Sunday, March 06, 2005

Hepcats & Hubcaps

Last night, your humble and hep Contributor, not averse to lifting a few and shaking to some good sounds, found himself on cloud 9 in the middle of a crazy bash. True -- it is like what you call a penitential season -- but, hey, we had like a dispensation cause it was for charity, daddy-o.

The tunes came from the "Hubcaps" -- and what a classy chassis they were -- hopped-up, chrome-plated hot-rods all the way. And, they were cookin' -- fired-up and flat out. Let me tell you these guys couldn't be hipper if they got hip-replacements -- which was coming just down the pike for some of these big daddies. They did have one dolly who still looked sharp: played the sax and, man, could she wail.

The whole crowd was hoppin', especially our table. We were hanging with some cool cubes and some boss babes that would razz your berries. I'll tell you what, it was an excellent gig -- everything was a big tickle, and everyone was fractured. Not a party pooper in the bunch. We were in fat city.

We took off our peepers and put on our shades and hit the floor. We were like blind. But, hey, no sweat: the bops still hopped, the gully's still hullied, and the bug still jittered. Soon, the fuzzy dice began to fly, along with some vinyl. But, it was cool. The hepcats and clydes at the next table were just havin' a blast and getting a little kookie. And, the word from the bird is, we were flipped, too.

But, the table behind us was bad news. Nothing but grody greasers, wet rags, nerds, and spaz's. Nowheresville. A cat from the cool table walked by the uncool table, and one of the greasers started hassling him and rattling his cage for no reason, and the cat said, "Hey, don't have a cow!" And, the greaser said, "Oh, yeah? How 'bout a knuckle sandwich?" Then, the cat got frosted and said, "Buddy, you cruisin' for a bruisin." It looked like they were gonna starting poundin', when some big cubes jumped in and told them to cool it.

Next thing, your hep Contributor saw one of the Poor Relations swinging on the floor, and he ran over and said, "What's buzzin, cuzzin?" Classic.

Pretty soon, the Hubcabs -- fine machine that they are -- starting gearing down, and we knew it was time to split. But, we walked away with an extra pair of fuzzy dice. Lucky. Dig?

Acknowledgements to Slang of the Fifties.


Blogger Harry said...

No jive. Crazy, man. Just crazy.

3/07/2005 03:01:00 PM  
Blogger Remainderman said...

We think we hit Harry's generational crazy bone.

3/08/2005 02:11:00 PM  
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