An excurse on social interaction * By Duane T. Monkfooder (Washington) Last weekend MC Monk and I were invited to turn the tables at a houseparty in South Hessen. It was like this "absolutely-non-underground-no-smoking-beautiful-young-and-happy-people" style party thing. But I wasnīt disappointed at all, because I always expect the worst case. I put on my sweetest smile and started arranging the SoundSystem onto a tiny artificial-wooden garden table built up in front of a brown leather couch. Afterwards I checked out the buffet and took a little walk around the beautiful gardens full of beautiful students. The faces I knew were few, and they didnīt cross my way, so I was lucky not having to ritualize this awful SmallTalk™. In my opinion, this is just a very boring variation of an ice hockey bodycheck. I got me a bottle of sparkling water and went back to the couch to start my set. Nobody was inside with me in the living room to adore the pure beauty of honest Wildpop, so I started playing some all-time-evergreen-mainstream-pop- tunes followed by some ugly housey shit. The only things moving in this room were the turntables and my stomach (I emptied the bottle within 20 seconds). A young student of European law came over to me and asked me to play some soul music. I felt a dark, heavy cloud of depression generating in my skull. Mischmeister Hochtaunus was aware of the dangerous situation and offered me to continue the job. I went over to the bar, ordered a Bluna and escaped into the huge dome of my inner reflections on my life until yet. What was the decision-making mistake? When did I act wrong? I was not able to answer, so I dropped an ice cube between unknown tits and followed the track of a butler who was carrying a huge wild turkey straight through the crowd. I landed on a couch next to the bass speaker. This location was ideal for the great, cosmic, hyperintelligent and subtile adventure MC Monk performed, using ONLY GOOD DISCO SENSATION RECORDS. It was an expression of his weird, antiblocated normalicide mind. You couldnīt recognize each of the three songs MC Monk edited simultaneously through the high power mixing device, but you had to witness the strength and dignity of this atmospheric Nepalesian-countrylike dub event. My forces seemed to return at the same rate as MC Monks electroencephalographical protocol calmed down to a bunch of parallel lines. I carried him into a swinging garden chair and returned to my beloved turntables. Wildpop im Underground