What a great day for Richard Marx. What a horrible day for Paul Newman. Look at the expression on Paul's face. It's like, "Yeah, youngblood, get'cho picture and get outta here." And poor Richard is the victim of the ol' K-Mart bunny ears foolery. Already neck deep in another busy week. Woke up at 5:00AM this morning. Got my coffee on.
Finished the new beat and sent over to Duke for review. I'm calling it "Scotch Man." I'm not that good at making beats, but when you listen to hip hop long enough, you tend to get the idea. Start beat here, stop beat there. Insert sample here and here. Fade here. No longer than three and a half minutes. Yadda yadda. It's more of a continued exercise in creativity for me. Another avenue of expression. Whatever.
Got the trip coming together for Boston and, conveniently, the pennant race is finally starting to take shape. The Spanks are 46-22 since the end of May and putting that twurk. I can't really act surprised. This is fairly typical except we're normally five games back and slipping off into oblivion. The difference is we actually have a lead--four games to be exact. At least when I go to town, I won't be watching a Pawtucket game. All the starters should be in action. Rory and the gang have been relatively quiet during the Yankee march. Probably just holding their breath until the bottom falls out. My not-so professional opinion would suggest, at this point, the bottom won't fall out and we're gonna battle to the bitter end.
Back to Boston, though. We got a slew of things lined up. Going whale watching, pick up some vinyl at Undergroundhiphop.com, take the lovely wife antique shopping in Cambridge, check out some galleries on Newbury Street, drop some cash at Newbury Comics, go check out Harvard, tour Fenway, eat lobster, so on and so on. That doesn't even get us to the intermission.
Lovely wife's alarm is firing off. That means the start of the day. Hollatcha boy.