Friday, November 30, 2007
I went on a walk to the store last night and I took Da Pocket Prophet with me--he's getting more travel these days than the j3 Juggernaut (his iPod counterpart). While I was crossing this vast, dark schoolyard and the northern wind whipped the back of my head, Run DMC's "Peter Piper" began blasting through my headphones and, for the first time in ages, I bobbed my head, smiled excitedly and even did some "air-scratching." That rush of satisfaction that took me over as I walked through the neighborhood as it jumped to "Cold Getting Dumb" and "Brooklyn Rocks the Best" and "I'm Bad" and "Paul Revere" struck me.
I decided on my way back that my year-end list this year, instead of pouring through the best or only (as the case might be) hip hop records that came out this year, that I'll be instead ranking the best recordings (full length or 12") to come out during my period of observation. So, if you're scoring at home, I've compiling all the way up to 1987 so I have from 1979 to 1987 to choose from. I'll pick the Dirty Thirty from that era of hip hop and provide it for you as I would normally the best of 2007.
Essentially, what I'm saying, is I would rather write exuberantly on a record that came out in 1987 than reluctantly about a shitty record from 2007 that I'm lying to myself about. I would rather turn a head on to Just-Ice than try to sell them a copy of Jay-Z American Gangster record. There were some great recordings that came out this year (I'll Sleep When You're Dead comes to mind immediately). Maybe it's a boycott of sorts. Heads will accuse me of just hating. Sure, whatever. I'm the only one that's complaining about hip hop this year. Okay, gotcha.
We're turning it back all the way to 1987. If you don't like it, go read Pitchfork Media. They'll keep you abreast on all the recent stuff. And they're really fair with their rating system. Anyone that cares to join me in my venture, I would encourage it. The incredible listens that, just in a week, I've been privelege to enjoy have been reward enough. Just wait until I start loading on 1988 onto Da Pocket Prophet.
Served, for the first time, on a jury this week. It was a DWI case. Not guilty by virtue of the "presumed innocence" system we live under. Dude refused the breathalizer because it was his constitutional right and cleared him of any undisputable evidence of intoxication. Interesting. It was dope, though. I'd serve again in a second if I could. I don't know why people are so reluctant to serve on a jury.
Drew Peterson's guilty. There you have it. It's Friday folks, go high five someone.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
What I've found from my brief time with this machine, the Zune, is that out of the 151 songs that I currently have loaded on my Zune from 1979 to 1987, I've become a very big fan of Original Concept's "Can You Feel It?" which was actually a B-side to "Knowledge Me"--both of which were produced by the great Rick Rubin. Released in 1986, "Can You Feel It?" is essentially just a song of breaks, most notably a very recognizable Jackson 5 break from "It's Great to be Here." Dope, dope, dope. Oh, and the greatest thing about the Zune is that the album art comes up beautifully on the large(r) screen and, in the case of Original Concept, there is no cover art because there was no album. Instead, I just use the 12" label like this:
Another observation is Eric B. had the hardest drums. The dude was incredible. Listen to "Paid in Full" (classic) followed by "As the Rhyme Goes On (Pumpin' in Turbo Mix)" and tell me this dude didn't have the best beats back in 1986-87. I didn't even know there was a "Pumpin' in Turbo Mix" for "As the Rhyme Goes On" until yesterday.
I also realized and my listening has confirmed this: the Beastie Boys were just ill. I mean, back then, there were really four records--Paid in Full, Raising Hell, Criminal Minded and Licensed to Ill. Yes, I realize there were more, but these albums I really credit to developing what was, to that point, a 12"-game into fully developed records. Licensed to Ill was just so out there sonically. Those drums, those rock-riffs. Yeah, ill indeed.
Also, to help in sorting through the 30GB of hip hop that will soon (more later than sooner) occupy Da Pocket Prophet, I have decided to bring in eleven different sub-genres to help sort out the material. They are as follows:
"Backpacking" (late addition)
So you can bring up the "Gangbanging" genre and put it on shuffle and, while right now, you'll only get Ice-T, King Tee and N.W.A., soon Geto Boys will pop up in there. Maybe Above the Law. "Turntabling" features Double Dee and Steinski right now, but next year I'll be adding in "Terminator X to the Edge of Panic." Yeah, hip hop geekdom and snobbery to the fullest. You better believe it. Man, I might need to go ahead and bring in a "Backpacking" sub-genre because you know I'll need it. Make that twelve.
Got jury duty today. Thought it was yesterday and worked Sunday all afternoon because I thought I was going to be out.. I'm a big dummy. Holla.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
It's a bun cake that, in the middle, contains a mixture of crushed pecans, brown sugar and cinnamon. Drizzled in a sugary glaze. Yeah, it's ill. I'm quite proud of myself. Got up at 5 AM to get this bad boy baked. Best if served with coffee, juice or milk.
Got a new member of the family too. It's a Zune. For those scoring at home, the Zune I purchased is a 30GB animal that is made my Microsoft and has video, audio and picture capabilities. I'll be using it predominantly for music.
He's brown like the one above. Apparently, brown wasn't the most popular color amongst Zune users so it's being closed out to all retailers. I bought mine brand new for about $97. His name is "Da Pocket Prophet" and, true to his name, will only contain hip hop 20 years or older. And, also, Da Pocket Prophet will also have gas faces (shakefaces) stored on it for anyone's enjoyment. So please help me in welcoming Da Prophet to the family. Loaded some Audio Two, Biz Markie, Eric B & Rakim, Beasties, Run DMC and Funky Four this morning. Oh, this is gonna be fun. Still having to go back and get all of the really old stuff like Sugarhill, Kurtis Blow and such, but soon, this thing will be a portable hip hop encyclopedia--complete with cover art or 12" label where applicable.
You ain't ready.
Danny (City Fence) is apparently down in Austin this weekend preparing some of the new tracks for his album. Danny, I only expect greatness. You got the world's two best producers working for you. Failure is not an option.
Celtics are 10-1. It's an old school weekend. Go listen to the Fat Boys, dummy.
Friday, November 23, 2007
As I wake up, the local news is staked out at various retail businesses repeating the words, "The doors have just opened. Look at all the people!" Dorks. Some dude just yelled, "Black Friday! Aw, hell yeah!" What in the world? Some guy on CNN just advised to not go out on mornings like this with a significant other because, without a doubt, it will result in some sort of argument. Interesting comment.
Whatever. Here's what we're going to do. To help everyone out this Christmas season, I'm going to list the Top 5 Places that Customer Service Doesn't Exist.
Rare that you'd spend your money anywhere that, first, honesty is completely out the door, secondly, is void of any reason and wisdom, third, adheres to no noticeable price structure and, lastly, the employees most likely more know about your problem that you do. Welcome to the garage. This can be the tire place on the corner, the oil change joint or, worst of all, the do-it-all mechanic that is just waiting to screw you to no end. There are exceptions (Jiffy Lube, whaddup), but they are few and far between. Here, we run into the guy that gives preferential treatment to people he went to school with. Let's face it, that's the cornerstone of poor customer service. It's clouded because it would seem that he's providing excellent service, but he's screwing someone else in the process. And, because I'm the kid that only made ten friends in high school, I'm always going to get screwed. The garage has perfected the "get-together-out-of-earshot-from-the-customer-and-look-to-be-having-a-very-important-conversation" tactic which makes it appear that they are using teamwork to arrive at a suitable solution to the problem. Really, they're just teaming up against you and out of the five guys talking, they developed thirteen ways to get more money out of your stupid ass. I know no one's really thinking of buying a loved one an oil filter for Christmas, but if you are, buyer beware.
BEST BUY/CIRCUIT CITY
If you want to see an unexplainable oddity, do this: go to either Best Buy or Circuit City and count the employees doing absolutely nothing. It's staggering. With few exceptions, I have seen the laziest employees in my life while passing through one of these two retailers. I don't know what it is that makes employees for these two giants move at quarter-speed, but it's reached epidemic levels. And, the second you ask for help, you're met with a sigh, slumped shoulders and maybe even rolled eyes. The only people who are working are the people checking customers out. Even the security cat at Best Buy is just lumped on a stool, nodding his head, saying, "Have a good day." Boy, some security. Don't be fooled by everyone's running shoes (which appear to be standards in their uniform) because they aren't running.
Why anyone would go the mall and expect to be the recipient of any customer service completely boggles my mind. The average age of a mall employee is 22 years old. Knowing that, the instance of poor customer service skyrockets on that alone. Sure, in college communities, your chances might fair a tad better, but more likely you're gonna get met by some punk who thinks he has it made because he's not waiting tables or dipping potatoes in scorching grease. He's riding a high (and occasionally he might actually be high) because he went from the worst job on the planet to working in a highly stimulating retail environment with, among other things, plenty of places to lean and, better yet, countless candidates from the opposite sex to stare at as they walk by. I can rather confidently say that the males are the main offenders here. Male mall employees are among the very worst on the planet. They just don't want to work. It's like church camp to these kids. Case in point: find the Hot Topic in your mall and spend five minutes in there.
And then, add to the whole experience those damn kiosks that litter the walking space and it's a freaking battlefield of poor customer service. I know the design is to simulate some sort of European street market, but I almost have to stiff-arm the guy selling the some eyeglass cleaning product. You have some moron selling floormats for your car, another dude selling skins for your cell phone and then the damned Dipping Dots stand. Who still eats Dipping Dots? Whatever. The point is this. Like the carnival that sets up in a parking lot, these are rides you don't wanna ride. They're not even bolted to the ground. There's no accountability in commerce with these people. They're not approved by the Better Business Bureau because they don't even have a front door to put the little sticker on. Doing business with these hounds is like just throwing your money away. Think about it. Count how many people you've heard say the following line with any level of positivity: "Yeah, I bought it off one of those little booths in the mall!"
Let's face it, like all that glitters ain't gold--all those lab coats don't mean they're doctors of any sort. This is like a place where a bunch of kids from the drama club act like optometrists. They don't know what they're doing. They have a "lab on site" which I found from personal experience really only means, they take your crappy glasses to a little room in the back and completely eff them up. And then they bring them out, kinda shrug their shoulders and say, "Sorry, but it'll be another ten working days before we'll get them back." And then, in the end, they never call you. I'm still waiting for a call for the third go-round from about three weeks ago. These kids are complete nincompoops and they lie without hesitation. I'd swing at one of them if I wasn't worried about destroying a nearby display of expensive glasses.
Do not ever go here to get your glasses because they will inevitably blow it and then try and give you upgrades to keep you happy. You know what would make me happy? Doing your damn job and not having to worry every time I come in about being deceived and lied to. That'd be a start.
Yeah, the granddaddy of them all. You act surprised. The Wal-Mart way is to make the most money by spending the least. And what that means to customer service is basically staffing the very lowest common denominator to accomodate you during your shopping experience. I hate to bag on the dudes that work there because, like a co-worker once said, "They're just trying to make a living." Okay, that might be true. But you know what, I'm commenting on customer service and Wal-Mart is the very worst because they cut a very important corner in the commerce paradigm--quality personnel and that's why they land as number one on this list. I'd shop there more often if I didn't have idiot store employees in my way. I can find it myself. And the answer to, "Do I need help?" is "Not the type you're offering." Yeah, I know that sucks of me, but I'm willing to be the jerk here. I can't stand this place.
I think that in all retail or glasses store/lemonade stands, they should only let people over 21 work. If you're under 21, you get to do a stint bussing tables and flipping frozen hamburger patties. It's good for your character and, trust me, you'll really appreciate that nice retail job once you get there and, maybe, I'll take your help then. Until then, if you approach me, watch for the hook.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
I recognized something a long time ago about one of if not the very best Country and Western plucker the world has ever seen. I'm speaking of the one, the only George Strait. Now, don't get me wrong, I absolutely hate George Strait. Wait, yeah whatever, I meant that. I hate him. And I have good reason to.
Well, maybe it's not that good of a reason, but it's a reason nonetheless and any reason to hate George Strait is a good reason. Here's my reason and, hang with me because it's on the math tip. I don't really have any strong grounds, I mean, it wouldn't hold water in court, but whatever, check it out.
Since 1981, this duke's released over 30 records. That's a rate that is unmatched except for Willie's whoring self trying to pay back the IRS. The difference between George and, uh, good and credible and believable Country and Western singers like Willie is that George is only going to give you ten songs at a time. I mean, you'd think that eventually dude would get a wild hair on his ass and he'd say, "You know what? I think this time I'm gonna give my fans who buy every piece of crap record I release one additional song for being so faithful." But, no. He doesn't do that. You get ten songs, you moron George Strait fan. Now go listen. You'll get ten more next year. It's funny because Led Zeppelin IV is one of the greatest records ever recorded and the thing was only eight songs. But that's all it takes. Then Zep turn around and release Houses of the Holy and it, too, was also eight songs, but then Physical Graffiti dropped and it was fifteen songs. And it was fifteen songs because, damn it, that's the way it had to be because it was Physical Graffiti--the very best Zeppelin record ever made, in fact, it was the best rock album ever recorded and any more would've spoiled it and any less would left you unfulfilled. But George Strait and his punk ass is giving you ten songs. Even if you might have only wanted six, you're gonna get ten. There's no artistic reasoning. There's no fantastic vision behind this decision. He just insists.
Here, check it. In 1981, it all began with the appropriately (and egomanically) titled Strait Country. It had ten songs. Little did we know what was to come. Next year, Strait From the Heart released and it too was only ten songs. Right or Wrong was also ten songs. Right or wrong, it was the formula and it worked. Then, there was Does Fort Worth Ever Cross Your Mind in 1984--ten songs. I can think of another classic record that came out in 1984, oh yeah, 1984. But George just crapped out ten more songs. Dude was so cocky that he titled his next year's release, Something Special, but let's be realistic, it was still only ten songs--it wasn't that special. Then, he got as tired naming albums as he did writing songs so he just called his next record #7 and, yes, you guessed it--ten songs. Then, because when you're as dope as George Strait, you have to release hits packages mid-career, but he still only gave you ten songs on his 1986 release, Greatest Hits. That same year he released a Christmas record, but dude was such a stingy Scrooge that duke only gave ten songs on Merry Christmas Strait to You. Next year, he released another ten song greatest hits package called Greatest Hits Vol. 2. Dude's a genius. Ocean Front Property--ten songs, If You Ain't Loving--ten songs, Beyond the Blue Neon--ten songs, Livin It Up (and although he was, you still are only getting...)--ten songs. And then, dude just ain't hiding it anymore. He actually names his next hits package Ten Strait Hits. Yes, that's the third hits package in five years. He wouldn't have to release so many if he'd just step out to fifteen a hits package. Chill of an Early Fall--ten songs, Holding My Own--ten songs. And, even though Strait's camp would contend that Pure Country (a soundtrack) was eleven songs, the last song was actually the theme from the main title sequence in the movie. Sorry, that doesn't count. That's another ten song album. Easy Come, Easy Go--ten songs, Lead On--ten songs, Blue Clear Sky--ten songs, Carrying Your Love With Me--ten songs, One Step at a Time (and ten songs an album because I'm George Strait, damn it!)--ten songs. Interesting thing happened in 1998 when he released The Very Best of George Strait in two separate volumes. Both were twenty songs a piece. A bargain by George Strait standards, but remember that twenty is divisible by ten. Still counts. Always Never the Same, ha, who are you kidding George? Always Never the Same? How are you gonna say that when for the last twenty years you've been releasing ten-song albums? Always Never the Same had ten songs. Another Christmas collection called Merry Christmas Wherever You Are in 1999 still only ten songs. How about a self-titled release in 2000? Yep, you guessed it, ten songs. Road Less Traveled--ten songs. Greatest Collection came out in 2004 and, in terms of volume, it certainly was. Forty songs in all, but yes, still divisible by ten. An unprecedented third seasonal record titled Christmas Collection released in 2005--twenty songs, divisible by ten. Then, in 2006, The Ultimate Collection dropped in two different versions. There was a two-disc version and a three-disc version. Guess what, they contained twenty and thirty songs respectively.
Boycott George Strait and listen to Nina Simone instead.
Monday, November 12, 2007
We sit down and chatter for a bit and then the waiter bounces up to take the drink orders. I explain to him that I'm not drinking beer and would like something in place of. He looks at me baffled. Yeah, I know, it's hard to believe. He makes a few margarita suggestions, all of which, don't sound that spectacular, but I figure, "When in Rome, have a margarita."
With the help of one of my lovely wife's friends, I place an order for a blue margarita. I even called it by name: "Blue Rita." Upon saying this aloud, my manhood completely disappeared. All that I had worked for my entire life was wiped away in three syllables. It's as if I reached in my pocket, pulled out two marbles and said, "I'd like to exchange these for a blue coconut drink, please."
This "no beer" crap was starting to really become painful. And, like a sitting duck, I was sitting on the outside of the booth--exposed to everyone in the immediate dining room. The chatter continues as we wait for our drinks to arrive. I was starting to become really nervous. It was like jitters before a blind date. I mean, I've never been on a blind date, but I imagine this is what it's like. I wait patiently for my drink to arrive and, as time passes, I become less interested in the conversation and more attentive to the movement of waiters and the drinks they're carrying--following each of them with one eye as they pass.
Then, I see my date.
The waiter starts walking directly toward our table and there's no mistaking which one is mine--a towering blue martini glass filled with ice with an orange sliver on the lip and a large shaker which, by my observation, must contain the contents of my drink. I begin to slide down in my seat. She sits down in front of me. I don't have the nerve to tell her how ugly she is. I just smile instead.
And, it's not her fault. I mean, she's a blue drink. And, I'm sure on most Saturday nights, she's the life of the party, but I'm just not feeling her at all. I begin to feel like everyone in the room is looking at me. I kinda leave it out in front of me for a few minutes like, "Oh, this is clearly a mistake. I didn't order this crap. Someone must be playing a nasty prank on me." The damn thing had a straw sticking out of the top. Put me in a skirt and call me "Michelle."
With a few more moments of hesitation, I just jump right into it. I deliver my lame trademark, "Hey, well at least it ain't heroin." I pour it in the glass. Crap, it really is blue. I use the straw to stir it and then toss the straw aside. Here goes nothing.
The first sip was really strong. It was the kinda drink that would knock your date on her tail end. Sad reality was, I was that date. I didn't like the salt around the rim. I know it's customary, but it was kinda gross. I didn't like the coconut taste because, well, I hate coconuts. The tequila was pretty good, but I'm sure it was the cheap stuff. I just don't really know the difference. I didn't really sip the drink because I figured sipping it would only worsen my circumstances. So I just begin taking it back like a glass of lemonade on a hot summer day. Thing goes straight to my head--not like a beer. Clearly, not like a beer.
I wasn't trashed at the end of it, but I felt like trash--maybe of the "white" origin. I felt like some teenage girl that crossed the border to Mexico and got drugged by a local. Whatever I felt like, I didn't feel good.
I figure that guys need a margarita they can feel comfortable drinking. I brainstormed a few moments at the table. I developed a drink called the "manarita" which is delivered in the same stupid martini glass, but contains nothing but whiskey and scotch. And no straw.
Here's to beer and March 8th.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Celtics are back, my friends. And I'll agree that it's pretty hard not to be with the talent of Ray Allen, Kevin Garnett and, my man, Paul Pierce. Last night, we improved to 5-0 by beating the Nets. Yeah, I know, it's the Atlantic Division, but the way this team is playing, you can't help but get those Christmas-morning bumblebees. It's been a long road back for the C's. I mean, the franchise was lucky to survive those horrid Dino Radja-Dee Brown days. Moreover, I'm lucky Red made it through those days. Those were the seasons following Reggie Lewis' death which I would contend was where it all fell apart. Reggie was the future. Dude sprinted the court, stop and shoot with more accuracy than anyone in the league. He had the poise and confidence of players with twice the league experience. Then, in the summer of 1993, he fell dead on the court with an irregular heartbeat. The season before, Reggie, the team's new scoring leader, led the young Celtics to a 48-34 record as McHale and Parish rode into the sunset. The season following his passing, the Celtics went 32-50. The next season, even with the help of an aged Dominique Wilkins, the Celtics only won three more games and finished 35-47. Then, the tailspin. The next year, we fell to 33-49. In 1996-97, even with the addition of rookie Antoine Walker, we posted our worst record in the history of the franchise. We pinched off 15 turds and called them "wins," but we were fortunate the league even let us play. Horrible. The next season was better, but still far from a winning season. Even though, young players like (now World Champions) Bruce Bowen and Chauncey Billups would help improve the team, front office would eventually trade them off. They'd never look back.
We did, however, hold on to a kid named "Pervis" for five seasons too long. God bless him.
When Paul joined the team, the impact wasn't immediate, but after four years of building, Celtics fans would finally see a team at full throttle. Paul and Antoine helped the Celtics post a 49-33 record in 2001-02 with the stout play of great role players like Eric Williams, Tony Battie (from Texas Tech), Tony Delk, Walter McCarty. A few playoff appearances, but no championships and the hiring of Danny "Franchise Killah" Ainge would lead to the mysterious release of Antoine Walker to the Dallas Mavericks. It was the kinda "dark days" that brought back the stinging memory of the future of the franchise dying in the off-season. Danny Ainge ("et tu, Brute?"), former beloved Celtic was now wrecking the team from the front office. Meanwhile, Celtic greats Kevin McHale and Larry Legend were successful GM's in Minnesota and Indiana respectively?! Why in the hell do we get Ainge?!
Last season in the wake of Red's death, Paul Pierce, as captain, couldn't drive his team to more than 24 victories--a mark that was only out-embarrassed by the 15-win season of 1996-97. The franchise was about to shrivel up and die. Paul would've jumped ship if given the chance. But then, Danny Ainge grew a pair of marbles and actually went out and got his players.
After being a sure-shot for the number one draft pick, the ping-pong lottery was mean as hell to us when we had more balls than anyone (ping-pong) but got out balled by four other teams. We got the fifth pick. So freaking awesome. Greg Oden would've been nice. Durant, although young and frail, would've also been a great addition. Our future was going to come in the form of kid named Jeff Green. We'd forfeit the draft rights to Green as well as two players to Seattle for Ray Allen. And, in what would otherwise be considered an assanine move, we'd trade off of our young core of Al Jefferson and Ryan Gomes along with, uh, an entire second team to Kevin McHale's Timberwolves for disgruntled all-star Kevin Garnett.
Meanwhile in the league, Durant's not fooling anyone and Oden's will sit out his first year to surgery on this balky knee. Thanks, Jeff Green.
Sure, the stacking of the Celtics recalls the Yankees of the last four years, but make no mistake, unlike the Yankees, a championship is not necessarily a sure thing. You got some stout teams in the West--the Suns, the Spurs, the Mavericks, the Jazz, the Nuggets, the Rockets. Nope, it ain't guaranteed, but I gotta like my chances. Go Celtics.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
I have no explanation for this stuff. I mean, it's like whipped cream, but it stings like a muddah. And if you catch it in the face like this cat above, you will hate your life. It looks like dessert, but hurts like hell. And, because Dog is a man of the law, he uses the most humane form of apprehension--by shooting dessert at them. I only wish that Dog, in his time on A&E, started integrating the taser into his apprehensions. I mean, that's at least two good tasings an episode and the thrill of seeing Dog on the giving end of a taser--oh, the joy. Don't get me wrong, though, I liked the foam. Gonna miss it, actually.
BETH'S TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE CLEAVAGE
There's many things in this world that I have no explanation for. Why the sky is blue? What makes Biz Markie so damn dope? And how in the hell does Beth Chapman stand upright carrying those things on her frontside? I mean, these things are not only unnatural, they're almost cruel. Sometimes, I'd feel empathy for Beth because, man, I get upset at a couple of inches of fat on my hips. I can't comprehend having to spend an entire life giving side-hugs and sleeping on my back. It'd be empathy until, of course, I saw her in action. Girl gets props like mad for what she could do with those things attached. My lovely wife and I would get into brief discussions of whether or not they were real. She debated that they were fake and I would reply, "But why would any human do that to themselves?" I guess we'll never know. Word 'em up, Beth. Steady rockin'.
DOG'S GOLDY LOCKS
Completely unashamed (and maybe totally unknowingly), Dog rocked that mullet like no one else. I mean, his mullet was like a Bachman Turner Overdrive reunion tour. When you saw it at first, you were like, "Aw!" But then when you saw it in action, you were like, "Aw, hell yeah!" As a bond jumper, though, if you saw that mop coming around the corner, you knew it was on. I'd run like a muddah, too, if I saw that thing coming. And how he worked the top into a reversed shark fin--whoa. Dude's game was tight. I must say though that the mullet had some sad days. Especially when it was under the duress of constant hairspray drenching. Then, he'd jam feathers and roach clips into it like a Christmas tree. Dude should've just kept it real. I'll forever remember it from it's golden years.
Leland was like that kid on the come-up just waiting for his chance to shine. He was like 2Pac in the Digital Underground days saying, "Just give me the mic, Shock." Then, dude just blew up. My lovely wife was a big fan of Leland because she thought he was cute. I was a fan because I thought he was cute and he kicked major ass. I ain't ashamed. He was like that cat in high school that came back after one summer spent in the gym studying hand-to-hand combat, gets in a fight one day in the parking lot and works a kid until his face looks like someone punched a cherry pie for twenty minutes. Then he walked with the respect of every twerp in school. He carried the foam only because his pops required him to. Otherwise, he would've just apprehended every cat by flying at 'em with a kick to the face. Leland, you're the future. Do yo damn thing.
THE TALK, THE CIGARETTE, THE CRY
So they get their guy (or gal), he's talking trash all the way into the truck and then Dog sits down to talk to him. All the sudden, Dog goes into crazy Dr. Phil-Barbara Walters-Roy Firestone mode and unleashes an assault of pathos on the subject and then offers them a cigarette (which is usually taken). Seconds later, we have tears. He works his way into your psyche using words like, "Brotherman, you need to get off that ice. It's bad stuff. You need to worry about your family." Offers smoke, tears begin to surface and then, before you know it, dude's crying like a two year old. Sometimes even, Dog begins to cry. These are the moments you savor. To see such a strong man in tears (and not when he has to cry like on national television admitting that using the N-word was wrong), wiping them away with his strong index finger that, with the help of his opposable thumb, could crush your skull like an eggshell. And when Beth cries, later days, I'm sobbing. Maybe not outwardly, but inside, I'm crying.
THE BLACK YUKON
Friday, November 02, 2007
My tire was ruined. I dropped off my car and said, "Yeah, the flat's in the trunk. Do you think it'll be ready by noon?" Dude said, "We'll call you." I tried to make it sound like it's just a flat and nothing more than that, but if you saw the pics below, you know it was more than that. I just didn't want to replace every tire. He called me fifteen minutes later saying, "Dude, that tire's roasted." I asked if he could find evidence of a puncture or gash and he said, "I didn't even look that close because the tire is useless." I went ahead and replaced all tires and got a deal.
I'm giving up beer and soda until my birthday in March. Yeah, it'll be a feat for sure. I just found that somewhere between Denver and Midland that I wanted to take on a new test. At first, it was just soda. Then, I started thinking, what if I attempted to give up beer as well? Now, soda I've done before, but I've never done beer. I'm a big beer fan. I like my pale ales. I guess I figure that if I don't challenge and push myself, who will? I want to lose a little weight. I want see what cutting both out of my life does to my energy levels. It's more a science experiment than anything. I can drink lemonade, teas, coffee (oh yeah), juices and, of course, water. So far, I've been most reliant on coffee and water. Nothing else. Five days in and I feel fantastic.
Enjoy your Friday. Don't be a racist. Even if it's private conversations with your son who is dating a black girl. Go listen to Bob Dylan.