Saturday night in Brooklyn from alfred broadbent on Vimeo.
It's bad enough that those of us with jobs have to deal with all these trust-funded "artists" to begin with, but when you couple makeshift parades with their total lack of common decency and inability to think beyond their own immediacy?
FAGGOTRY.
I can only imagine how this kind of behavior makes the natives of this neighborhood feel.
It makes me want to make napalm in my bathtub, and drop it down on their little parade, melting them all down into little pools of Daddy's credit card residue - and I grew up in fucking Bensonhurst. At least in a 'hood like Bensonhurst, motherfuckers learn at a young age not to piss off their elders. You act up like this down there, and you get a bat to the face, at the very least.
Try rolling your little Freak Parade by L&B on a Friday night in June after the Yankees lose, and see how long you last, nooch.
Then again, growing up in Bensonhurst had it downside, too. I remember getting jumped when I was twelve, by a fucking grip of older greased-the-fuck-on-up Italian kids - because I was the Jew hanging out with a "monkey," my buddy Tommy, who lived over in the Marlboro Houses off 86th Street and Avenue X. That was probably the worst beating I ever took in my life. Those fucking greasy bastards even stabbed me in the thigh with a screwdriver, as if kicking me in the head and hitting me with homemade billy clubs wasn't doing enough damage to a fucking twelve year old. Tommy got away scott-free, because he was already kind of battle-tested and saw the motherfuckers coming before I even realized what was going on, and he shot off into the building like a rocket.
They kept on laughing and yelling "WHERE'S YOUR FUCKING MONKEY, YOU KIKE BASTARD?!?! WHERE'S YOUR MONKEY?!?!" - and kept on kicking and clubbing. I was all kinds of turtled up on the grass, trying to cover my face and my head. People were running everywhere. I remember some lady on the street screaming she was going to call the cops, but these greasy fucks kept on with their task of whooping up on my skinny ass.
All of a sudden I heard this mad rushing sound, and then the sound of metal cracking into skin and bone. It took me a second to realize it wasn't me getting beaten anymore - but it was the fucking douchebags who'd jumped me, getting their ass handed to them by Tommy's older brother and his crew. They were swinging little lead pipes and taking out motherfuckers all over the place. The Italian goons all started to scatter, right when the cops started rolling into the courtyard in full force - driving up onto the lawn, rolling out of the cars and grabbing kids up like rag dolls.
One of the cops was a friend of my father's, and he started asking me "Sean, which one of these niggers beat you up? Tell me which one hit you, and we'll take care of it for you. You don't have to be afraid - they can't hurt you any more."
I couldn't help myself. I just started laughing my ass off, chortling blood out of my broken face.
"It wasn't them. It was the fucking Italians. Those fucks are the ones who jumped me. These guys saved me!"
The cops didn't even know what the fuck to do. Here they were, each one of them had grabbed up a black kid, and all the Italian fucks had run off. They all looked at each other with this blank stare, waiting for someone to do something. The cop that was friends with my Pop started laughing, and told them to let everyone go. I got escorted back home by the cops, riding in the car the five blocks back to my place.
My Jewish mother was hysterical, screaming like I'd lost an eye or something, but my father had this smirk on his face. And then a little while later, he told me something that I think a lot of these fucking trust-funded "artist" kids over here in Childrensburg need to learn -
"Sean, sometimes New York just needs to kick your ass so you know your fucking place in the world."
Maybe that's what's missing. The possibility of the Critical Beatdown.
The Tao of Sean
Sean H Doyle @ Twitter
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