Von

I’m pretty sure he was talkin’ about me.

“We got some dudes in the crowd who look prettier than the women.”

I laughed at first. Even started lookin’ around for the culprit. But then I thought about it…

Hours earlier my boy asked if I’d be down to catch Kid Capri spin at the Funky Buddha Lounge later that night.

Y’all know Kid Capri, right?
The World’s Greatest DJ.
The dude who can cut and scratch on the wheels of steel with the best of ‘em.

The hip-hop head that I am, I ain’t gon’ pass up a chance to see the legend in action.

I told him I was down.

Supa Soul Sundays at Buddha are a pretty casual affair—at least as far as clubs go.

That being the case, I threw on a fitted long-sleeve shirt, jeans, and headed out.
We arrived around 11.

Kid Capri got to the stage just after midnight.

We happened to be standing directly in front of the stage—a couple feet from the legendary DJ.

Dude got behind the wheels, adjusted his equipment, looked around the crowd, and got on the mic.

He introduced himself. But shortly afterwards he made the comment about some dudes lookin’ prettier than the ladies. Everyone, including me, started laughing. Then he said something about guys in the front row with the sour puss expression on their faces. And that he’s just there to spin some records.

I thought about it for a second (“Wait a minute…”)
I was standing in the front row. And I was lookin’ at him as he came out.
Not sure what my expression was, but it could’ve been mistaken as a “sour puss.”
(was I supposed to be tap dancin’ and cheesing when he came out?)
As for the clothes, I didn’t think I looked “pretty” at all. But I have been called a pretty boy before.

I put two and two together and came to the stunning conclusion that he was indeed talkin’ about me.

My fears were confirmed when some young lady—who happened to be rockin’ the tightest skirt of all time—squeezed by us in the crowd of folks (she had room, but she just had to rub her goodies against me. Why, dog?) and told us we shouldn’t be sour pusses.

Son of a bytch!

Oh well. What can you do?

I felt a little bit better when, later that night, he dissed another dude later who asked him to play some 2Pac.
He stopped the music and everything. Called dude out.
It was not pretty.

The Kid is not a thick-skinned dude.

At least one day we can tell our grandkids that we were dissed by a hip-hop legend.

I read an interesting article in the Redeye the other day.

About road rage.

Not too long ago in the suburbs, a dude in an SUV rear-ended a motor biker. Then backed over the guy and killed him. Apparently, he did it so the victim wouldn’t call the cops.

They set bond for $750,000.

Crazy, huh?

Now—I’ve had some pretty wild experiences with folks on the road.

Who hasn’t?

I’ve been cussed out.
Yelled at.
Rear-ended.
Given the finger.
Cut off.

But nothing crazier than the time I crossed paths with a road-raging maniac.

It went down a few years ago as I was coming from the gym late one night wanting nothing more than to get to my apartment and relax. Halfway home, I found myself stuck on a one-lane street behind a driver in a compact car—goin’ 12 mph.

“Damn, dog! Why the hell you goin’ so slow?” I thought.

After another block or two at that pace—I’d finally had enough (I ain’t the most patient brotha in the world).

I sped up and tried to pass in the biking/parking lane (which is illegal)—but in a shocking turn of events, the dude swerved his car on an angle right in front of mine. Cutting me off. We would’ve collided had I not slammed my brakes.

The hell?!

I got a good look at the driver—he was an older, dumpy-lookin’ white guy with glasses. Resembled my man George from Seinfeld

Only this dude was fukkin’ PISSED.
I looked into his eyes—and saw anger, venom, and hatred glaring back at me.
Now, I don’t know if he’d had a bad day. Maybe lost his job. Or his wife left him.
But I couldn’t have made him that angry. It had to be something else.
Unfortunately, I’d just ran into the wrong dude at the worst possible time.

I couldn’t do nothin’ but laugh in his face—which further infuriated him.

In retrospect, I should have waited until dude drove far away. But for some idiotic reason, I tried to speed past him—only for him to swerve his car in front of me every time I tried. Soon we got to a busy intersection—where I attempted to do some unprecedented shyt. I got in the right-turn-only lane at the light and sped in front when it turned green (also illegal).

As soon as I passed him I realized what a profound mistake I’d made. Now dude could follow and terrorize me. And I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him.

For the next few blocks, I drove in horror as dude:
A) Sped up behind me and braked inches before hitting me.
B) Faked like he’d turn down a side street only to swerve and keep stalking me.
C) Flashed his blinker lights on and off.

I found myself in the middle of his psycho mind game—with no way out.
 

At one point I considered pulling over and confronting him—but you never know what he had in the car with him (gun, bat, knife, etc).

Soon I was home but I’d have been an idiot to lead him right to my door (so he could stalk me for the rest of eternity). I decided to turn down a side street instead. Dude followed—swerving in and out of traffic and blinking his lights.

The only way to end this, I thought, was to get the police involved. But dude finally went away before I could get ‘em on the line.

Muhfukkas out here are crazy, dog. You gotta be careful nowadays.