:: A dark and stormy knight ::

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

I wasn't born a storm-chaser, but I remember how my life changed the first time I set my eyes upon a twister. Cousin Arthur had just come back from the fair, and rushed inside our little two-story Victorian country house in the middle of Tornado Alley. He had a panicked look in his eyes, and was breathing heavily through his mouth.

"It's a-comin' - maybe two miles away. Biggest twister I ever saw."

We scrambled to prepare the house - it'd been in our family for three generations - by closing the storm windows and tying down any loose produce. When we'd finished, there wasn't much time left. Huddled in the cellar with the others, singing hymnals quietly, I had a revelation: I was not afraid.

Slowly, but with the infinite confidence of an epiphany, I arose and walked outside. The funnel had touched down on the neighboring farm, and was uprooting corn stalks by the dozens.

"You," I said calmly, "over here. Now."

The twister paused for a moment before meandering my way.

"Well, what have we here?" it inquired, in the high-pitched, breathy voice that tornados use when they're trying to be condescending.

"Your worst nightmare," came my reply. "I challenge you to a break-off. Right here." I set my ghetto-blaster down next to me and popped in Kurtis Blow's classic hit "The Breaks". Luckily my large portable radio was equipped with bass-enhancing technology (TM), allowing the synthetic kick drums to resonate off the walls of the house and nearby fields of wheat. I thought about the original days of break-dancing, and momentarily felt pity for those who had neither the money nor the carrying capacity to bring hardware like this to the show. The low-frequency thumping of Mr. Blow's beats had me really amped. I was ready to best this cyclone, and right quick at that.

I started off with a simple six-step pattern, the go-to foundation on which most of the best breakin' moves are constructed. I could tell from its envious atmospheric patterns that the tornado was jealous. I'd spent hours after coming home from the local flan-processing plant practicing my moves in the basement, and my six-step was as technically proficient as it was flashy. I transitioned effortlessly into "the flow", and ended my attack with "the worm".

This was an O.G. twister, I could tell that from the start, and it was not about to be undone by some punk kid from the boonies. Whiling about the tip of its cone, it began a slow, jerky motion, each stiff movement punctuated by brief pauses. I recognized it immediately: the robot. A member of the "pop n' lock" family, the robot was a complicated maneuver which required not only coordination but creativity. One needed to master the technique as well as improvise clever mime-like patterns of self-expression. For all its apparent simplicity, the robot would instantly reveal to even a casual observer who knew their stuff and who was merely a "pretender". It was quite clear this tornado was no pretender. It ended its run with by pretending to "power down" - a well-worn stunt, but executed flawlessly.

I had no choice but to counter immediately with "the windmill". Not only was this one of the hardest moves in break-dancing, but given the current scenario, it carried the extra punch of a double entendre. I began my assault slowly, starting off with more six-step, before taking it up to a high-tempo "Jerry Lewis". Then I dropped the windmill directly on that cyclonic fool like an anvil.

It didn't matter whether it'd been expecting this or not - I hit all my spots and rotated fluidly. My heart was pounding from the palpable excitement of knowing I was pulling off the perfect move. I knew the tornado would have no choice but to concede defeat. It was over.

I spun out of the windmill into a relaxed, head-resting-on-akimbo-elbow position, coming to rest on the dirt facing the point where the twister had been - only to find it absent.

To this day, I do know where it went, but I know why: you don't mess with a breakin' farm boy when his house and family are on the line.

Word.

Posted by morland @ 12:34 PM

:: Comments ::

so you're the one?! i've been waiting for years to learn the name of the man...no god...who pulled off some of the greatest farm breakin' i'd ever seen. I owe you more than just a concession---i owe you respect. Your moves taught me there's more to life than just uprooting and destruction. I've dropped my whirling and am now a torney of the cloth. Thanks Morland

Posted by: torney the tornado on June 9, 2004 01:38 PM

yo, that's bullshit. your "relaxed, head-resting-on-akimbo-elbow position" was more like a "nervous, missed the last half-rotation, just shit my pants, about to get blown to pieces position," until i sent that shit reeling with my weed wacker.

word to moms.

Posted by: Cousin Arthur. on June 11, 2004 12:18 PM

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