summer pops took me to Minnesota. I was living with mom, and had just hit my "difficult" period. I think the plan was to take me to the middle of nowhere (no offense, Minnesota) and let me work it out. My butch dyke cousin gave me my first mowhawk -- dyed red -- two days before dad showed up. I was rocking the freshest pair of banana yellow lowtop Converse (no socks). Dad was not happy. We pulled into Thief River Falls, where grandma lived, and pops suggested we go into the local barber and "just take a little off the top so Grandma doesn't have a fucking stroke when she sees you." Fair enough, I thought. I could maintain hardcore without damning the family crest -- like tucking your ponytail into your McDonald's hat to keep your job. Dad went into the barber shop first, he said, "to warn them." My red flag must not have been working. Chalk it up to youth. All I remember is a woman looking out the window and smiling real big. She was being overly friendly when I went in, and not like that friend of my sister who wanted to touch my thingy. As soon as I sat down, she grabbed my mane by the tail (Did I just admit to having a mowhawk with a tail?) and shaved it completely off in one fell swoop. From the tail to the forehead in one swift motion. I watched it all happen in the mirror, but didn't get it until the hair had hit the floor. That smiling bitch was still holding the tail, though. Mouth agape, I lloked at dad in the mirror. "You didn't think I'd take you to my parent's house looking like a fag?" He paid the woman, and walked out. (I probably cried, but that's still repressed.)
Quietest drive through Thief River Falls in the history of drives through Thief River Falls.
The end of my breakdancing career coincides with the first time I dropped the F-Bomb on pops. We parked near grandma's, and dad asked if I was ready to go in. I said, "Fuck you!" He slapped me so hard that my face bounced off his palm, hit the window, and bounced back towards his palm. I stifled, got out of the car, and went to hug the grandmother I hadn't seen since I was 4. But I had a plan.
That plan came through grandma's neighbor kid, Jason. Dude had parent's (like most, I suppose) who had a liquor cabinet. I knew my dad kept pills in his suitcase -- how else can you drive from California to Minnesota without sleeping? So Jason and I indulged while the old folks were out. I remember puking a mouthful of gin, uppers, and Copenhagen chewing tobacco all over Jason's mother's white carpet. (Punk Rock Points = 10.) We were living the life, so to speak. Jason wanted to show off his summer import, so he took me to meet the "Thief River Crew."
The crew (they didn't call themselves that, by the way), hung out at K-Mart. Apparently, K-Mart didn't carry the same negative connotations for Minnesotans as it did for Californians, 'cause when we walked up I was like, "Fuck no I ain't going in there," and Jason said, "Why? Everyone hangs out here." Whatever! I shit you not, one of the kids waiting to meet the King Kali Puker asked me if I surfed to school? I may have still had my dad's palm imprinted on my face, but I wasn't stupid. Surf to school? Jesus...
What happened next is still so vivid in my mind, I can give it to you verbatim:
[Scene I:[/b] One of the Thief River dimwits asked what Californians did for fun.]
We breakdance.
"Oh, you mean like..." [busts a rudimentary robot that's so squeaky it made my ears hurt.]
That's "popping" you dipshit!
"Oh, well then... what's breakdancing?"
I'd show you, but I need my cardboard.
[Dipshits, in unison] "Cardboard?"
Yea, cardboard! I don't want to tear my clothes. ['Cause my sister's hand-me-downs were so fucking fly, I guess?]
"Well, can you do popping for us then?"
I would, but I need music. YOU HAVE TO POP TO MUSIC! Don't you know?
[The details here are fuzzy, but someone suggested we go to the house of one of the K-Mart honeydips, 'cause her folks weren't home. I don't remember getting there, but I remember her pad had that brown on brown (wood paneling for days) on lock, with one of those monster console record player/tape deck/mini bar joints. I was instantly crushed on said honeydip, but I played it cool like Cali.]
[Scene II:[/b] In honeydip???s front room, crowd gathered around Kid Kali.]
"DO IT! DO IT!"
"What music do you want?"
Turn the radio on! You do have a Top 40 station here, don't you?
[Radio: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)]
Okay, this will work. Turn it up! [Preparing.]
"What's that?"
My glove! [Since I already admitted to having a tail in '84, rocking yellow converse with my sister's clothes, I guess it's not a stretch for you to believe that I actually carried a white Michael Jackson glove around with me. (I have pictures -- missbassie's seen the post-Minnesota bitchkiller!) In my defense, my mom worked at a factory that built printed circuit boards, and everyone had to wear white gloves, she always had them in her purse -- It's not l
ike I bought them, gosh!]
I proceeded to bust what must have been the ugliest uprock / robot / "the wave" / buttspin combo in the history of terrible, terrible breakdancing. And the dimwits WENT NUTS. I mean, totally lost their shit. Perhaps it's just my imagination, but I think they put me on their shoulders and marched me through town, declaring me "king of the dance floor". Yea, that is my imagination. But I do recall the next song to come across the radio was a Billy Idol tune ("Rebel Yell" or "Flesh For Fantasy", probably), and you know Kid Kali worked an upper-lip-snarl / punching-fist combo into the routine...
That honeydip was done for. Shook ones up in Thief River Falls, I tell you.
Jason and I stole a bottle of whisky from honey's parent's cabinet and drank it in a park, then snuck into his parent's house (sleepover, yo!) late. Jason cut the sleeves off his t-shirt the next day before we went to get milkshakes. He wanted to be more like King Kali, and I was hoping to bump into honeydip again.
I never did see honey again. And Jason's mom was hella pissed about the shirt. Not quite as pissed as she was when Jason puked his leftover whisky+strawberry milkshake+Pepto Bismol stomach contents all over the house. That summer was a first, on so many levels!
"Batten down your snuff holder, I'm fixin' to work it out!"[/b]
Comments
Mine father rangeth the phone yesterday morning to tell me he was "waitin' for the bobcat" to come and dig him out of the snow surrounding his house. He was watching television, eatng canned food, bored out of his skull. I was like, "shiiit, Do Your Thing could melt some fucking snow."
Who's still listening to this?
(Do we talk about Castle D like he's not here?)
where sketch @?