Friday, April 27, 2007


Now get down with this Mr. Rogers and this young lil b-boy, Jermaine. Young lil' brotha shows Mr. Rogers the "wave"--perhaps you remember this move. It's also known as the "pop and lock." Some priceless material here. If I finally had my opportunity to make my documentary of hip hop, I would lead off the 10-DVD set with this right here.
Well, the Roundhouse lost their first game last night to ol' rivals, Bud Light (or, who I like to call, Coors Light or Schlitz). Of course, with no help from the field ump who blew five calls easily and maybe more. He looked all but 16 years old and smelled like a bar rag. I don't even think he was awake. The worst call came on a Coors Light bases loaded drive that bounced back into the field of play off of a wooden light pole. It was ruled as a double when it should've been a home run. In a one-homer league, that would've been the end of the inning, but the field ump said, "That pole is part of fence." Apparently not a baseball fan because if dukes knew squat about the game, he'd know that the only thing that is part of the fence is the fence. Roundhouse loses 9-14 putting us at 7-1.
This accelerates the advance for the new jerseys which, hopefully, can be ready by next game. We got a dude that'll do them for cheap. Get your merch at
Stop frontin--you know you want the doggie shirt.
Spanks and Sox in the Bronx today through Sunday. Sox are in first, Spanks are in last. 90% chance of rain today and, don't you know, Torre will be asking the game get called so he can let his arms rest.
Wish I had more time to type, but times is busy, folks. Leaving for Chi-town Sunday morning until Roundhouse-time on Thursday. Needless to say, I'll be out of touch. I'll be working for one last big update before shaking out.

Thursday, April 26, 2007


Huge, super-gonzo gasface to our boy Russell Simmons who went from icon to clown in his recent run at the press, he denounces the use of the words that he built his entire empire on. The magic words, "n**ger," "b**ch," and "h*," were brought to the forefront of the nation's psyche again because a stupid white man went on a nationally broadcasted radio show and dropped one into the dialogue. I mean, it's the only time we really care is when someone who shouldn't say it, says it.

So Russell's trying to get the industry, media channels and the general population to avoid the use or the broadcast of these words. Oh, the irony! And, don't try and play the "Beastie Boys" card on me--citing that it's just Russell growing older and becoming more socially responsible.

Does anyone think it's just coincidence that Russell's got a new book? And that, in every appearance, he has that book in hand?

It's not an outcry, it's a book tour. Russell done played himself.

Monday, April 23, 2007


Congrats to the legendary Elders on his new gig. What can I say, the kid's good at what he does. So good, now he's gon' get paid for it. He's leaving the office in pursuit of greener grass and steeper cash. However, he's still contractually bound to the Roundhouse organization. As he said, "There are only two ways out off the Roundhouse and both of them involve a pine box" and something else. I can't remember. Anyhow, the above evening also marked a momentous moment of moments as it would be the first officially published shakeface in my history. We were at Rumours here in town with a few friends and a female with a camera approaches our table. She asks if we'd want to to a big group shot to which I exclaim, "Nah, screw a group shot, take a picture of me!" I gave her specific instructions to give me a clear countdown from three and then just watch the magic happen. I took off my glasses, waited for my countdown and then let it loose giving us the following shakeface--it's one I'm quite proud of.

She walks off and about two weeks latere, I'm up at work and I'm approached by a few people that saying, "Man, I saw your picture in the Edge. You looked really trashed!" I'm thinking, "Wait, when was I trashed? And who was taking my picture?" You know the paparazzi are really intense in the Yellow.
Well, I wasn't trashed. It was, instead, this beautiful shakeface that had them fooled. Yeah, it's a beauty. And only made twice as nice with the huge Wu logo. Recognize, fool.

Sunday, April 22, 2007


The black shirt that everyone's ultimately wanting is soon to come. Players gotta get theirs first. Don't be greedy.


In case you missed it, the Red Sox swept the Spankees and Mr. April, Alexis Rodriguez, in Boston this weekend--the first time that's happened in 17 years. Alex, the Kobe of the baseball world, got off to quite a start on Friday night, however, with no pitching and no bats surrounding him, the Sox ultimately got the last laugh. And, with the game in Alex's hands in the top of the 9th on both Friday and last night, he choked as we've seen him so many times before.

Roy (formerly Rory) provided us with a hard lesson in trash talking last night during the early parts of the Spankee game. Roy, who unfortunately fell on hard times as a child and began rooting for the Yankees, texted me in the 3rd inning when the Spanks had gone up 3-0.

ROY_TEXT: "3-0...respect"

Minutes later, I text:

J3_TEXT: "Dont get ahead of yourself homie. 3rd inning"

Another two minutes later, Manny steps up and cranks a solo homer into the Boston night. 1-3, Spankees still lead.

J3_TEXT: "Let the floodgates open"

Next hitter, J.D. Drew also puts a long ball into the stands with an absolute blast to right field. Yankees still lead 2-3.

ROY_TEXT: "sh''''*t 2..." (what seems to be a distressed Roy expressing his concern over the back-to-back longballs)

Next hitter, Mike Lowell also drives a Chase Wright pitch over the Green Monster with a laser shot. After that, Jason Varitek walks up and also punches a pitch over the Green Monster. Not but 5 minutes after Roy, who I haven't heard from in a month or so, first contacts me to gloat over a 3-run lead, the Sox became the 5th team in history to hit back-to-back-to-back-to-back homeruns--shutting down the Yankees and shutting up Roy.

Baseball is a long and sludgingly slow game and, at Fenway, no lead is safe (something that I'm surprised that Roy failed to realize before texting in the third inning). Talk trash when the game is over. Some wait until the end of the series, others even wait until the end of the season.

I'll just say this: Spanks got swept. Sox are up on the season series 3-0. Big series next weekend in the 50,000-seat urinal called Yankee Stadium. Oh the fun we'll have!

Thursday, April 19, 2007


Well, another Thursday night of awesome and inspiring Roundhouse softball. The office boys took it to Guerrero Drywall and the SlowRollers tonight in a fantastic double-header which featured to comebacks for the win and one monumental comeback.

Down 10-18 to the Guerrero Drywalls, yours truly stepped up with one out and two men on and cranked a line drive homerun (in softball, they call 'em "ropes," Suzie Creamcheese). It sliced its way into the Earth and eventually disappeared some 700 feet from the plate. They'll be looking for well into the next century. They'll recognize it by the tattoo I left on it that reads, "Hit by a total badass."

Okay, enough of that. Hey, I hit a longball once every 57 games. I gotta speak my clout, nah mean? Then, still down 13-18, we pieced together another five runs and went into the top of an extra inning tied at 18. We ended up winning easily the next inning, but again, only by one run. For those counting at home, four of our five wins to this point were by one run. The other game was a forfeit. Roundhouse now 5-0.

Second game, after a chugged beer and a handful of seeds, we went up against the SlowRollers. We went down early, but still managed to come from down 3-9 to win 14-10--our first win of the season that didn't manage some sort of heroics. Mayhem went deep in the second game and met a dude running the scoring tabled, no kidding, Jeff Mahan. I think the dude thought it was something more than it was because he just kinda stood there and looked at Mayhem like he couldn't believe it. It was kinda creepy for a few minutes because he wanted to go on about his family even though, we're all well confident that they're not related and our boy Mayhem doesn't really care about his family because just 'cause the last names are the same doesn't mean they both like cabbage and named their dogs "Steve" and "Kevin." Look, it's just a name and as freaky as it is, it doesn't entitle someone to asking a barrage of questions. I'll hang out with a Wyrick anyday because, there's a really good chance we're related.

Anyway, so ends another victorious night of badassness. It's hurts being this awesome. I mean, I'm really sore.


During the game, though, there were murmurs of replacing Chuck once and for all. He was there in the early manifestations of this squad we now have. He gave us guidance, taught us to pee standing up. But now, I think it's time we move past Chuck into a more menacing, more daunting logo. We need a logo that makes grown men whimper and rattles the psyche of their next twenty generations. And now, without further delay, I present to you, my proposed new logo for the second season Roundhouse.

Alright, let me know what you think. I'll even make versions available on my merch site for those wanting to have your own piece of awesome. Holla atcha boy, it's Friday.

Spanks and Sox...let's do it.


Pennywise knows what's up.
Okay, we're about to move past all the puppy talk, but you gotta hear this story.
Initially, I was told not to put this story, but it's newsworthy. I mean, the people have to know. I gotta apologize to my lovely wife. I've been forced beyond my will to put this story out. So here we go.
After dinner, my lovely wife and I decided to go out for an evening walk just after sundown. It was an idealic evening. Cool, damp, just right. I had Jax on the leash out front while my lovely wife walked behind us with Tux in her arms. Tux began crying wildly to which I asked my lovely wife to put him on the ground on the other side of the street we were crossing, lush green lawn so he can feel like he's rollin' with the big dogs. This dog is only 7 weeks old, he's not going anywhere fast.
I keep walking ahead of my lovely wife and Tux and I hear my lovely wife exclaim, "Oh, shit!" At which point I hear Tux's barking with a distinct echo. I turn around to see my wife on her knees in the gutter screaming, "He fell in there! He's down there!"
Tux had fallen into the storm drain.
He was now where only Pennywise had dared to venture.
In what could only be explained as pure adrenaline, I dash to the drain, fall on my belly and begin to quickly assess the situation. When I look down into the dark drain, I see the white of Tux's head shifting back and forth and whining. Tux was sitting on a ledge and possible only inches from plummetting to a darker deeper realm of the storm drain. I'm trying to keep his interest by calling him by name, but he's still too green to recognize his own name so I have my arm reached out as far as I can--trying to rub his head and keep his attention. "Don't move, buddy!"
Even with my long arm outstretched, I could only tap the tip of his nose with my middle finger. I knew if I could only get my arm four more inches into the hole, I could grab his collar (which we just purchased) and then I could hook him and pull him to safety. However, he was still too far away. I keep wiggling my body to see if could manage to extend my fat body any deeper into the hole.
I started just popping his head with my middle finger to get him closer. All of the sudden, I feel his collar. I hook it with my finger, give him a tug and out from the depths of hell, I pull little Tux. Not buy only two minutes later from when it all began, we were on our way. I laughed for an hour afterwards out of shock, but later I walked through the "what if's" in my head. Things could've been really bad. What if there wasn't that ledge? What if my long arms weren't there? What if Pennywife got him?
Tux slept harder than he ever had before that night.
Jax's still wondering when we're taking him back.

Monday, April 16, 2007


Yeah, like a swift kick to the bearings, it's back to work. But whatta nice weekend. You couldn't beat the weather yesterday--sunny, breezy. I'm digging a post hole in the backyard to the sounds of Masta Ace. C'mon, I dare you to top it.
We gotta name for the lil' one. His name is Tucker. I call him "Tux" for short.Jax is taking to him rather nicely although still visibly on the fence. He'll come around.
Got egged this weekend in what was apparently a random act of food. They hit every car on the block. 10% of me says, "Ah, just kids having fun," while 90% says "Find them and hurt them." Luckily for me, the morons kept all the egg on the windshield, but it was still difficult to remove. I never egged anything as a kid. I mean, I did the egg toss, but I never maliciously threw an egg at something or someone. I think this next weekend I might try it. First, I'll research laws that might hang up my egging experience. Must not tell the lovely wife either.
Red Sox are tied for first as of this Monday morning. Spanks lost in the ninth inning against the Athletics on a three-run homer off of Mariano. That's always fun to watch. Maybe it's a little payback for being the only cat in the league that didn't get the "Jackie Robinson" memo which states that #42 has been retired league-wide. Even better that this walk-off home run happened on Jackie Robinson Day. I mean, really, the league retired Jackie's number, but Mariano is the only dude priveleged to wear the number? Class act, those Yankees.
Alright, iron shirt, brush teeth, walk to work. Happy Monday, folks.

Saturday, April 14, 2007


Try as he might have to prevent another dog in the house, we brought one home today. In fact, as I type this, he's dreaming in my vast lap. He's a cutie. The jury's still out on Jax's opinion, but nonetheless, in Jax's age and maturity, we both believe it'll be better for him in the long run, plus, we really wanted another dog around the pad. Woke up this morning like every good bluesman and opened up the paper. I found an ad for six week old beagle puppies. Next thing we know, we're on our way to Canadian. I kept trying to call it Canadia which I knew wasn't right and the whole way up I kept wondering if a person from Canada is a Canadian, the a person from Canadian would probably be a Canadiandian. About 100 miles later, we were in Canadian, Texas visiting a pleasant family and their household full of beagle puppies. Actually, they had only three left--two males and a female. After long debate, we brought home this sack of sugar.
The entire way back, my lovely wife and I tackled with the difficult task of naming the critter. Well, several hours later, we've yet to arrive at a name. I made my normal name suggestions which included a stout arsenal of famous Red Sox, jazzmen and even rappers. My lovely wife always comes up with really handsome names. Good strong names. Like the kinda name that would name either a really ferocious gorilla or a president. There's always the usual slew of novelists, scientists and world leaders. She's edumacated, nah'mean?
So, we need your help. I'm going to give you my top four and my lovely wife's top four. They'll be listed randomly so as to avoid preferential selection. Please select only one and let's get this dog named before he starts responding to "hey" and "dumbass."

Please select from the following:

Friday, April 13, 2007


(pops in Donny Hathaway's Extension of a Man)

Man, this is an incredible record, I must say. Clint, if you're feeling Hot Buttered Soul, seek this right here. Alright, let's talk about some racist cats. Don Imus is a bigot. There's no way else to cut it. That doesn't mean everyone that listens to him is a bigot. I mean, I watch O'Reilly, but I'm not an asshole like he is. Wait, let's start over...

There's a few sides to this story that I want to hit on. I've been just aching to get it out so here I go. There are three gas faces to hand out here. All for very different reasons, but well-deserved nonetheless.

First, let's talk about...
Besides the gas face for being an bigoted idiot for his comments to begin with, his attempt to combat his critics by saying that rappers routinely "defame and demean black women" by calling them "worse names than I ever did," is as silly a defense as a fool like Imus could've put together. Let's get something straight, poor Mr. Imus, like most people who use this defense is what I like to call a victim of context. "Nappy" is not a bad word. Neither is "headed." "Ho's" certainly can be used in a derrogatory manner and I would agree that using it in reference to a woman is quite disrespectful, but it's not a rarity. And, let's just get something out in the open, it's ain't just rappers that say the word, "ho." You put the words "nappy headed hos" together and it gets pretty tricky. I'm not sure what the white man has a hard time grasping about the concept of "things different races can say, but the white man can't." It's weird. Why are stupid white men are always getting hung up on the "Well, why can they say it and not I?" It should be a square on the $25,000 Pyramid: "Things Different Races Can Say, But the White Man Can't." Just so everyone can know those words or phrases.

Here's the easiest way of putting it. In an office, those words directed to a black female would be considered highly inappropriate and grounds for termination. Now, if that'd be grounds for termination, then broadcasting it to the entire nation probably would be as well. And, Mr. Imus, the difference between you and a rapper is that, like it or not, people pay to hear the rapper say it. It's not an issue of right or wrong, it's context. If your name was Richard Pryor and, maybe, you were actually Richard Pryor and you had a packed house of people who had paid to see your act knowing the material or sensitive nature of some of the content, it might not have gotten you fired. When you're a white man with a microphone and a history of controversy, you might want to show a little more restraint when speaking of the opposite race. And, despite what most people are spinning around the country, you can't say the "n-word" or "ho" on broadcast radio. Consider it like pay-per-view. If you want to hear the real explicit stuff, you're gonna have to pay for it. Of course, no one is actually paying for their music these days, but let's say they are.

It's like the violence and language on HBO, you can get your cable standard (which allows some language, yes) or you can pay for the real stuff. You don't hear anyone complaining about HBO or Showtime, right? It's because with the exchange of cash or money suggests that there's then a consensual agreement. Now, the people that went to see Michael Richards on that ill-fated night paid, but the difference is that the dude col' went off on some serious, serious racism. I think everyone can agree that they wouldn't have seen that coming. You know what you're getting with a rap record. You know what you're gonna get watching HBO at 11:00pm on a Saturday night. You know what happens in strip clubs. You know that if you hop in the octagon with Royce Gracie, you're gonna get your ass whooped. You're not stupid. But you're probably not expectant to be called out in the audience as the "n-word" if you go to a comedy club on a Friday night. Context, folks.

I'm trying to think of a reason that an old white man would use such language if for no other fact that he is, in fact, a racist and no reason's coming to mind. Mr. Imus might not be a racist, but as voice on the free airwaves, you have to have better judgement.

Then we got...
Sharpton, too, is a sensationalist. He thrives on spectacle. Now, with that said, I appreciate the balance that he provides to certain social injustices, however, often times I find that he can often take a situation from bad to worse with a few stupid comments on national stage. Once again, we find Sharpton blurring the lines of responsibility claiming that Imus' actions are the result of specifically hip hop culture which has long-held the word "bitch" and "ho" as acceptable. Furthermore, he believes that it should be the record labels that should step up and finally put an end to their use.

In this, not only does Sharpton take the easiest way out by tossing the blame off on the big bad wolf, but he, in result, also let's the truly responsible off the hook--parents and guardians. Those words and their use have been around long before rap came along and holding the industry responsible is a purely political move because attacking parents would mean losing political support. Remember, it's never the population's fault when you're earning political support. We'll blame cigarette companies, gun manufacturers, fast food companies, the film and music industry--anyone before we'll blame the core of value and moral development--the family. It's garbage. The world is a scary and impressionable place, but the family represents the most important and direct line to development and, likewise, the strongest gatekeeper for material deemed inappropriate.

In Al Sharpton's world, everyone is a feeble, weak-minded embicile that can't think, act, fart or take responsibility for themselves and, when done an injustice, they're due a public apology (embarrassment). Look, Imus doesn't need to apologize for being a bigot. He's a racist jerkoff. The world will happen to him. A man of his age probably learned only one thing from all of this and that is, "Opening your mouth can get you fired." Those thoughts and beliefs are deeply embedded in his poor mouth and as fickle as those comments were to him, so was that apology. Apologies are a good lesson, but for adults, the best lesson is to hit 'em in the checkbook. It's unfortunate, but true.

And then, lastly, there's...
In what could only be explained as a Courician blast of fiery confrontation, Meredith Viera decided she was gonna high-horse the aforementioned Sharpton on the "Today Show." In the interview, the usually quite sensitive yet challenging Viera brought out Sharpton and, as some had said, "held Sharpton's feet to fire." I would say that was true if she actually made any valid points, but all she referenced is the ol' tired "double standard" point of view without acknowledging the fact that the machine she feeds could be accused of the same thing. It's okay to say what Imus said on network television, yet not okay to say it on the radio. "They're all over the radio!" exclaimed Viera, yet she failed to point out that on her own network, programming from seven o'clock on is littered with such derrogatory sentiments not made by rappers or black actors. And, last time I checked, more people watch television than they do listen to the radio. How many kids you know are sitting in front of their radio these days waiting for Young Jeezy to come on. And with MTV hardly even playing music videos anymore, where are they picking up this language? Whatever, Meredith, you're the "concerned mother" of the "Today Show" and it's great for ratings, but wouldn't hold much water in court. Gasfaced!

Look, this whole thing is silly. It really is. I don't believe that it took the celebration away from the Rutgers basketball team. I don't believe it's the music industry. I don't even believe it's the rappers. It ain't Mims. It ain't Jeezy. It ain't Unk. It's the networks who take endorse certain politics and read it like news in the hopes of securing more advertisers, more profits, more business dinners, more executive trips abroad, longer cars, bigger planes and better plastic surgeries. The media serves advertisers because advertisers pay the bill at the end of the day. You have to make up your own mind. You have to scrub every situation with your own morals and principles to see what's right and what's wrong. It's only my opinion. Hopefully if you're even visiting The Root Down, you understand what that means.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007


Okay, finally watched an episode of ABC's "The Bachelor" last night.

Holy cow.

Now, I'm known to watch some horrible TV. In fact, I'll willingly admit it. But if I needed any further proof that network television is quickly eating itself and is only really good for the local news, here it is. Here, we find a crowd of young women who are in strong pursuit of this doofy crapfart who we're forced into believing is the perfect specimen. He's a sailor, a doctor, a humanitarian and he's got the perfect smile. He also speaks like he's done too many hallucinogenics, but his six-pack makes up for it. So I'm watching this kid and I'm thinking to myself, had he grown up on the other side of the tracks and was named "Wally," these girls wouldn't want a damn thing to do with him, but all of his rented property (courtesy of ABC) including the boat, the house, the limo, the suits are enough to fool these women into believing that, ultimately, he's the one. Let the jokery begin.

For, not one hour, but an hour and a half, this dude acts like a kid on his first date while these women absolutely throw themselves at him. And it's ridiculous to see these women who I'm convinced must be drugged or heavily medicated, swoon and gasp at his every move. The dude farts and a lady faints while another yells, "Oh, I love him!" from a balcony. The saddest part of all is that it helps perpetuate the belief that women are catty, lazy and incapable of drawing their own income. It's like they're dangling meat above a lion's den. It's an absolute exaggeration of reality. I might have been living under the proverbial rock for my entire life (or missed out on some quality time with the ladies growing up), but I've never never seen women act so enthused by a dude so mediocre.

These ladies must be drugged.

Gas face to ABC for this garbage. It's not so bad that they actually air this crap, but that it takes them one and a half times the normal slot to get it in. If you needed any further proof that network television is only designed to fit around the commercials, this is it. There's a freaking COPS marathon on somewhere. Watch that instead. Support real reality.

Saturday, April 07, 2007


Click the link below to be taken directly to the official THE ROOT DOWN store.

New product has been added including two of the toughest t-shirt designs you've ever seen in your life, baby clothes (for the expectant muddah) and a coffee mug so you can show those kids at the office how you get down.

Recognize. Purchase. Enjoy. Or catch a bad one from a kangaroo on a bad day.

More designs soon to come.

Friday, April 06, 2007


Yeah, Thursday was that day. Started it off with a little John Coltrane and some stiff red-eyed coffee (which I'm brewing another batch today). Walk to work was brisk, but felt good. I was gearing up for another season of Chuckheads Softball which proved to be worth the wait.

Thursday marked the arrival of Dice K to Major League Baseball. For those needing a refresher or those who have been living under a pair of Reeboks, Dice K is a Japanese import who has five different curveballs and a gyroball which is a combination of a change-up and a fastball. It's like a screwball.

He pitched seven innings on Thursday, striking out ten and giving up one run and one walk. Sox win 4-1. Beautiful.

In other news, the great Sheryl was promoted to National Sales Director at the top music distributor in the world--a promotion she rightfully deserved. She's the Big Daddy Kane of music distribution. Or the Queen Latifah--whichever you prefer. Sheryl, congrats.

And, last night marked the genesis of another wildly entertaining season of Chuckheads Softball. Showed up early and enjoyed a nice welcome-back beer and got to the warm-up. Ah, the first warm-up of the season. Shoulders and elbows popping and snapping. Those legs waking up from a nice winter slumber.

I'm going to make a horrible daddy one day. This girl on the television drew a picture for their Friday morning feature called KidCast where they let a youngin do the weather forecast. She showed this girls picture on the screen and it was the dumbest thing I've ever seen. There was a tornado, lightning and a snowman on the beach. I'm pretty sure that's meteorogically impossible. Someone might need to tell her to prepare her for her day at school. You know some kid's gonna be like, "Idiot. You drew a snowman on the beach."

Okay, back to the Chuckheads. First game was against Guerrero Drywall. Now, Guerrero Drywall is a name that, in softball leagues, means you about to get your tail-end whooped. That and Elk's Lodge 1340, Cortez Bail Bonds and Roto Rooter. Wait, no, we disproved the last one. The scorekeeper kept calling us the Roadhouse instead of the Roundhouse which was a tad annoying, but nonetheless, we put together seven of most brilliant innings of softball. We went into the bottom of the seventh down by two runs, 6-8. I come up first and hit an absolute rope that almost went over the fence if it weren't for that stupid right fielder who climbed the fence and made a miraculous catch to bring it back into the ball park. Okay, I hit a soft pop fly to the third baseman. So, with one out and three runs needed, the Chuckheads put together one of the finest half innings that free admission could buy. After hanging a run and now with two outs, Manham comes to the plate with two on and drives an absolute rope to left-center. Chuckheads win in last at-bat, 9-8.

Second game got cold. Wind chill had to be sitting at about 28 degrees which drove my wife home to the warm couch. Now we had to take on Bud Light who actually put a whooping on a team earlier winning 18-10. And, if you've ever played city-league softball, the team that has a beer sponsorship is the team you don't want to play. I'm thinking if you could get Jack Daniels or Jagermeister to sponsor you, people would just forfeit. They would've even look for their cleats in the closet. They'd just say, "Screw it, I'm not going." Must look into that. We jump out to a 10-0 lead in first inning. We're running on all cylinders at this point. A few innings later it's 13-8. A couple of innings later it's 13-10. Going into the last inning, we're up 20-10--a comfortable lead by most circumstances, but hanging on by your fingernails in city league softball against a beer-sponsored team. Bud Light hangs on nine runs in the bottom of the last inning before Elders single-handedly shuts them down with two incredible plays at first base. He loves the game. Chuckheads win 20-19 and remain undefeated at 2-0.

You know, those are really the two best ways to win. One in a last inning comeback and the second ending a huge last inning comeback just one run short. Beautiful. I got home at 10:30, cooked up some bacon, eggs and onion and scarfed. Watched baseball highlights and then went to bed. My wife's got today off for Good Friday. I don't get as lucky. And as Good as this Friday might be, Thursday was Grand.

John Wyrick, who I'm not related to, wishes everyone a Great Friday. It's a good morning for Stevie Wonder. Real quick, on his last record, A Time to Love, Stevie Wonder apparently helped design the cover art which consisted of the cryptic symbols a (clock) 2 (heart). I thought it was the dumbest thing and I make the comment, "Who let Stevie Wonder design the cover art?" Come to find out, he did in fact come up with the concept. Let's go one further. In Stevie's contract, he actually has final approval on all artwork. I knew he wasn't blind. I just knew it. He's had us all fooled.

Be good, ese.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007


Yeah, you remember the classics. Now you can sport them around town like an elitist who enjoys drawing confused looks from passerby's as they say, "Who in the hell is Audio Two?" We all like to feel that empowerment from time to time. And now, with these limited edition "Betta Recognize" shirts, you can be the life of the party and be surrounded by all the ladies. I'm a married man so you'll have to let me know how that goes.


Yeah, the classic 12" that brought the world "Top Billin'." Beautiful.

How many emcees must get dissed? Countless.

And the back design. It's not a request, it's a command.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007


I've always been a huge fan of white space. People just don't really know how to use it properly. And, to juxtapose the tackiness and business of the pen-and-pixel, over-the-top and obnoxious cover art that continues to flood the market place, the follow pieces remain two of the most iconic images in hip hop, not because they're outstanding images, but because of the white space that isolates them. C'mon folks, less is more. Understand it.

And the commonality between the two covers is quite striking. Artist on the top, title on the bottom. Both make a certain pointed commentary on "birth" and "life." And both could be considered the artist's respective paramount recording. Both are debut records and one's "short" and the other's "big."

First we have Too $hort's Born to Mack. The image of $hort Dog sitting in back of his car like he's ready for a parade is the celebration of the ghetto superstar. And considering that this was $hort's debut record, it's a conceited but clever image that does what it's intended. It says, "I make money," rather than, "I'm gonna make money," and for a debut album in 1988, this concept was not as common as it is today. He even has his name in U.S. Mint green.

Conceptually the same, however, not quite as nice in my personal opinion is Notorious BIG's Ready to Die. This time, though, we find the image of a small baby and the title suggests a completely different notion than $hort's cover. Essentially, instead of being born to do anything, Notorious was just born to die. It makes poignant commentary on the tragedy of ghetto life while $hort's album reflects the rare luxuries of the same lifestyle. Both in the same, though, speak on life as a very simplistic notion thanks, in large part, to the layout of the covers and the white space.

Florida win's the National Championship. Yea. You know, no one wins when a #1 seed wins the Championship. Boring. Especially when it's a repeat.
And Monday saw the Yankees win and the Sox lose in their respective openers. Wow, this is gonna be a great season. We're already down to the Spanks. The fun I'm gonna have! Must listen to Ready to Die in celebration of the 2007 Red Sox today.