Punk Rock Gangsta

Written by George Tabb on . Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts.


"Did
they like your ping-ping?" asks Wendy as I stumble in the door around 7:30
a.m.


"My
what?" I say as P.J., my Yorkshire terrier, barks furiously at me, telling
me not only that I’m super-late coming home from The Motherfucker party,
but that I smelled like booze and tobacco and to top it off I didn’t bring
him a treat.


"Ping-ping,"
Wendy repeats.


"Ping-ping?"
I ask.


P.J. barks
yes.


"It’s
called bling-bling," I say, crossing my arms in front of my leather jacket,
taking a stance like the guy who copied my look, Eminem.


"Ping-ping,
bling-bling, whatever," Wendy says.


"Yo,
bee-yatch," I say in my best ghetto accent, "don’t be dissing
my bling-bling by calling it ping-ping. Besides yo, my ping-ping ain’t
no ping-ping, it’s a big-thing."


P.J. barks
at me, much as he does at the guys down the block who are always riding skateboards
and talking that way.


"Well
you and your bling-bling take a shower and come to bed. Me and the boy have
been worried," Wendy explains.



Sighing,
I take off my PaRappa the Rapper 2TM gold chain and big gold dogbone
that reads "PaRappa" on it. I hang it on the dresser across from the
bed so I can stare at it until I fall asleep, thinking how cool I am.



Furious
G in the house, y’all.




It wasn’t
like I set out to be a gangsta punk rocker. Actually, it wasn’t like I
set out to be anything at all. But the bling-bling changed all that.


One day,
opening my mail–which contained mostly bills in Wendy’s name, since
I’m not an adult and really don’t know anything about responsibility–I
came across a huge envelope from SCEA. Sony Computer Entertainment America.


Figuring
it was a rad and bitchin–wait, make that fresh and word-up–videogame,
I tore the thing open. Inside I found the newest version of PaRappa the Rapper,
PaRappa the Rapper 2 for the PlayStation2. I had loved the first one, so I knew
this game was gonna rule. I mean be da bomb.


The idea
behind PaRappa the Rapper is you make this little home-dog rap along with others.
In time. Which means, unlike most drummers I play with, you need rhythm. It’s
all about the "kick, punch, it’s all in the mind" and the "chop
chop."


Pick up
the game, you’ll understand. It’s well worth it.


Anyway,
so I get the game and I’m excited and all, but I also get this little cardboard
box that weighs much more than it should. I open it, and to my surprise, it’s
swag.


Bling-bling
swag.


The PaRappa
gold bone and gold chain.


At first
I laugh. Then I curse Sony. What do they think I am? A fuckin’ gangsta
punk? Like I’m gonna wear a huge gold chain around my neck like those thugs
on MTV, with all those tattoos, and sing about my limo and bitches and hoze?


Also, what
the fuck? Do I look like I’m from Long Island or Miami? That’s the
only two places I know of where Jews wear lots of gold.



So I look
at the damn thing. I pick it up, feel its weight. Then I take out my leather
jacket. I figure I can put it on the other shoulder buckle of my MC jacket,
much like my Johnny RamoneTM chain, and get a few laughs.



But it doesn’t
look right.


So I wear
it around my neck.


An hour
later Wendy comes home and sees me wearing it.


"That
looks great on you," she says. "Where’d you get it?"


I wonder
what the hell she’s talking about. Other swag I’ve gotten, like construction
helmets, Santa hats and motocross t-shirts, Wendy usually thinks are ugly when
I think they are totally cool.


"That
chain looks really cool," she says.


After asking
her if she’s serious for almost a half-hour, I finally get it through my
thick, dyed-blond head that it may actually be cool.


But in the
back of my mind, I know it’s really just stupid, pathetic and funny. Like
my zebra-skin pants and my Marky Ramone wig.




About a
week or so later, I get invited to The Motherfucker party. The coolest ongoing
party in New York City. Although it’s held at different locations every
other month or so, it’s always a great time. My pal Michael T., who does
the best Dr. Frank-N-Furter this side of Tim Curry, always deejays and spins
nothing but hits, bitch. And the other guys who run it, like Georgie Seville
and Johnny Clown, are the nicest. Really.


But the
main thing that attracts me and all my friends is the pussy. It’s wall
to wall. Sure, some of it has penises, but it’s still pretty primo. And
the boobies that go with it are always nice and round and firm, even if half
of them are fake.


The music’s
so loud there is no way you can have a deep conversation, so you really have
no choice but to drink, dance, get drunk and hit on anything, well, with two
legs.


One, if
you’re kinky like that.



Anyway,
so I get dressed up for The Motherfucker party that night, which is at a place
on 6th Ave. After spraying on only about a quarter of a bottle of Jovan Musk
for Men, I look at my PaRappa the Rapper 2TM bling-bling and wonder
if I should wear it. I mean, Motherfucker is full of people who look like they’ve
either posed for Playboy or Playgirl, and I don’t wanna look
stupid.



Then I think
about that.


When have
I ever cared about looking stupid?


I put on
the bling-bling and wait for my pal Dave to pick me up so we can drive up there
together. Actually, so I can get a free ride, and also talk out a game plan
for the evening.


Dave arrives
on time, which for me is about 45 minutes early. So we pound back the booze.
He and Jack Daniel’s. Me and Jose Cuervo.


Eventually,
we both start to feel like we’re gonna puke, so we know we’re ready.


We make
our way up to Motherfucker. On arriving I’m greeted by the door guy, Thomas,
who is always nice to me.


"How
ya doing tonight, George?" he asks.


I tell him
I’m drunk and he tells me he knows, he can smell me. Then he gives Dave
and me tickets to get in.


As we’re
about to walk in we’re stopped by two huge black guys. I point this out
only because Dave and I are two little Jewish guys. With big dicks, of course.


"Yo,"
says the larger of the two guys, "where’d ya get the bling-bling?"


"Wha?"
I say to the guy as he blocks our way in.


"The
bling-bling," he says pointing at my neck.


"Ping-pong?"
I ask, as Jose Cuervo starts knocking at the back of my throat.


"Bling-bling,"
Dave whispers in my ear.


"Bling-bling?"
I ask Dave.


"Yeah,"
says the huge bouncer.


"Oh,"
I say, finally understanding, "you wanna know where I got my bling-bling!"


"Yeah,"
says the guy in a really deep voice.



"Well,"
I explain, "there’s this game for the PlayStation2 called PaRappa
the Rapper. Well, now it’s actually called PaRappa the Rapper2TM
and–"



"Where’d
ya get it?
" the guy yells at me. I know the next time he’s gonna
ask me with his fist.


"Videogame
swag," I finally spit out.


The guy
grabs the chain and bone around my neck and holds it tight. Then he calls over
for his other big pal to have a look. As he squeezes it around my neck, I stand
on my tippy-toes, as there is only one way I like to be a well-hung Jew.


By this
point I think Dave is as nervous as I am. He’s almost shaking in his cowboy
boots. I, on the other hand, have almost accepted death. I deserve it. There
I was, wearing a black culture item around my neck, laughing at it. What made
my punk rock so much better than their hiphop? My leather jacket cooler than
their leather pants? They probably figured I was making fun of them, and in
a way, I was.


Death was
imminent.


Finally,
after both guys were done pawing at my chain and bone, they let go of me.


"Umm,"
Dave says, in that way only Dave can say.


"Yo,"
says the guy who grabbed the chain.


"Yes?"
I ask, hoping against all hope he isn’t gonna say, "I have to kill
you now."


"That’s
some pretty sweet bling-bling," he says.


"Yeah,"
says his friend, "it’s dope. Know where we can get one?"


After I
finally exhale I explain to the guys that they should e-mail Sony. They thank
me for the information, and pat me on the back as Dave and I walk in, telling
me how cool my bling-bling is.


The rest
of the night at Motherfucker was spent much in the same way. I expected people
to tell me my bling-bling was stupid, but instead everyone told me how cool
they thought it was and asked where they could get one. Even chicks in bikinis
would touch it and tell me, "You have a big bone."


It was a
hit.


Later that
night–rather, morning–I arrived home to P.J. barking and Wendy asking
about my "ping-ping." I finally hung it up before going to bed, but
not before thinking about getting more bling-bling.


Hell, I’d
look good in gold rings. Lots of ’em. They could spell out "Punk"
on one hand, and "Rock" on the other. That’d be sweet. I mean,
dope.


And my two
top front teeth, they’re all chipped and crap. Pretty soon I’m gonna
have to get caps. Why not make them gold as well? Maybe even put a diamond in
there.


I said all
this to Wendy and she laughed. Told me to get some sleep.


And I did.


And all
I dreamed about was my new gold car, my gold guitar and my gold house.


’Cause
I’m Furious G, ya’ll.




Straight
outta Boston comes Gimantis, and their new self-released CD. Featuring the Gamp
(ex-Bugout Society) on guitar, these guys play songs like "No Good for
You" and "My Favorite Lie." But my favorite punk rock tune here
is "The Knievel that Men Do." Did I mention that the Gamp is the Eddie
Van Halen of punk?


Out now
on Go-Kart is a compilation called New York’s Hardest Volume 3.
With bands like Agnostic Front, S.O.D., Day in the Life, the Step Kings and
Full Blown Chaos, I have no argument with the title.


The Belltones’
new one, Cheap Trinkets on TKO, brings us more working-class punk that
they do so well in, well, Florida of all places. Kickass tunes have me moshing
around my apartment. Plus, I like that in the liner notes it says, "Dozens
of animals were harmed during the making of this album. Cute, fuzzy ones."
Punk rock!


Out now
on Recess Records is the new Civic Minded 5 album called e=cm5. These
guys rule. I saw them rock the rubble a few weeks after 9/11, when they played
a bar only blocks away from where the WTC once stood. Funny, clever and tuneful.
(Long, hard and thick are three other words I like to use, but only in chat
rooms online.)


In the videogame
world, Jak and Daxter from Naughty Dog (the same people who made Crash Bandicoot)
for the Sony PlayStation2 is one of the best games I’ve played in a long
while. While it doesn’t have blood, guts or even AK-47s, it does have a
nice plot about two little elf guys, one of which changes into a weasel or something.
Anyway, the graphics are beautiful, and it’s the best platform game made
in years. Also, it’s really addictive. In the game you have to collect
100 power orbs. I’ve got 90, and my four-year-old nephew only has 40! Ha!
Then again, MUGGER Junior’s got ’em all. Punk.


I also got
State of Emergency from Rockstar Games for PlayStation2. In a nutshell, the
game is a takeoff on the WTO riots, where you get to "smash the corporation."
You run around malls shooting and decapitating people. Also you get to use flamethrowers,
grenade launchers and really fast machine guns. And you get to run around neighborhoods
like Chinatown and downtown doing the same thing. After a while I must admit
that all the killing gets sort of boring. Thank God for a cool scoring system
where you can really rack up points for doing some really evil shit. This game
makes it fun to be left wing!


For Microsoft’s
X-Box, I just got Jet Set Radio Future. It’s kind of a sequel to Jet Grind
Radio for the Dreamcast, and both games are made by Sega, which is now only
in the software business. Anyway, much like the first game, you get to skate
around urban areas, tagging up buildings and mowing down people while doing
all sorts of cool tricks. The game looks great, and the feel is really tight.
Which is a surprise. For the X-Box. This thing is really fun as well. Check
it out.


Finally,
out on Def Jam Records is the soundtrack to the film How High, which
features my boyz Method Man and Redman. Tunes here are also done by DMX and
Limp Bizcut. Yo, one day I hope with all my tongue talent and bling-bling, baby,
that I’ll be doing mixes with da boyz as well. You better watch yo ass
when that happens. They’ll call me MC Furious G.


Or probably
just Pussy.



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