Award Tour Vol. 13: Right Behind Me

So we’re in Los Angeles, if you’re new to the blog, I don’t have time to explain how or why. Go back. Read on. Catch up. For the rest of you, I have to say the ‘left’ coast is pretty cool. Nice women, nice weather, decent food, and conveniently located rifts in the time-space continuum for your time traveling needs.

Yes. You heard me right. Time travel. There are pockets of the Los Angeles area that have not traveled into the future with the rest of us. Example, there is a court yard area in Santa Monica where they found a year in a decade that they liked, and they just stayed there… that decade? The 80’s. The year? 1986. And what an excellent way to defy Physics. Because Miami Vice was a great show, Hip Hop just ain’t been hip hop the since the days of Run DMC, and in 1986 people still do battle the old fashioned way… through popping, locking, and breaking (i.e. dancing) I know, I know… I wouldn’t believe me either – but remember – this is all a true story (except for the physical time traveling, I’ve talked with some people from the Star Trek convention and we’re not quite there yet.)

Tre and I went out with some of his friends who showed us around the Santa Monica area. We walked a little ways and window shopped a few stores unaware that we had already entered the worm hole that was transporting us back in time. And then we got to a clearing, and there they were… B-boys… battling for sidewalk supremacy.

In this corner, weighing 110 lbs after Thanksgiving, wearing no shirt, wind breaker pants, and a pair of Lottos, (a line of shoes many once thought to be extinct…but like I said 1986…) – he hails from some place where it’s apparently still cool to wear dehydrated Jherri curls pulled back into pony tails (perhaps to preserve the remaining juices and moisture), introducing, The Drunken Monk of P-Funk – Jerry “The Curl” Johnson. Give it up for Jerry.

And in the corner to my left, he really needs no introduction. Weighing in at a trim buck thirty five (135), wearing the long sleeve black shirt, black sweat pants (that he had rolled up above his knees), a black kangol, white shoes, white gloves, and white socks (that he had pulled to below his knees). He hails from an Alternate Reality visited once on an episode of Sliders. The original White Chocolate, the Jon B Bizzaro, ladies and gentlemen give it up for the one the only, “Merciless” Marcel Marceau Jr.

So there it is; the wino vs. the mime. Honestly, you shouldn’t even be able to experience fun like this without having to go through TicketMaster first. This is awesome. As I watched on, they went to war, taking turns going step for step, and move for move; battling to a stale mate. The small crowd that had gathered to watch cheered it all, seeming to enjoy the back and forth exchange for what it appeared to be on the surface… just entertainment. But my Spider Sense was tingling. It didn’t feel like just a battle. Hip Hop battles such as these didn’t involve mere dancers… nay… they were modern day samurais observing their own special code of Bushido. That code: Honor at all costs. Theoretically they could battle all night, and both of them would be victorious if they each held their own. But the moment one guy did a move that couldn’t be countered… the moment one guy did a move for which there was no response… there would be trouble.

Oh Yes... there would be trouble.

There was no reason to believe that this would be anything but a stalemate… after all the ebb and flow of the battle had been balanced all night. But for some reason, I was unable to control my morbid imagination. I couldn’t help but to envision a scenario where this seemingly friendly game of one-up-manship would escalate until it spiraled out of control and erupted in gun play.

Could it happen? I wondered as I watched Jerry, having just completed his last dance offering (one where he did an exaggerated heart beat), move back to his neutral corner and wait for Marcel’s response. Marcel obliged by doing a dance move where he pretended to be eating something and digesting it.

Hmmm. That looked vaguely familiar. I looked over at Tre and asked, “didn’t he do that move before?” Tre nodded. Apparently, Marcel was running out of moves. Did he go to the well too many times? Did Jerry notice it? Yeah… he did. It was like smelled blood in the water and went in for the kill.

Marcel waited for Jerry’s response and Jerry obliged him. He pretended to load up an imaginary box, picked it up, waddled it over to Marcel, pretended to drop it on Marcel’s feet and waddle back to his corner like a penguin. Two moves in one. The crowd cheered gleefully… I looked on with trepidation.

That was it… that was the move that could not be countered… that was the move for which there was no response… Marcel, stunned by the move and the subsequent crowd reaction, went into auto pilot. Not knowing exactly what to do or how to recover tried to do a variation on his “Eat/digest” move, but for all intents and purposes, it was over; he had lost the crowd. He knew it, I knew it… we all knew it, the “Dropped Box” might as well have been a Finishing Move. Honor would not be salvaged… face would be lost. The only question now was, how will this end.

If you actually studied cultures of the Orient you know that I’m employing a little hyperbole here suggesting that Marcel would kill Jerry. Bushido would actually call for ritual suicide, not ritual gun play. Still if either one was going to happen, I’d prefer to learn about it via the 11:00 news and not as an eyewitness. I left immediately with Tre and his friends right behind me.