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| skateboarding, punk rock, and poopy pants |
| Roy Starin |
Hi, everyone! Oh my, so much has happened since we've last spoken! Actually this is more like a one sided conversation, but I don't really spend a whole lotta time listening to you blabber anyway, so maybe this is best. So let's see, me and the family haven't been up to much, you know, we only moved about 1200 miles north of our former southern California location. So there's that. But hey, it's given me plenty of time to think about what I would like to write about, and I think I may have stumbled upon some entertainment. As usual, this editorial will have as little to do with actual music writing as possible. There will be, however, a story that has skateboarding, fights, punk rock, poopy pants, and a power outage all rolled into one. I have to thank MRZ for inspiriation, as we spent the long drive back from San Diego sharing our favorite fight stories. I will now share with you my all time favorite fight story starring yours truly, brother Deans, and brother Ike. Read on.
The scene begins at the Basic BBQ just a few years ago. We all decided that we would go crash the contest, skate, drink, and heckle as only we can. Cesar was on the decks spinning records, the beer was flowing freely, and the skating was good. I entered the contest and immediately forgot how to ride my skateboard; such is the case with me and contests. Ike, on the other hand, was on a mission, snaking everyone else in his heat and generally creating mayhem. The heats ended and Ike ended up getting third or something, I was already too drunk to pay attention to details. We spent the rest of the afternoon getting plastered in the sun, setting empty beer cans on the coping for the pro dudes to knock over during their pro dude runs. Somewhere during the course of the day we found out that one of our favorite bands, The Spits, were playing that very evening at Chain Reaction. We determined that this was an event that was not to be missed, and plans were made to rock out.
The contest wrapped itself up, and we somehow made it back to our sector of Orange County. We secured some tickets and made our way to Anaheim to the legendary all ages club Chain Reaction. Now Chain Reaction is famous for a few things, but for the benefit of this story I will say that Chain Reaction is most notable as an all ages club with slightly over-zealous bouncers. Lots of slightly over-zealous, wannabe UFC, tribal tattoo sporting motherfucking bouncers. Good times. Anyway, we drove my old 4 door Oldsmobubble (odometer reading- 150,000 miles) to this night club in a strip mall so we could watch The Spits rock.
Before I continue my story, I should take a minute to describe my good friend Ike to you. There is always one dude in a group of dudes that is completely predictable in only one way; he is completely unpredictable. Well, Ike is that dude. Add alcohol and a short temper to the mix, and chaos is bound to happen. Allow me to also remind you that Ike placed third (or something) in the contest earlier in the day and was feeling rather celebratory, if you catch my drift. Dude had evil in his eyes, and the sun had barely dipped below the horizon. We made our way into the club without much hassle, and settled into our spots while the opening band played.
Chain Reaction is the type of club that sells candy instead of alcohol, and the rules are pretty much what you would expect of such a place. Any sort of moshing or slam dancing is frowned upon, and the aforementioned bouncers are all too happy to remind you of their no dancing rules. Well, the opening band was doing their thing, and Ike was slam dancing. As the band was wrapping up their set, the bouncers approached Ike to ask him to kindly stop slam dancing. Just as the song ended, and just before the house music kicked in, all that could be heard in the club was Ike's response to the bouncers' request. "Why don't you go FUCK YOURSELVES!" pierced the silence, and Billy and I exchanged a glance that communicated one shared thought, "Ike". Billy and I looked at each other, shrugged, and posted up next to the stage in anticipation of the almighty Spits. Shortly after his outburst, Ike disappeared.
Well a Spits show is not to be missed, so we held our spots and figured Ike stepped out for a cigarette or something. Either that, or he got kicked out, and he would likely be waiting for us outside. Either way, we weren't going anywhere until we saw the Spits. I mean, it's his own damn fault if he got kicked out, right? So there we are totally rocking out when all the power in the club goes out. I mean the club goes completely dark, and all of a sudden The Spits were playing an acoustic set. About 10 seconds later the power kicks back on, and the band kicks back into gear. The Spits end their set, and we start heading outside to find Ike. As we hit the exit, we encounter a bouncer who starts screaming at us. "WHERE IS YOUR FRIEND?! WHERE IS THE GUY WHO SHIT HIS PANTS?!" This bouncer sets us on the defensive immediately, so we respond with the the typical "Fuck you, I don't know"s while trying to decipher just exactly what this douchebag was saying. Shit his pants? What the fuck is he talking about?
We make our way to the Oldsmobubble, trading obscenities with the growing number of bouncers that are now escorting us to the car. I go to back out, and I see one of the tight black t-shirt wearing fucks trying to write down my license plate number. I rammed the car into reverse and jammed the petal down, not really caring if I hit him or not. The bouncer jumps out of the way, and I pull out of the strip mall parking lot just as the Anaheim Police are pulling in. Billy and I are now worried about our brother Ike, but there is nothing we can really do for him if we head back to the club. We figure that we will just go pick him up from jail in the morning, and head to our local dive bar, the Locker Room, for some nightcappers. We are sharing our story with the bartenders when a cab pulls up outside the bar. Ike steps out and walks in the front door of the Locker Room with pure evil in his eyes.
He gets closer and we start to see the damage, Ike has a goose egg on his forehead, some crusted up blood in his hairline, and is looking generally roughed up. We stare in amazement as he grabs the stool next to us, sits down and orders a 7 and 7. There was only one question that could have possibly been asked, and so we ask, "Dude, what the fuck happened?" Ike gulps about half of his drink down in one swallow, looks at us and fills in the details.
"So I got kicked out of the club, and they are not letting me back in to see the Spits, right? I started fighting the bouncers, and next thing I knew, there were like 8 dudes all around me, kicking my ass. I went down and ended up like this (curled up in a ball on his knees) to protect myself. I looked all around me and all I saw was boots. I knew I had to get out of there, because they were getting ready to kick the shit out of me, so I did the only thing I could think of. I stuck my hand down the back of my pants, and acted like I was grabbing something. I stood up, and said (while shoving his hand in all the bouncers' faces) 'I JUST SHIT MY PANTS! NOW WHO WANTS SOME!!' They backed off, so I ran to the back of the club and jumped the fence. I was running behind the club and I saw a breaker box, so I threw the switch and kept running. I made it to the Doll Hut and called a cab. Fucking bouncers"
And that was it. We laughed and drank until we fell over. The end.
Hope you liked my story. See you next month.
Send me stuff!
rstarin74@yahoo.com
Roy Starin
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Wednesday 14th 2007f February 2007 20:13
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