/ DIATRIBE
LOVE DRUNK PUNCHES
156_BRANDON_DIATRIBE_r2.indd 20
illustration by Dale DaRos
I’ve never punched another person in the face. Never felt my clenched fist smash up against some dude’s smart mouth. I’ve never bitch slapped—a man or a woman. Never heard the deafening clap of my open palm smacking the shit out of someone. No swing of mine has ever generated the type of noise that can silence a room, incite further violence or spark a chorus of “ooohs.” My little brothers have fucked dudes up. So have all my friends. At some point in their lives, a good majority of the rowdy girls I roll with have caught some skin in their rings, too. My brothers were lovable bullies in high school and there’ll always be unlovable bullies at rival schools without a sense of humor. The unfunny motherless kids got punched. Probably with the approval of my moms. One of the homie’s was out in Austin when some D-Bag made a momma joke and you better believe that deserved a fierce reprimand. Bitch-slapped. And because the homie was rolling with Cee-Lo, the D-Bag got kicked out of the club. And in eighth grade, Richie’s sister grabbed this one tween by the hair and straight walloped the poor girl ‘til her braces bled. I’ve had my opportunities. Shit, moments have passed me by where some slimy hipster was just begging to get knocked out. Whether it was the pizza-faced motherfucker at Cinespace who tossed my hat onto the packed dancefloor (I went looking for the vintage Burberry cap rather than responding accordingly) or the homeless guy who tried to stab me (a passing pedestrian and his pit bull broke up the potential disaster), I’ve had legitimate excuses to get that first punch out of the way. Both of those are morally apt reasons for physical violence…and such instances are not alone in my archives. I’m 26. That ain’t old, but it’s well past the point where most men in America first got their knuckles dirty on some dude’s chin. I’m convinced that I’m the oldest man alive to never have punched. This is all purely anecdotal, but the thing with someone’s first punch is that it’s always an anecdote. My sample group—and I’d wager that it’s everyone’s sample group—has stories for days. But so many debuts have universally drunken narrations: cherry-popping, acidtripping and album-buying all have a sentimental spot in our memory banks. Hence, URB #156: My First Issue. Various artists on their various firsts. Not every story is heroic. In fact, more stories end with the debut punch-thrower catching a beat-down rather than victory sex with a hot girl at the party. And if the story behind losing your virginity isn’t awkward and embarrassing, then you’d probably sound like a dick if you tried to write it in 200 words or less for a magazine. Not exactly a winning proposition for an artist trying to sell an image of cool. Thus, there isn’t an incredibly intimate story about My First Sex from a musician you love. You don’t even get my debut deed, not even in 10 words or less. But you do get Living Legends’ Luckyiam waxing philosophically about the first time he drank breast milk as an adult. And the first masturbatory moment Atmosphere’s Slug ever shared with a journalist. And James Murphy’s first time producing a “dumb” band. And, naturally, Heartbreak’s first heartbreak.
Even as this is 88-Keys’ first cover, there’s no reason to further bastardize the now belabored word….first. After all, this is a rapper/producer whose entire album is about “the vagina.” Also contained within URB #156: beat-freak rodent Deadmau5 gets his tech on and another man of many masks, Damon Albarn, manipulates a Mandarin opera for another simian-based project. And Dilated Peoples’ Evidence offers a peak into his new projects and Venice’s gentrified past. Two quick personal notes: (1) Congratulations to URB’s Editor + Content Director Joshua Glazer and his shared nuptials with his beautiful bride, Doris. (2) Serious apologies to Gee Roberson, who we mistakenly referred to as Lil Wayne’s “unofficial manager” in URB #155. Dude is very official, partnering with Kyambo “Hip Hop” Joshua for their management company, Hip Hop Since 1978, and helping guide Kanye West’s career since 1998. Our bad, but there’s no reason to beat myself up about it. Because in the end, I know the first person that I’m going to punch. It’s Robert Horry. With three different teams (Rockets, Lakers, Spurs), Big Shot Bob hit back-breaking buckets against my Phoenix Suns. And when Horry actually played for us, between his stints with the Rockets and Lakers, he threw a towel in the face of then-Suns’ coach Danny Ainge. Horry was traded after 32 games into an ugly season; the Suns are the only team in his entire career that he didn’t hoist a trophy with. Then he checked Steve Nash into the scorers table and it really was the last straw. This man ruined my sports childhood. He may be 6’10, but I have a plan. He’ll be standing in the same room as me and I’ll run and jump-punch the dude…and sprint along my carefully-mapped exit route as if my life depended on it. I won’t stop running for several miles. Then I’ll light a cigarette. Because there was a first time for that, too.
- Brandon Perkins [ Senior Editor ]
“My president is black, my Lambo’s blue/ And I’ll be goddamned if my rims ain’t too”
11/14/08 11:23:48 AM