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David Colosi




David Colosi:DJ Lara 



In a snowboarding accident DJ Lara bit her tongue off. 

She hit a pelt cap and flipped the skim line.  Popped her knee up to carry through the carbo dive — just job blasted her foresight.  Her vision gear densed up, then she gnarled the transaxial cramp and tapped her out a True Tribunal Seat holding 15 amps.  Ballsest knuckle I’ve seen for a chick, or any other ski squirrel.  Deep vibe kept her reelin’, drilling deeper into the frosty glaze.  She zipped out the post sinus pressure causin’ the deep seat — she should’ve stopped at the Krispy Kreme plain, but powder covered her to jelly filled.  Counting my past nicks, and here there’s a full up tipsy lipped snow bunny trippin’ phantasmagorical.  The nose cone jibbed the thermometer, begging Holy Mercury!, risin’ fever pitch, bustin’ out calcium, tooth chippin’, chomping at the bit — bitten right off, like a cherry pit spit in the snow.  Throbbin’ wriggling wart, cauterized (cauter- sawed) off, twitching in the snow just lookin’ for something to say.  She’s got a baritone cavity, can’t make no notes.  Shit fallen off like that, iced and frozen, can’t sew stitches into cubes.

DJ dusta-a-tunes Lara sittin’ all doped out buggin’ like she pissed the triple coaster cone, got all fucked, barely cognizant she’s got a talkin’ stick in the powder.  Red like pre-M&M die #2, poison making curse on the ice.  Only one way down this elevator, fast.

Good thing snowballs got flava, like Novocain.  Like Dracula at a bat McDonalds, man, she’ munching unhappy meals — prize inside got no tongue!  That – wrapped in down granny gloves maintainin’ 98.6°.

She spinnin’ discs in her head like tweety bird now got the headache, seein’ cats a chirpin’ around and shit.  Dumb records all floatin’ in space like stars in her eyes.  Some nuclear record press plant explosion sendin’ LPs skyward.

Dope to bad vinyl collidin’ Dreamcast color.  Blow through the planet like asteroid trail mix.  Saltin’ it down, got the bite of a cure, pickle that shit, she got pain down the brassiere pipe.

Lara’s bustin’ moves down the drop, pain got the gain here, she like flyin’ home from class for summer break — vinyl piled up like laundry socks.  She’s a mix master by fifteen.

Got the Medics on the peak baseline.  She’s kickin’ it to hop along inside the strap chair.  Good thing Moogie had his cell shout on him.  Elevators got good range.  That shit travels like a junky trackin’ a fix.  Pigeons is outdated yo, like pony express, shit ass SOS code ain’t got no range.  That Nokia shit fly.  Zam, like that.  Like Lara.

Cranin’ her neck, like she trying to say, “What the fuck happened?” And paramed boy got fuckin’ pop quiz questions to boot.

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you man, she ain’t got no tongue!”  Handin’ it over in a glove finger. 

“Third knuckle over.”  I flip birdy breakin’ balls, being in the know.

Powers outta my hands now, and Lara’s gesturin’ like I got pics to show.  “Yeah, I’ll be JPEGin’ that shit — hospital side.”  Space junkies got demands to keep the digital vinyl spinnin’.  Video vinyl, she said, got the 2000 tip.

Travesties got its fantasies, but Lara can’t say shit.


Normally, Lara could straight line the whole mountain like a pimp.  Don’t get me wrong, one wipe out don’t de-pimp her.  She’s still dope. 

She was cookin’ like a comet heading to blast the slopes on Pluto.  Then the camera crew appeared.  Or she appeared in front of them.  She pulled everything out, shredding that shit up.  She was takin’ Backside 9s to the 10 spot, Frontside 900s to the 10 Ft. Backside Air.  She made a half-pipe look like a three-quarter pipe, gappin’ at the bottom!  She’s all air.  She could Dumptruck a deep load and still have a second to jib a tree for the camera.  She could do it all: Yard Jumps, Cattrack Jumps, Hiking Jumps, Wall Hit Jumps.  This kicker could fly hanging a Taipan over a whole cackle of smoked out hippie spectators with the eye munchies.

She moved from the indy grab to the major label grab in one context.  She could take a grabber that would make your eyes spit.  Just when it looks like she wouldn’t release and the front grab takes a turn for the Ouch! she lets that shit go to a head flip and still lands on her swallow tail.  That shit takes speed, yo.  Fucked thing is, she paid retail for her board.  Probably ‘cause she was a B-bunny — yet powder sluttin’ like all the Johns, pimpin’ a one foot back flip.  She unleashed a Monkey Flip 720 and a Roastbeef 540 that she grabbed so long it made the board hurt.  Cut that circulation OFF!

Then she busted.  She had meteor speed like the mountain was over.  Then she put her arms out in front of her like an Olympic ski jumper when she approached the kicker.  About three feet from the lip she pivoted her body so her edge dug the ramp.  It looked like she would eat crap, fuckin’ spoonful steamin’ ready, then she planted her hands on the lip and vaulted off the jump, handspring style.  If that shit wasn’t enough, this boot knocker starts jibbin’ mid air, trailin’ into a Full Clockwork 12:00 AM, with a trannie to a friggin’ Baboon 2020 (What’s that?  Well, you take a Monkey Flip 720 and do it with lobsters on your nipples.  It’s the only way to describe it).  Then she makes a Profile Front Back two-handed grab and flips, first end over end, then latitudinal finishing off into a 6 — rotation — 66.  Satan made that shit happen, and she still had air time out of radar range.  Speed’s the key to catchin’ height off of that gravity test.  Then she stomped out a Double McTwist and chased it up with a Bongo Roll.  “You mess with the bull, you get the horny, baby!”

So you’re wondering how the fuck a fat rider like Lara bites her tongue off, clean off, and it ends up in Acorn Smackey’s glove, third finger in.

When she landed, she was snorkel deep in powder with all of us holdin’ our breath like a sweet Jesus bar in a 1976 Trans Am.  And she pops up out of the whiteness spewin’ red jaw juice.  Cameras caught that shit.  She landed hard, pile driver, boots down.  That shit ain’t to blame.  She landed that beast.

We all knew she ripped with her tongue between her teeth — some kind of adrenaline rush forced that shit out all muscled up and vulnerable.

So when she hit, we all had our tongues in place.  I started dialing the meds when my tongue hurt because I knew hers must have been clean off.  Findin’ that knob in the snow wasn’t too hard, but she was screamin’ like her tongue freakin’ flew off, which it did.  She busted into shock like any jibba would and took a trip with the med-crew riding down the mountain horizontal on a hospital board.  But just as she starts the drop, she finishes by arming up the speed metal horns.  We knew that shit was dope.  No kickers for her though for at least three to four weeks. 

Damage Report DJ Lara:  Even with her tongue off, Lara don’t huck.


The story of DJ Lara goes as follows.  After the snowboard accident she no longer had a tongue.  It could not be surgically reattached because her friend, solo posse rider Alan J. Cornblath Smith III, put it in his glove rather than packing it in a snowball.  Well, he can’t be totally blamed.  By the time Lara was admitted for surgery the piece of tongue and what was left in her throat were no longer compatible.  The twelve-hour time delay waiting in the TV lounge proved long enough for it to make a not-so-perfect match.  On top of that, the teeth had not made the cleanest cut for an easy reattachment.  A welder maybe could have attached those two parts, but no stitching could make the span.  So she has no tongue.

Sign language didn’t interest her, and she’d always hated writing.  She didn’t mind putting thoughts together but to sit down and put words on paper didn’t sit well with her — she had what you might call Socrates Complex #1.  E-mail brought her back to writing, but since she couldn’t type and didn’t care to learn, she could barely IM.  She could send simple responses, but she could hardly say anything complicated — it took too long to compose a sentence, even using shorthand.  And she didn’t like it anyway.  The keyboard wasn’t her instrument.  Turntables were.  She had always mixed beats together, so mixing words was just a different melody.  She mixed words to form sentences, thoughts, essays, and dialogues.

Everything that had to be said had been said.  It was all out there preserved on vinyl, audio tape, or video tape.  She just had to remix it to fit her thoughts.  She could piece ideas together using other people’s words.  No one’s ideas were her own anyway, so by threading her ideas from other people’s words she found this to be a more honest way to communicate.  Why hide behind the homogeneity of one voice when you can snip other voices together to say what you want to say?  This form of expression was communication.

Occasionally she participated in live debates and symposia, but she always prepared herself ahead of time.  Like a writer preparing an essay or a speech, she put her thoughts together on tape beforehand and presented them this way.

She started this in high school, for that’s when most snowboarders and DJs began mixing, and that’s when her tongue came clean off.  Her teachers eventually allowed her to submit all of her class work on mixed tapes.  If Stephen Hawking could come up with a way to speak, so could she.  Without the financial backing or insurance to cover his system, this is what she came up with.

Now, years after finishing the course work for a Ph.D. in linguistics, she had found her voice among the millions of voices in the world.  She was multilingual:  English, German, Japanese, French, and some African languages.  She based her choices on her musical interests, which came out of these countries, as well as on the history of Philosophy and Critical Theory.  She had taught herself an international language through a voice that could speak to both young and old.  At the same time, it pushed a new genre in aesthetic production.

At heart, though, she remained a snowboarder.  Her drive for snowboarding motivated everything she pursued.  Although she only snowboarded on occasion, it remained for her a life force.  A psychoanalyst would attribute it to the accident.  She shredded her way down a crowded street like a snowboarder.  Her guts and commitment to communicate followed a pattern of a ride down a virgin peak.  She attacked an audio essay the same way she attacked a slope — even with her new form of composition, still, Lara don’t huck.

DJ Lara, whether she continued to snowboard or not, would always be a snowboarder. Even though she had been sampling as a DJ and a snowboarder before the accident, now, years later, she had become proficient at both.


Today we have her shopping at the Salvation Army finding “White Christmas” and Barry White, Barry Manilow and Barney.  They speak words that others have not.  That’s the case with all of them.  She could buy everything.  Selection guides thought.  On occasion the opposite is also true.  To choose from a genre is to say more than words.  This is the grammar of culture, which overrides the grammar of language.  As long as her logic remains clear, she would make her own rules.

She’s working on an essay titled:  “Hear What I Mean?” Mapping the Syntax of Sound Semantics.  Music, for her, had always been too reliant on form.  She couldn’t rest solely on the act of mixing to carry meaning.  Form as the sole route to social content was a vapid dead end, a void — although a structural one — like the hole in the center of a record.  She plotted connections between the embedded meaning of sounds and words and took an active role in having something to say.  She tried to guide her meaning in the same way anyone writing an essay, or presenting an argument, tried to.  Her content came from connections made from deep within the groove of pre-existing sounds from the audio landscape, from debris in the landfill of prerecorded waste.

She composed her sound essay using word clusters and sound phrases.  She presented examples rather than explanations.  In the same way a writer could reference something outside of language by way of metaphor, DJ Lara could make similar references by aural description.  She presented musical quotes in much the same way a writer presents quotes in a text.  The audio lecture is thorough in its use of what it knows.  The language of music is as difficult to translate as one language is to another.  “Deep base and 220 beats per minute” sounds quite different and means something other than what it attempts to represent.  When Lara wanted to express the meaning of the word, “besides,” she would simply play a B-side.

She’s flipping through vinyl, the vinyl of Flip Wilson and George Thorogood.  “Fiddler on the Roof” and the Watergate Hearings.  The vinyl pants are not her size.  These are items by the pound: vinyl by the pound, this is the Partridge Family.  She might use a Joan Jett moan, like the one in “Crimson and Clover”, to convey a similar emotion in a different context.  David Lee Roth screaming “Hit the ground runnin’” means even more when used as political criticism.  Lynyrd Skynyrd connected to Howard Cosell purports a more graphic expression — jocks and freaks have never collaborated on sentences like these.  Repetition like that in Philip Glass can stand for itself as her essay builds along a similar progression.  House music beats alone can define a person’s character.  “His body moved like...(here she would fill in the auditory adjective).”  She flipped through the pages of this never-before-bridged unabridged thesaurus.

For some of her compositions she pieced together words from various sources.  She only used this method when she wanted to make a specific point.  To struggle over one word takes discipline.  The word-by-word method nullifies all of the meaning embedded in the speaker of the word.  If she took only the word “the” from Nixon in the Watergate hearings, certainly it lost its reference.  But in most cases she preferred to use the Nixonness within a phrase to carry its meaning.  If you take the Nixon out of “the” you have only “the”.  But if you keep the reference, Nixon’s is so much Richer(d).

But one word can be explained by thousands of words, and, in fact, it must be.  One cannot utter a word without begging its explanation.  Although she was comfortable with letting others explain the word, she tried to control it as much as possible.  She couldn’t rely on her listener to draw connections between her references.  Although she couldn’t completely control this either, she tried to make it such that certain explanations appeared more ludicrous than others.

So DJ Lara is choosing words carefully.  “Nostalgic sounds speak a thousand words.”  This she scrawls, or simply writes, on a mirror she fogs up but has no desire to buy.  Her absent tongue is her pencil, and the only evidence of her wisdom is in the shadow cast on the wall of steam she breathes.




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