Friday night and I had this crazy idea that I might actually get to bed before midnight. (We’re over the hump NaBloPoMo’ers, it’s all downhill from here. After tonight just 14 posts to go.) There were a few requests for me to post one of my dope rhymes from my rapper days so I went through some boxes in the attic and found them in a….who am I kidding, I’ve got them all framed in Shadöe boxes in a sealed fire proof vault. You can find a sample of my hip hop acumen at the bottom of the post. What you need to know about M.C. Shadöe is that he was a no holds barred politically charged lyricist with a guido mustache and a weakness for parachute pants, skinny ties and anything from Chess King. Despite growing up as a white kid in middle class suburbia he wrote in the tradition of Chuck D from Public Enemy. Below is from a song called White Palace for which Come Together by The Beatles was sampled as a music bed. But first some pics of my posse. Word to your mother.
When the Director of Catering refused to bring out another tray of Chicken Marsala to the buffet table, Jack flashed a gangland hand sign establishing his street cred and indicating his standing as an Almighty Latin King. Another tray was immediately hurried to the banquet room. The lifting his of right foot while looking to the left was meant to indicate that we were also running low on pitchers of light beer.
When Adam was born with a French Fry Tray for a hand we were concerned it might hold him back developmentally or cause him to feel different from other kids. Quite the opposite has been true. The French Fry Tray Hand has been a godsend, especially when tailgating at sporting events and at beach parties.
Though it had been nearly 20 years since his last public appearance, the moment I got on the mic I was transformed into M.C. Shadöe and instead of delivering the 40th Anniversary speech I’d written for my parents I threw down with some beat box then busted a funky rhyme. I think Jack’s expression adequately conveys the overall audience reaction. (Yes…that’s an umlaut over the O. Please don’t ask, there’s no logical explanation for it)
The Nuclear Gathen Family. From Left to Right using any one of our many nicknames growing up: Mike (Meega, Meega Monster), Mark (Marcus Welby, Sparkles, Markie), Dad (Pops, Daddy, Roar), Mom (Nana, Mommy, Patty Rah Rah, Lee), Kari (Ish, Ishgadish, Karsalee) Brian (Briguy, Brinski), Yours Truly (Boober, Booey, BooberNell, GATHEN!)
Nana and Pops, Still Crazy after all these years. About each other I mean. If they were really crazy I’d have them committed. Seriously Mom and Dad. The first sign that you’re losing it and it’s the retirement home for the both of you. You’re sure as hell not coming to live with me. We don’t have the room.
(remember…you asked for it)
Here comes old Flat Top man isn’t he a headcase?
He got headstrong when the flatfoot said “Face
Down on the blacktop!” In one stroke old
Flatfoot gave him the Michael Stewart chokehold.
A witness ran and was chaseable
The victim was just about traceable
The woman screamed and the decibel
Scared off the cop but his hate is insatiable
Heroes you know were meant to be broken
Zero. The negative scale of a token
black man. L.A. Story of anguish
can you distinguish the man who will languish?
We had support from the nation
But where is he now as I’m switching the station?
Face it! We’re not considered factors
Life is a play and we’re just the actors
Reading the unwritten pages from the comedy script
You grabbed the ending and ripped the chapter
That had you killed in Bed-Stuy.
You want a blue sky, there’s a blood red sky
Forming. You can’t stop or hinder
Your headstone carving has you starving in a cinder
Box. You’re starving for life and breath.
Because your life and times was the life and death
Of a man who dreamed of the life enchanted.
You had the gift but you took it for granted
You had the power, the ends, the means
Now all you got is a place in the ghetto of Queens
With eleven children a wife and one on the way
What have you got to say
for yourself? And now you sit and wonder
whose shadow you’re in, whose thumb are you under?
A man will drown in himself if he doesn’t fight malice
When he’s in the white palace.
(You can’t see me right now, but I’m doing the worm.)