Friday, March 28, 2008

Let's take it back to 2005!

Winter is near over, but the evenings are still brisk. It's best to stay out of trouble by staying indoors when it's cold, but what the hell. So I stroll down to the local bar on Cherry Street on a hunch that something might be going down. I have a few pints of PBR (they got it on tap for $1.50, yall!) and begin chatting with the local nobodies. After rapping to a hipster about hip-hop, I'm suddenly invited to a house party. He drops the 411 on me like this:

"DJ Riddle and DJ C booked a hotel room for the night. Not too many people know, and not too many people are gonna know. It's like that. The place is within walking distance. I'm going, but I can't stay too long; my wife needs me home before tomorrow. You down?"

That's Justin. I actually worked with his wife, though not directly. Her office is a floor up from mine. He teaches elementary school and she professes biology. They're into botanicals.

So I settle my tab, say my goodbyes and head out. Justin is glued to his fone during most of the trek, and when we get to the hotel elevator he tells me that someone has imported white rainbow. Upon arriving at the party, Mary Jane greets us at the door with a pleasant "hi." The room is incensed with an impenetrable haze of skunk weed. After walking two miles in the cold thin air, I take a deep breath. Moments later I start drifting away with the haze.

DJ Riddle is laying down some phat trax on wax that keeps the house bumping to the max! His skill is unequivocal. He's influenced by the deep house of Detroit, which allows him to drive the beat with an urban soul flavor. And it's so fresh and fat that the bass oozes through the speakers. He really puts his weight on it. And his glitch sequences are unique. Like when he mixes something with an odd tempo or an off-pattern time signature, he'll come in on it almost too late, but roll right over it. It's like, "Wasn't that 7/8 pattern 4/4 a second ago? I barely noticed the change. Nice." I'm not much into house, but that night my booty was. All the other patrons were steady grooving to the beat while it accentuated peaks of euphoria. All was good, until...

"Aw, shit! Where's Justin?"

By this time a lot more people had showed up. I must have danced with every Betty in the joint, had one too many jager-bombs and landed myself in an armchair. The ongoing party had shifted for me. I was hugging the ground after a smooth landing when I noticed that DJ C was spinning. C has a different style all together.

"Naw, man. You messed that up, dog. Yer shit is late!!!"

I didn't want to be the one to say so, and so C's sister's boyfriend (or some other dude for all I remember) began the trash talk. I hate angry drunks. It's one thing to trash talk in a playful manner, and it's another to be down right mean and hateful. C had taken the helm after Riddle and was doing his best to keep the flow. And he was doing a damn good job, but inebriation got the better of him. The other drunk dude was fueling his fire. I really don't know what happened next since I politely dismissed myself from the scene; it was the next day after all and time to go home.

Now dig this. I'm about to head for the crib when Jay comes up next to me and says, "Yo T. Justin sent me to make sure you get home straight. I don't care if you walking, riding...whatever. I'll get you there." A good weed man looks after his investment and treats you like his own. That's a lesson some you shucker mo-fuckers need to learn. See I know you cut yor shit with poison cuz yer attitude is no good, bitches!!! I want no part of you! You know who you is! Don't make me call you out! I cut a bitch! Shit.

I digress.

So I went home. And that as they say is that. I promised myself to blog about it, but I don't think this is exactly the blog I had in mind. Anyway, three years later I present you with the first chapter of T's "CHRONIC-TALES."

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