Singles Going Steady: The Beastie Boys, "Rhymin & Stealin"
My grandparents' backyard backed into the local golf course. They had the distinction of being the first Italian American family in town invited to join the country club. They declined. I always got a kick out of that story. Anyway, growing up, Jedi and I spent many summer hours on the course: running around, hunting for golf balls and tees, ruining the grass, playing catch, digging in the sandtraps. Every chance I got, I was out there, staring at the golfers, marveling at their outrageous attire. I think that's largely why I have such a love for all things WASP-y to this day. I thought you'd "arrived" when you started wearing belts with lobsters on them and mint-green pants with pink polo shirts. Sublime. Sure, we got yelled at now and again by some cranky old plaid-wearing dude driving by in his cart to "Get out of the goddamn way!" But those are some of my best childhood memories, and definitely some of the best times I’ve had with Jedi.
The summer before ninth grade was really, really boring. The days just seemed so long and without direction, and while I'd kill for some of that time now, back then, I remember feeling restless constantly. Jedi was getting ready to head off to college in a few months, and I think he was feeling somewhat sentimental because he was extra nice to me that summer. Sometime in late July, we were at our grandparents' house for a barbecue, one of the last before Jedi left home. Mom was very emotional about it—everything had become "This is the last time we’re going to do XYZ as a family"; Jedi was checking his watch and making phone calls, chomping at the bit to go out later that night. I was so jealous of him, getting to come and go as he pleased, imagining that he was going to some fantastic party where all sorts of exciting things would happen. I know now that he was likely going to end up in someone's basement, drinking crap beer and listening to Led Zeppelin.
"Hey Beavis," Jedi punched me in the arm. "You want to play some Frisbee?"
"Sure," I said as I slugged him in the gut.
"Go get it. I'll see you on the course."
I went out to the garage and unearthed a sad looking yellow Frisbee. It had spiderwebs and dried leaves in it. I emptied it out and gave it a few cursory throws. It was dirty, but at least it was still air-worthy. A car drove by, a beat-up Mercedes-Benz stationwagon, blasting the Beastie Boys' "Rhymin & Stealin," a total meathead song, if ever there was one. I watched the car pull into the driveway across the street, in awe of the swagger and confidence of the three boys, who I recognized as being high-school boys, as they stumbled out of the doors and up the walk, mesmerized by their long, tanned limbs and messy hair. I watched from the safety of my grandparents' garage, wondering what it would be like to be them, understanding that their world was so different from mine without fully understanding how. I stared until Jedi yelled, "Hey! Doofus! Quit being a doofus and get back here!"
I quickly ran around the back, praying that they hadn't heard.
"Jesus, those guys are idiots," Jedi said, grabbing the Frisbee from my hands.
I followed him to the golf course. "Who are they?"
"The tall one is Nick _____. That's his house. The curly headed one is Cheel _____. He's a douchebag. I don't know the skinny guy's name—he seems alright—but they're all going to be juniors at H______ this year." He threw the Frisbee at my head, which connected with a hollow-sounding bonk. "You've gotta catch it for this to work, Beavis," Jedi laughed.
We were out there for about a half hour when we noticed a golf cart in the distance. “Probably just some old people going for a ride,” Jedi said and we kept playing. As it got closer, I saw that the cart contained the three boys from across the street; they were weaving in and out of the fake forest area near our grandparents' house. We also heard an occasional "crack!" which we both recognized as being a BB gun. The cart was a few yards from us and I noticed the trail of beer cans the boys were leaving in their wake. There was a lot of laughter and “You dumb ass—watch where you’re aiming” coming from their direction. I suddenly felt so stupid being out there, playing Frisbee with my brother. I wanted to be teleported through the gate back into our grandparents’ yard. Jedi must have felt the same way because he said, “Hey, this is lame. Let’s go.”
As we walked off the course, I heard more laughter and another “crack!” then felt a hot, stinging sensation in my right bicep. Looking down, I saw a small trickle of blood streaming from my arm. “I’ve been hit! I’ve been hit!” I yelled as I ran toward the backyard. “Help!”
“Holy shit!” Jedi started laughing and turned back toward the course. “It was those assholes on the cart!” He ran back to the green, but there was, of course, no cart in sight. He came back to the porch, and yelled, “Aunt Tina—help me find where they went!”
My dad came out to see what all the commotion was about and took a look at my arm as I stood there blubbering, “Hey, it’s only a scrape,” he scoffed. “You’re fine, Pumpkin. Go wash up.”
“Wait. Let me see,” my mom demanded. She examined the area. “It's okay. You’re fine—"
"That's what I said," my dad chimed in.
Mom glared at him and turned back to me, "Let’s go inside and wash it off.”
Meanwhile, my Aunt Tina and Jedi wandered around the neighborhood looking for the guys, but had no luck, and didn’t seem to be as worried once they found out my injury was basically superficial.
It wouldn’t be until years later that I discovered that Victor was the “skinny guy” who shot me. I still have the scar as a reminder.
The Beastie Boys, "Rhymin & Stealin"
From the album, Licensed to Ill
Released 1986
Purchased eventually at Used Kids Records in Columbus, Ohio, sometime in the mid-90s
The summer before ninth grade was really, really boring. The days just seemed so long and without direction, and while I'd kill for some of that time now, back then, I remember feeling restless constantly. Jedi was getting ready to head off to college in a few months, and I think he was feeling somewhat sentimental because he was extra nice to me that summer. Sometime in late July, we were at our grandparents' house for a barbecue, one of the last before Jedi left home. Mom was very emotional about it—everything had become "This is the last time we’re going to do XYZ as a family"; Jedi was checking his watch and making phone calls, chomping at the bit to go out later that night. I was so jealous of him, getting to come and go as he pleased, imagining that he was going to some fantastic party where all sorts of exciting things would happen. I know now that he was likely going to end up in someone's basement, drinking crap beer and listening to Led Zeppelin.
"Hey Beavis," Jedi punched me in the arm. "You want to play some Frisbee?"
"Sure," I said as I slugged him in the gut.
"Go get it. I'll see you on the course."
I went out to the garage and unearthed a sad looking yellow Frisbee. It had spiderwebs and dried leaves in it. I emptied it out and gave it a few cursory throws. It was dirty, but at least it was still air-worthy. A car drove by, a beat-up Mercedes-Benz stationwagon, blasting the Beastie Boys' "Rhymin & Stealin," a total meathead song, if ever there was one. I watched the car pull into the driveway across the street, in awe of the swagger and confidence of the three boys, who I recognized as being high-school boys, as they stumbled out of the doors and up the walk, mesmerized by their long, tanned limbs and messy hair. I watched from the safety of my grandparents' garage, wondering what it would be like to be them, understanding that their world was so different from mine without fully understanding how. I stared until Jedi yelled, "Hey! Doofus! Quit being a doofus and get back here!"
I quickly ran around the back, praying that they hadn't heard.
"Jesus, those guys are idiots," Jedi said, grabbing the Frisbee from my hands.
I followed him to the golf course. "Who are they?"
"The tall one is Nick _____. That's his house. The curly headed one is Cheel _____. He's a douchebag. I don't know the skinny guy's name—he seems alright—but they're all going to be juniors at H______ this year." He threw the Frisbee at my head, which connected with a hollow-sounding bonk. "You've gotta catch it for this to work, Beavis," Jedi laughed.
We were out there for about a half hour when we noticed a golf cart in the distance. “Probably just some old people going for a ride,” Jedi said and we kept playing. As it got closer, I saw that the cart contained the three boys from across the street; they were weaving in and out of the fake forest area near our grandparents' house. We also heard an occasional "crack!" which we both recognized as being a BB gun. The cart was a few yards from us and I noticed the trail of beer cans the boys were leaving in their wake. There was a lot of laughter and “You dumb ass—watch where you’re aiming” coming from their direction. I suddenly felt so stupid being out there, playing Frisbee with my brother. I wanted to be teleported through the gate back into our grandparents’ yard. Jedi must have felt the same way because he said, “Hey, this is lame. Let’s go.”
As we walked off the course, I heard more laughter and another “crack!” then felt a hot, stinging sensation in my right bicep. Looking down, I saw a small trickle of blood streaming from my arm. “I’ve been hit! I’ve been hit!” I yelled as I ran toward the backyard. “Help!”
“Holy shit!” Jedi started laughing and turned back toward the course. “It was those assholes on the cart!” He ran back to the green, but there was, of course, no cart in sight. He came back to the porch, and yelled, “Aunt Tina—help me find where they went!”
My dad came out to see what all the commotion was about and took a look at my arm as I stood there blubbering, “Hey, it’s only a scrape,” he scoffed. “You’re fine, Pumpkin. Go wash up.”
“Wait. Let me see,” my mom demanded. She examined the area. “It's okay. You’re fine—"
"That's what I said," my dad chimed in.
Mom glared at him and turned back to me, "Let’s go inside and wash it off.”
Meanwhile, my Aunt Tina and Jedi wandered around the neighborhood looking for the guys, but had no luck, and didn’t seem to be as worried once they found out my injury was basically superficial.
It wouldn’t be until years later that I discovered that Victor was the “skinny guy” who shot me. I still have the scar as a reminder.
The Beastie Boys, "Rhymin & Stealin"
From the album, Licensed to Ill
Released 1986
Purchased eventually at Used Kids Records in Columbus, Ohio, sometime in the mid-90s
posted by Iseult at 9:45 AM
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