Sometimes homeboys. Sometimes spiky-haired Asian twits. Any male of any racial descent can be an urban tough guy. Urban tough guys are tough guys because they have it tough: They're constantly trying out ways to look dangerous and be respected through means of intimidation, which you have to admit is pretty tough when you feel this most often means dressing with outrageously mismatched colours, baggy pants, and walking with an imposed limp. Most recently, it's also meant buying a pro-fitted ball cap two sizes too large so that it can fit over the bandanna already on the wearer's head. This follows the notion that wearing these two items simultaneously is largely impressive and should be seen as threatening. Though it doesn't always afford them the luxury of seeing where they're going, being tough never called for our accessories to be functional.
In terms of practicality, take for instance baggy pants. Never has this been efficient clothing. Urban tough guys want you to know that they have it tough precisely because it's tough when your pants don't allow you to run or get anywhere really fast.
So we all feel for urban tough guys and that's part of the reason why we try not to look at them for prolonged periods of time. The other part is because they will try to kill you if you do. They try to kill you because they're set off by two immediate reactions when they notice you're looking at them; these two reactions are fueled by two assumptions, which they want clarified publicly: They need to know, right away, if a) you are gay, and b) you want to fight. From their belligerence and disinterest in differentiating the two, you'd think being gay was so threatening to them that, if one happened to just be "gay" enough, that person's sexual orientation could take out an entire gang.
That, to the best of my knowledge, is why they always want you to clarify whether or not you're "gay and want to fight". Not too sure how far this theory works, but, being a rapper who studies the dangerous technique of cello-playing, I do what other New Yorkers do and simply avoid eye contact.
Walking in Times Square the other night, however, I noticed two tough guys in their souped-up Mercedes -- complete with televisions embedded in the sunblockers, perpetually spinning rims, and subwoofers which pumped out sounds vaguely resembling music. I looked at them for at least a full minute and, though fully aware, they did not twitch one malicious muscle.
It dawned on me that when these tough guys are in their cars, you're supposed to look at them and they're happy that you are. Whether or not you're gay or want to fight is suddenly of no concern to them.
So next time you've accidentally looked at one of these tough guys a second too long, explain to them that you thought they were about to get into their cars, and had already commenced the gawking because, judging from their innovative headgear, that car was looking mighty good.
Email of the Week:
Dear Adrain
My friends and I are wondering why you still
single. Please elaborate.
Chelsea, San Diego, CA
Well, Chelsea, I suppose if my recent Guide To Girls series isn't evidence enough, it may be that my name is simply too hard to spell correctly. Or maybe that's just your problem and staying single is mine. But the major reason for why I'll be single forever is that a girl and I can never see eye-to-eye about things in life. Vital things. Things like decorating lawns.
Last December, my sister and I were driving to Guelph, also known as Cow Village. She wanted to visit some of her college friends, and I felt like smelling eight thousand acres of cow poo. As this seemed to work for both of our respective agendas, we decided to drive there together.
On our way, we saw this roadside store whose primary advertisement campaign was to dump all its merchandise on its lawn. Garden gnomes, swinging porch sets, portable swimming pools -- a gigantic, plastic stegosaurus. You know, that kind of thing. Anyway, if the store had a name, it couldn't have been at the same time both relevant and good. In the center of the entire mess, however, stood a six-story tall brontosaurus. It was at least three times taller than anything around it and, by my careful deduction, it was angry.
Immediately, this struck me as a fine purchase. I voiced this opinion to my sister who decided to take her eyes off the road for a mind-boggling five seconds to look at me and see if I was serious. My sister, being a girl, and therefore, impractical, thought it was the ugliest thing in the world.
It was here that I came to the realization that this is precisely the reason why I'm single and why I should consider whether I really want a wife. A wife would get in the way of such a great purchase. The investment boasted by the sheer aesthetic beauty of a giant, bright green, plastic dinosaur is rivaled only by its brilliant function as a scarecrow. But I don't know any girl that would allow something like this to happen.
If I was single, bought the brontosaurus, and adopted kids, everybody would be happy. We would move to a new town, put the thing up, and everybody would know who we were. No announcements. We're the family with the gigantic dinosaur in their front yard. Other kids would be jealous of my kids and I, myself, wouldn't ever need to give directions again. "Where do you live?" they'd ask.
"You know the dinosaur?"
"Oh, definitely," they'd reply.
"That's my house, man."
And they'd be like, "No way. You are the coolest person ever. Makes me wish that I, too, had chosen to forsake women."
Email of the Week:
Dearest 8W,
Check it out, mangggggggg -- my amigos and me
think that your guide to girls is not only funny but
great. i just act like a jerk and the girls love me.
what can i say. i'm a chico to the chicks yo. but
keep doing what you doing mang. You are an
inspiration to laugh for my whole crew.
Peas!
Showdizzle and the Basement Yard Posee
Dear Showdizzle and the BYP,
For some reason, I find the heading of your message incongruous with the Spanish/Mexican street slang that follows it. Shouldn't you have said, "Yo" or "Hey" or "Ey mang, you loco"? "Dearest" doesn't seem to cut it. Unless you mean it like "Dearest 8W" and, subsequently, "How fair art thine countenance." Dost thou see where I cometh from? I think you have your centuries mixed up.
Anyway, in case you chicos really are a gang which happens to be so bad that you can somehow reside both in a basement and a yard simultaneously, I will not make fun of you. Let me just say that, unless you really are, with no tongue in cheek, 'one who poses', it's spelled "posse".
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