Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos

I haven’t been too terribly successful with this here blog, now have I? I made a commitment to myself to keep it going and that commitment has faded like the haircut of that one dude from Kid n’ Play. The one with the high top fade, you know? Not the other dude. I believe he just kept his shit tight… Actually, he may have had tiny dreads, right?  Wait, no, the dude with the high top fade went for the tiny dreads with Kid n’ Play 2.0. As we moved toward the ’90s, the fade went by the way side. The fade faded. 

But, before it did, we were fortunate enough to see that thing in the real. Sometime around 1988 or 89, 6th grade or so for my pals and I, we were treated to perhaps the most epic hip hop show ever. Moose was (and still is) a friend of mine and his Dad’s company had a suite at the Omni, formerly the home of the Atlanta Hawks. Kid n’ Play came to town, but they were hardly the headliner. The great Public Enemy was on their It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back tour (I had absolutely no clue what that album name meant at the time). And, along with Kid n’ Play, we were treated to the likes of Heavy D and the Boyz, Salt-N-Peppa, and Digital Underground. I want to say Big Daddy Kane and 3rd Bass were there, but I can’t remember. This show was completely awesome. How ridiculously white was it for a bunch of pre-teen suburbanites to go see a rap show from the safe confines of a corporate sky box? Awesome.

I actually do remember feeling completely special for being there. One, I was old enough to know I was too young to be there, and two, I think I remember for the first time actually recognizing race as an identifier. Probably because my friends and I were definitely the minority in the Omni that night. Both by age and race. I didn’t feel nervous or uncomfortable overall, but when this tall, well-dressed man with a fade much shorter than the dude from Kid n’ Play (wait, was his name actually “Kid?”) looked down upon me with a sinister grin, I must admit I got kinda scared. Instead of doing anything remotely scary, he did the exact opposite. He sort of pinched my stomach and made that familiar clicking sound you would do to a baby… He was essentially saying “Wassup little man?”

After that, the only discomfort I felt was in the form of empathy (not that I think I had the ability to empathize at that age) for Moose’s Dad during the Digital Underground set. They were promoting their album, Sex Packets, and during their performance of the song with the same name, they brought out blow up dolls, and the members of the backup dancers (one which may have been 2-Pac, incidentally) laid them on the stage and pretended to bang them all slow and in various positions. So, here’s poor Moose’s Dad watching blow up dolls get banged on a stage while 4 impressionable youngsters also look on with wonder and amazement. I am sure he was wondering what the hell he had gotten these kids into… The language was bad enough but doll fucking?

Man, that show was great. I left with a shirt that rarely left my body after that. It was a white Public Enemy shirt with the famous PE logo, the dude in the cross hairs. As suburban white kids pushing around swim/tennis communities on tattered skateboards, I don’t exactly remember how we all discovered hip hop. Most of my music at the time came from the influence of my older brothers’ taste—which was made up of mostly punk.  It could have been them or it could have been what skateboarders were listening to at the time… from video parts to contests.

Public Enemy, EPMD, Tribe Called Quest, Day La Soul, Black Sheep, Leaders of the New School, Slick Rick. All major contributors to our music collection—a hybrid of tapes (some copied, some original) and new CDs.  

Remember for a while—if I recall correctly, it was heavily influenced by Chuck D and the S1Ws of PE—there was that trend where hip hop artists wore the leather medallion with the map of Africa around their necks? It was fairly simple; no gold, no diamonds, no bling y’all…it was just a black, leather circle enclosed by a sort of braided treatment, with the map of Africa prominently displayed in full color in the middle. It connected by a simple black nylon rope one wore around his neck. These things were huge for a while. 

We had a friend we called Gary Ganube. He wore one. He was white. Geeze, I think he may have even been Canadian for shit’s sake.  One time, as pre-high scool youngsters, we went to the Friday night football game. Ganube let me wear his African medallion for a little while. I felt like I was truly down for the cause. I realize now that Ganube and I were just posers. Neither of us truly knew what that medallion symbolized for an entire race of people. While there certainly wasn’t an overwhelming number of black students at the time, I am curious as to how they perceived this little shit dressed in what were called “skate rags” back then, beat up florescent Airwalks, hair so blonde it was almost white fashioned into the famous “surfers cut” of the time (shaved everywhere except the top which was worn super long so it flowed down one side of your head way below the ear), naively and inaccurately proud to be donning the map of Africa on his chest. I hope they were stoked, but I doubt it.  

Ganube was punched in the face once when we were all skating though the neighborhood. It had nothing to do with the African medallion necklace, and I don’t recall for what or by whom, but I remember it was quite a pop. I can still vividly picture Ganube leaning over gritting his gross teeth while rubbing his cheek in anguish. I also remember the vision of him awkwardly pushing his skateboard home after receiving that blow. Generally, I think most people wanted to have a crack at Ganube. Maybe not so much after… It was a sad sight seeing that dude whimper and skate home alone.  I wonder what happened to Ganube and if he still represents the MotherLand. 

There was also the time when my friend Z and I went down to Ft. Lauderdale tagging along on a business trip of his Dad’s. We, as always, brought our skateboards and pushed around the city looking for a curb or a step or an up-rooted sidewalk. We found a parking garage with smooth concrete and painted parking blocks. Before we could even determine whether or not this spot would be worth our time, an asshole of an old timer came storming out a door. He was exactly what you’d imagine an old timer to be at a Florida beach. Retired, crackity, leathery, unfit, and mean as a rusty nail. 

He comes out howlin’ like a hyena about tearing up his property, vandalizing, etc. Of course, we’re like 11 or something. As two fully frightened, pre-pubescent kids having never taken such a verbal lashing, we are standing at attention, not sure what’s gonna come next. I guess the old timer saw how scared we were and lightened his tone a touch. He launches into a diatribe about how our parents are gonna find out, blah, blah, blah. And, then he notices our shirts. I was wearing the Public Enemy shirt I got at the aforementioned show. And, Z was wearing a Thrasher Magazine shirt. 

He looks down at my shirt and over at Z’s and says, “I know y’all boys are some kind of trouble. You, you’re clearly an enemy of the public, and you’re some kind of thrasher.” Whether or not he knew the logos on our shirt weren’t indicators of our role in society, we still found this hilarious as little kids. He has no idea!  We laughed out loud and in our heads we called that guy an old asshole.

At some point during that trip we met a couple girls our age. I don’t even remember where or how. I remember going to a Red Lobster and trying to peek into the windows of a strip club. Where the girls fit into this, I can’t remember. In any case, we were going to take the girls back to the hotel room for room service…fried cheese. Dynamite. Who knows what would transpire after that. Our young, immature minds could only fantasize about the amount of hand holding that might go on. Who knows?  Maybe we’d even show these chicks what we learned watching Digital Underground.

As we step off the elevator on our floor and make our way to our room, one girl suddenly knocks on the door of some other random room. And then the girls take off running down the hall.  What the hell? Did they just doorbell ditch* a hotel room!? Listen ladies, we’re all about this brand of hustle…but in a hotel? On our floor? 

Z and I looked at each other in confusion and then b-lined for the door leading to the outside stairwell. We flew down the steps finding ourselves on the ground floor. We’d never see those girls again. That day or ever. Because of their immaturity, those gals missed out on some serious romancin’.

Bitches. 

*We grew up with a far more inappropriate phrase for this act. A phrase that Chuck D of Public Enemy would be none too pleased with. At that age, however, we didn’t realize what the word meant, we only knew it was bad. Because it had to do with pulling an awesome prank. Knock, knock, nobody’s there! Ha. Gotcha, suckers!!! …Oh, even better. Remember the fishing string tied to the door knocker? Now that was a gag! The poor victim’s door kept knocking and no one would ever be there… but the knocks came so close to each other, the suspect had to be close by, right? Yeah, check those bushes. Check the side of the house. Not there? Nope. Because we’re in the ditch across the street! Oh, you fool! Again, pull the string—knock, knock. Oh, you’re getting frustrated?! Foul language, empty threats! Knock, knock. Where could we possibly be?! …Oh, shit, you found the string… Oh, shit, you’re following the string.  You’ve spotted us. You’re starting to run. Everybody split up!!!…run!!!