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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
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BY BRIAN BIEBER - - - - I have to take the bus to the doctor’s office, because some drunk rear-ended me last week on my way home from an after-bar. It’s morning rush hour, so of course my DJ and I have to stand. He doesn’t have a stable surface to set his turntables on, so his records keep skipping all over the place. I almost don’t care; while certainly not wack, the shit he’s spinning this morning is a far cry from dope. The unimpressed looks our fellow passengers are exchanging tell me I’m not alone in my assessment.
My DJ lays down some real hardcore shit while the doctor tells me the lump on my left testicle is just a benign cyst. The doctor starts to give me a little lecture about the importance of performing monthly checks on myself, but it’s hard to keep a straight face, because my DJ is wearing a surgical mask he found in one of the doctor’s drawers and pretending to scratch his records with a tongue depressor. I’m really relieved about not having testicular cancer, and I have to restrain myself from singing along with the words to the sample my DJ drops every twelve measures or so. The doctor gives me a little plastic card to hang in my shower that shows me how to check for lumps. Motherfucker say what, I mouth to the beat. My DJ encourages the doctor to throw his hands up, but the doctor declines.
At the auto body shop, my DJ goes crazy with the cross fades. The Corolla’s entire rear bumper is going to have to be replaced, not to mention the left taillight. I know the mechanic has to be fronting with the estimate he gives, but my DJ is kicking rhythms that are super-fresh, and the drunk is well insured, so I don’t even really care. Before long, I’m waving my hand in the air, and I can tell the mechanic wants to bounce with me, but instead he tells my DJ to move his tables so the guy can pull my car into the garage.
We take Kelly’s car to dinner, and I suggest True Thai, because it’s her favorite. She orders something with pineapple and noodles that has a little pepper icon next to it on the menu. I order the pad thai, mild. Behind me, at the next table, my DJ spins some old crazy bosa nova 78. I don’t know where he finds this stuff. He told me he has over 5,500 records in his collection: boxes upon boxes in his basement. He hasn’t even listened to most of them yet. True Thai is a little cramped, but most of the restaurant’s other patrons recognize my DJ’s skills, and – to varying degrees – they dance to the rhythm in their chairs. Even Kelly, who usually likes things quiet, can’t help but bob her head as she wipes her mouth and tells me she’s moving out. This is totally unexpected, and more than a little whack, in my opinion. Things have been tense lately, but moving out? I almost hope there’s someone else, but that’s not it. Apparently, being with no one is better than staying with this MC. My DJ takes the news in stride, and in a misguided show of solidarity, cuts seamlessly into a slightly misogynist early 90’s dance number. It seems like I can feel the whole room feeling sorry for me as Kelly and I quietly finish our meals. Then the manager tells my DJ he either has to order something or pack up his gear, because he’s taking up a pretty big table. I can’t even imagine how this situation could be any less dope.
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