Friday, March 26, 2010


Man, you're getting a mad bonus tonight. Normally, I don't write much on Fridays. Of late, I haven't been writing much at all. But tonight, we're gonna blow the dust off of this thing. We need to get back to business. Don't call it a comeback....

We need to revisit the greatest 33 hip hop recordings of all time.

It would make sense that we'd do a two-fer tonight given the fact that numbers 26 and 25 are both Wu-fam and were both released in one of the last great years of the Wu...1995.

We'll start with "Incarcerated Scarfaces" by Raekwon.

Make no mistake, as an album, Raekwon's Only Built 4 Cuban Linx is as legit and definitive albums to ever come from the Wu stables. Top-to-bottom, Cuban Linx is an insane and dashing account of Shaolin's street life. "Knuckleheadz" and "Criminology" build a dog-eat-dog landscape and, musically, it ventered where few Wu recordings had to this date in 1995. It was gloss. It was hustle. It put money to the operation and turned that fat into muscle. If Meth was the drug element, GZA and RZA provided the martial arts and Eastern philosophy element, Raekwon, then, was the criminal element. His songs were paintings of sometimes a brutal and harsh existence where status is hard to earn, everything can be bought and nothing is free.

I received a copy of it on CD as a last second birthday present. Upon first listen, it sliced and diced like previous Wu releases, but offered a fantastically varied lyrical construction. Less were the cryptic prose. They were replaced with unfiltered reality. Black and white. Blood red and green cash money. It was more Kool G Rap than any other Wu production and "Incarcerated Scarfaces" was the standout.

With a Detroit Emerald hi-hat as the backbone, RZA's sparse yet effective beat provides the perfect effect for Rae's pitbull delivery. Rae's blazing verses on "Scarfaces" are probably his most scathing and ferocious verses ever put down. His high point didn't last long, but it lasted long enough to give us this street rap masterpiece. Raekwon would rarely match the prose exhibited on "Scarfaces." It was a defining moment in his life as a solo artist that would never be fully reached again.

Not to be outdone, though, is "Liquid Swords" by the GZA.

"Liquid Swords" fully exposed Wu's fu-fascination. Moving from the grime and gloss of "Scarfaces" to a more menacing, dark and theatrical plane, RZA takes as swipe at two bars of Willie Mitchell's "Groovin'", loops it and "Liquid Swords" was born. And while RZA's production seemed infinitely effortless during this period (1993-1995), so too was the ease in which GZA would construct his lyrical assault. "Liquid Swords", lyrically, is much like an emcee delivering a serious of roundhouses and leg sweeps. GZA's prowess as an emcee is first and finally realized as he's given full verses to expand on his styles greater than on his first solo outing (released on Cold Chillin' before the days of the Wu) and Enter the 36 Chambers. His delivery is poised, unphased, focused.

My minimum table stacks verse on a gamble. Energy felt once the cards are dealt with the impact of roundhouse kicks from black belts that attack the mic-phones like cyclones or typhoon. I represent from midnight to high noon.

With GZA's ferocious mic handling and RZA's sinister production, "Liquid Swords" is the essential representation of Wu's finest output.

Now, for the lowdown, we're gonna start blowing through this list because it's possible that in the coming weeks, The Root Down will be going through some transformation or even elimination and regeneration. This blog as you know it might be disappearing and reappearing as something else. Clock's ticking. I got 24 more songs before we unveil the GREATEST SONG IN HIP HOP HISTORY.

Ya'll be good to your neighbor.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010


It's no longer about the independent artist. It's about Motorhead, Muse and the Black Keys and the independent artists fending for themselves.

Austin's much bigger than people give it credit for being when you're on foot.

Apparently, it's okay for a shuttle driver to halt his shift with patrons in his shuttle to get Burger King and not use the drive-thru but rather leave his van in the parking lot running.

Hype can sell anything to itself. Even truly atrocious music.

I can stay up til 3AM listening to music, but only once a decade.

Barbecue. Oh, how I love thee.

Those Darlins are incredible, but be prepared for Gallegher-like projectiles if you're sitting on the front row. Sometimes that projectile is love.

The festival itself is like walking through the internet without a pop-up blocker.

I'd say that, in Texas, no steak is worth $40, however, I found one worth $38. And asparagus is dang tasty.

People still dance like idiots. Some of them are actors named Bill Murray.

People still don't bathe. Seriously, if you can afford a wristband to this festival, how can you not afford running water and a bar of soap?

I can sunburn in Texas. It hadn't happened in probably 15 years, but it did this last weekend.

Absolutely no one cares about UT basketball.

J-Bird, nice guy.

People Under the Stairs are as good live as everyone says they are. Thes One is a beast. A tad corny, but all hip hop is a tad corny these days.

I am no longer the only one that likes Stones Throw. Five years ago, that crowd would've been half the size. Good to see what they do live, though.

Moshing has certainly improved from when I was a kid. They do cartwheels now.

Waterloo is way too proud of their vinyl.

Dr. Dog is dope. Thanks, Dale and Sarah.

Kia's are maybe a better car than I gave them credit for being. Still, though, they're a Kia.

Cab rides to Dale's house cost $42.50 from I-35 and 183. Thanks for spotting me, Webbs.

I don't know their new stuff from their old stuff. You're talking to the wrong guy.

People drink entirely too much Red Bull.

Austin is a difficult city to run in. But fun.

Five days is way too long to be away from my pregnant and lovely wife.

When the industry should be at its sharpest, it dulls out and drinks until it passes out. Only the diligent, the persistant and the hungry will survive, the rest will wake up two decades from now musing on about how they "remember selling cassettes and LPs."

And, just so you know, when you wanna play me new music, don't say that you're looking for "digital to take the lead on this record" when, collectively, you're only talking to about .05% of the digital market.

And, also just so you know, digital music will not save your job. It will chop off all of the industry's access weight and fat with the accuracy of a hatchet.

Maybe I should've drank entirely too much Red Bull.

I guess people from Texas just don't know who Rap-a-Lot was. Suppose I haven't done my job.

The Root Down needs a showcase.

Mole (as in mol-e'), when done right, is straight gangsta.

When you see TV comedians on the street, they actually appear quite haunting. They look mean as all hell. Todd Barry and Doug Benson being two prime examples.

Austinites don't know how to deal with real weather.

30 minutes is the perfect length for a set. If you don't have a 30-minute version of your set, than you're not a real performer.

General Electrics are dope. Too bad only about 20 people left Austin realizing this.

The bums in Austin are actually quite nice. Largely. Few exceptions.
Never seen so many $3000 guitars under one roof. When they're all $3000, what makes them so special?

I don't wanna join Greenpeace, dude. I made a horrible mistake stopping for a second to listen to you. I should've faked a conversation on my cell. That usually works. But I don't wanna join Greenpeace. It's not that I don't believe in the ocean, but I live so far in-land, I'm not sure that I'm your target. I don't even live remotely close (I'm talking about 45 minutes) to a single body of water of any significance. Go hound someone else.

Hip hop sucks in 2010.

SXSW makes the keyboard look really fun to play!

Parking is hell in Austin and, for some reason, I feel that's truly the way they want it.

Trade shows suck. What an archaic concept.

I'm paranoid of crowds, but what sweet sound they make in unison. The low murmur of a crowd is like a symphony to my ears.

Shelby Lynne is one sexy woman. I mean that with great respect to my lovely wife. I think she would've agreed. She talks like a sailor though and gargles Lone Star.

The Lions rock my face off. Even though they weren't at their very best. They killed it.

Hate Blackberries. By the time I need one, I hope they're no more.

Not sure there's anything greater to a thirsty patron than $3 Heineken tallboys.

Dude, $10 a CD is not a "super super sweet deal," but $2.50 is maybe a little too sweet.

People still celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Who woulda known? Perhaps everyone forgot though that it's a holy day.

Sometimes it's just better to hold your pee until you get back to the hotel.

I don't know another Motorhead song besides "Ace of Spades."

Maybe that Greenpeace fella should target SXSW for all of the trees they killed for their Directory of Events. That thing is a phone book that's 35-40% advertisements for all their corporate sponsors.

People will stand in line for six hours to see the Black Keys. Namely Sarah and Dale. But, then again, they got to sit right next to them on stage. Because that's how they do it.

Next year, shave a day off.

Sunday, March 07, 2010


About to turn over my Larry Bird-thday (big ol' #33). Kinda a weird feeling. Not sure yet what it feels like. I'll get back to you on Monday. Told my grandmother about my upcoming birthday and she asked how old I was going to be and then said, "My gosh. That'd make your brother 35." Like how until my grandmother said that, I always saw being the youngest as a bad thing. All the sudden, I realized at least I'm not my brother's age. Sorry, bro.

I'm quickly coming to the realization that my life is going to drastically change this year. I'm gonna be a different man this time next year. When you have a young'n on the way, that anxiety is a kinda mix between game day being down three games to none in a seven game series and Christmas morning. Last night, I had dinner with my lovely wife and we just relaxed and talked. You forget sometimes that it's two of you going through it because the experience is so dynamically different for the carrier (her) and non-carrier (me). It's weird. My lovely wife's a champ. B'lee dat. She's doing good.

Settling in on two names. Ellison for a girl. Kyler for a boy. As beautiful as Ellison is for a girl, it's not in the name book that has 60,000 names. Guess that kinda means that we picked a truly original name. It seems like those books have everything. You could name your kid "Superturd" and it's in there. It means "brave" and "brown." My lovely wife was concerned about the kid growing up (if it's a girl named Ellison) and always asking what they're name meant and being that it's not in the book, we'd have to break it to her that her name doesn't have a meaning. I say that's garbage because I swear that if there's no meaning for a name, they just say it means "great leader" or "one of great beauty." Yeah, okay. We'll just tell her "Ellison" means "ballbuster" because we think it sounds like a politician's name. The first female president.

My lovely wife prefers I don't use the word "female" because it sounds like I've spent time in prison.

I've found myself concerned about what kinda music you raise your child on. Guess I'll answer that when I get there. Right behind how you change a diaper without dry heaving and how you navigate a screaming episode in public places. Ah, this is gonna be killer. Might need to create a "baby-proof" playlist which includes clean hip hop, African funk, James Brown and Charles Mingus.

I'm cancelling my gym membership. I hate that place. I was thinking the only reason I would keep the membership is to use the racquetball courts, but they're always overrun with sweaty old men running into walls. The weight area is like a prison yard. The treadmills feel like they're one loose screw from falling apart underneath you. And the whole place smells like sock. Even with the westerly wind that smells like a cow's butthole, I'd still take the outdoors over that place anyday.

Getting ready for South By Southwest (SXSW for the inclined or just "South By" to the really cool kids). I only remember going to SXSW about six years ago. I was a new music buyer. Thought I knew everything in the world. It was back when you went down there as a vacation from your day job. Now, we're going down there and landing meetings. Talk shop. Drum up some business somehow. Kinda wondering why retailers haven't been doing this for years. The industry convention is a joke, an embarrassment. No one wants to go. Those that do just bitch and complain and never arrive at solutions, leading to their own quick extinction. Hoping to see the Duke and Sarahsmile while I'm down there. Some serious showcases also. Duck Down's 15th Anniversary show, Rhymesayers, Stones Throw (head explodes). Mad decent.

I'm giving up on new music. There's no good music. But I got a set of these Fela reissues from Tara. They're serious. Serious. I'm glad I got rid of about 60% of my music. I haven't missed a single album yet. Weird how that is. Here, for nearly 10 years, I'm practically hoarding music and then with my back against the wall, a baby on the way and a collection that would make most people's head explode, my tolerance peaked. There was no sense in it anymore. Do I wish I got more than I did for it? Sure. After you took out the promos, I could only sell a few hundred. Wish I got about $10,000 for this stuff, but reality is that I needed it to be about $350. I needed it to be so little so I could realize that the crap I hold on to often only has value to me and not necessarily to anyone else. It's just the way it is.

Sure was nice being the hook up for a small group of music lovers.

Went for a run yesterday with Gary and Mason. First time out with Gary. He picked me up and then picked up Mason. Felt like I was probably the most experienced distance runner out of us as we made the drive out to Gary's in-laws property. It's an area just north of town called Bishop Hills. Now, Bishop Hills is a little secluded community of large ranch houses, big yards, winding streets with some moderately sized hills. Certainly nothing that I was too concerned about. I've done hills.

We get out there to his in-laws place and it's a bonofied ranch. There ain't no streets. Dirt roads, homie. Not to show any unnecessary worry, I just kinda went along with it. I wanted to do dirt roads anyway as I transition into the last two months of my Warrior Dash training. I figured it was one of those situations that certainly wasn't life or death and any potential consequence couldn't possibly be so dire that I should speak up in protest. Just roll with it. When Gary hoped out of the car, he's decked out in running gear, tosses me a GPS watch so we can track our distance and pace. Sweet. Dude came prepared.

I'm a gear guy. I respond to gear. If people got gear, it says something to me about their level of aptitude. When we're out at the softball fields, I respond differently to the guy who walks up with the batbag that you wear like a backpack and the bats stick out the top like two swords that can draw at any moment to slay a dragon than the guy who shows up in cut-off jean shorts dragging an aluminum bat with athletic tape wrapped around the handle and a nylon hat that reads "I Love Iowa!" When I saw Gary, he was that cat with the dual-bat backpack, the nice cleats, wristbands that came all the way up his forearm and the face of a killer. He was ready to do this.

Just roll with it. I keep telling myself.

He starts us walking down this hill wandering past small yucca plants, some mesquite trees. It's that harsh canyon land of the north panhandle. Not really farmable. It's a harsh land. Littered with rocks, gravel, horse turds. Gary says, "We'll just take this path up the way here," and begins pointing over the ridge and I'm sitting here looking for the "path" he's referring to. I don't even see the path. This is gonna be fun.

Before I could raise my hand like the dumb kid in class, we were off. Gary damn near disappears. This cat's hauling ass. I fire up to keep up with him. I immediately go into laborious breathing. This is hard. Gary breaks off at one point to go lock the gate we came through and he still catches up with us down the trail. This dude is a machine.

At one point, I check the watch and it reveals that we're pulling about 7:15-7:30 miles. Now, I'm topping out at 8:05. I'm actually keeping up with him on these trails...probably just because he's letting me. He's bouncing up and down these rocky paths with the agility of a col' panther. I'm working with the agility of a large gorilla with a gimp foot. My lungs are on fire. I feel like my assessment of this not being a life-or-death situation was probably wrong. I could die out here.

I don't even know where Mason is. I'm wondering if he's alive. His breathing was over my shoulder at one point and I could sense it getting further and further away. We come around the rim of this canyon and Gary pulls up to wait for us. It was the one mile mark. Gary plots out the rest of our route from the top of the canyon. I'm thinking this guy's insane.

Before you know it, the three of us are dashing down into the canyon. On a decline, Gary fires up to about 5:00 mile pace. That's blinding speed. And he's doing this as he's jumping off of rocks, dodging thorny plants, horse crap, avoiding animal holes. The faster I run, the less visible the path is because my point of view is rattling so bad. It's like I can't hold my head still long enough to see what's in front of me. I'm almost running blind just to keep up.

We do another mile or so and Gary pulls up to wait for all of us to catch up. We start talking the run to this point and I tell him that it's so very different than what I was used to from training for the maraton and he asks me what marathon I ran. I tell him White Rock in Dallas and turns out that he ran it too this last December.

Also come to find out that he did it an hour and a half faster than me. That's fast.

Also come to find out that he's done White Rock about three times.

And he's done another marathon and many half marathons.

And he's actually done a few triathalons. Which he actually prefers to just running marathons.

That would probably explain why he looks like he's chisled from stone and has the land speed of a cheetah on methamphetamines. Yeah, most experienced distance runner out of us? Yeah right. That'd be Gary.

Our last leg, ended with Gary sprinting up the rim of the canyon as Mason and I watched along from within the canyon. Gary gets to the top and I'm recalling Rocky dashing up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. He gets to the top, puts his hands on his hips and overlooks the land like the master of his domain. Mason and I, now like his two apprentices languidly follow up in his shadow.

Saw a porcupine though. That was cool.

Yeah, I've got some training to do. Feeling the pain this morning. Gary's a freaking machine. I ain't scared. I'm doing that trail. I got my work cut out for me. I'm definitely out of my league, though.

Trails like that trim years off your age. Guess that's what I'm shooting for

Tuesday, March 02, 2010


Had the distinct pleasure of following up my nice long ski trip with a Monday in jury duty. Now, let's get something really straight here. I like jury duty. And, no, I don't just like it because I get out of work. I like it because it's deeply interesting to me. At face value, it appears to be a complete waste of time, but here's your chance to experience the way the process works...for better or for worse. You could have a cat that killed his wife with his bare hands sitting there in the courtroom staring each one of the panelist down as the attorney drills. I don't know about you, but that opportunity alone never presents itself to me. Not that I like hanging out with guys that killed their wife with their bare hands, but it's pretty cool a couple of times. The process of jury selection is pretty awesome too. The two lawyers go through a process known as voir dire which if you say it in West Texas, it kinda sounds like you're trying to order the duck. It essentially means that the two lawyers go through a process of elimination rather than selection. Whoever's left, is the jury. Of course, you don't want the morons in West Texas to know about the elimination vs. selection process because they'll just eliminate themselves. You know, the "I hate black people" guys or the "I was beat by my husband for twenty years" lady. Whether it's true or not, we'll never know. Guess they want to make sure they make it back to the house for the Showcase Showdown.

But why pass up the opportunity to see the system in action? To me, going all the way down there and then doing everything you can to get out of it is like going to the zoo, but passing on the lion cage. Or like going to a strip club, but just checking out the gift shop. Not that I know what that's all about. The county doesn't have enough cops to go out on roundups of all the cats that didn't show up for jury duty. You really don't have to go if you don't want to.

Nevertheless, here I sit in the jury room and I start thinking that there's really four types of potential jurors in Potter County. I tried to name a fifth and I'm pretty confident it's only four.

Pretty self-explanatory. They'll do anything they can to get out of it. They'll even admit to being a bigot, a racist, a short-minded moron, an alcoholic, a wifebeater, a caregiver (not that there's any correllation there), an uneducated, uncultured and uninspired nincompoop. It usually happens when you get into the courtroom. The hands start popping up. Yesterday, a physician said that given the nature of the case (aggravated assault--which the lawyer kept referring to as "agg assault"--I thought that was pretty ill, but it's not like "aggravated" is really that long of a word), he doesn't think that he could be a fair juror in the case because serious injuries to ones body makes him really upset. What? The judge asked that he be removed. I imagined them taking him out back and threatening to wail on him with a metal pipe. There was just something about the way the judge said, "You're excused from the courtroom, sir." It was kinda mafioso and suggested it wasn't the end of that cats jury duty. But serious? I'm a physician and injuries to the body upset me? Dude, how do you make it through a day?

It's important to know that once you make into the courtroom, only if you're in the first two rows do you really stand a chance at getting selected for a jury. It's called the "strike zone." Most of the questions are directed at those couple of rows. If you're on the back row like I was today, it's a 99.9% chance that you'll eventually get dismissed. At this point, I've forfeited the thought that I was going to serve so I was just counting down the minutes trying to have fun with the experience while I was there.

The lady right next to me raised her hand and began sobbing (whether genuinely or not, the jury's still out) and said that she was once beaten and doesn't think that she could be fair and impartial in the case. "Ma'am, I appreciate your candor," said the lawyer. Seems I never hear the word "candor" except in a courtroom during the jury selection process. What the lawyer should've said, "Ma'am, I appreciate your candor and reliving that horrible experience that obviously traumatized you for years. I must add, though, that despite your public admittance to this terrible event that happened to you, I wasn't likely to ever pick you for a jury anyway so it really wasn't necessary. As I said before, I'm probably going to pick all of my jurors from the front two rows and given your location on the back row, you'll likely be dismissed anyway so I would just keep my mouth shut and avoid yourself the public embarrassment and emotional toil." She was dismissed though. Probably more on the performance than anything else.

Another man was dismissed because he was once shot in the arm by his best friend in a disagreement. His story was he apparently was so traumatized by that event that he couldn't set it aside and be objective should he be selected for jury. What in the hell? Not only is that like a public admittance that you failed to graduate from high school and you live in a trailer park, but it's also letting everyone in the room know that your brain is sorely underdeveloped and not only can you not work with simple concepts like logic and circumstance, but you have no notion of forgiveness and salvation. You're a moron. Go home and watch the Speed Channel.

If you really don't want to be there, I'll say it again: DON'T SHOW UP. They won't arrest you. They don't have enough cops here to care about you dodging jury duty. Plus, it's not like it's the first time you've dodged the cops so don't act like you just have to do the right thing. Stop taking up places for those that really want to be on a jury. It's a free drinking day for you. You can have that coveted 10:00AM beer that you never get to enjoy anymore and then tell your friends some lie the next day about how you served on a jury and convicted a hardcore murderer to death. And, yep, it only took one afternoon.

Admittedly, it's probably the smallest percentage, but it wouldn't be the first time I fall in the smallest group. You don't really want it to go for more than a day beause the pay really sucks, but you still hope that you can at least experience the raw emotions of a man sitting in front of you either convicted or cleared of "agg" assault. I mean, this is punishable by up to 20 years in prison. I don't know many people who have 20 years on this earth to spare. I gotta think that good or bad, that was something worth witnessing. Plus, I just wanna know what happened. I'm always that cat that's watching COPS and am bummed out when the cops get there two minutes too late. I wanna know what went down. In fact, I wanna see it. In slo-mo.

This one's a weird one. They so badly want to get picked but all the while act like they're too cool for school. It typically comes off as this "I'm too busy to spend a day here" kinda act yet they showed up which either means they fear a witch hunt if they don't or they so badly wish they get picked. It's like, to them, there's something wrong with wanting to serve. Like it's not the cool thing to do and they've spent their whole life trying to be that cool. It starts in the jury room. When asked to raise their right hand, they look around to see if anyone's looking, reluctantly with a smirk they raise their right hand, take the oath and then slump down in their chair looking over their shoulder acting like they can't wait to bolt. Then, when they pulled into a panel and are seated in the front two rows getting drilled by the attorney, they can't sit still as they wiggle around in excitement.

To spot them, you have to show incredible patience and have to be a seasoned people watcher. They're very sly. They don't always appear as obvious as the first two.

It's particularly funny watching older folk do it. When they're in the courtroom, they act so bored and underwhelmed yet when they hit recess in the hallway, they can't shut up as they shuffle around from congregated potential jurors to congregated potential jurors approximating his chance at being selected saying things like, "Man, I hope they don't take me" when in reality, that's precisely what he wants. He wants that validation. That selection. It makes him feel important. Included. To this man, I say, "It's alright to want to be on a jury. It's hella-dope. Don't feel bad. Don't feel stupid. It's what our country is all about."

This is the remaining 85% of the people there. They don't know whether the summon was an arrest warrant, a parking ticket or an eviction notice. If they're lucky enough to actually figure it out, they show up and the party starts there. They just kinda follow everyone else. If everyone sits there waiting, they sit there waiting. If someone gets up to get some coffee, they help themselves. They sometimes might even pick up a magazine knowing they can't make sense of the words on the page. The hilarity really begins when they get invited into the jury room for selection/elimination.

Give them a chance to open their mouths and dudes just can't possibly help themselves.

There's a fool-proof way of identifying these morons. It's when we're ordering the duck...voir dire. I'll give you an example from Monday.

ATTORNEY: Today's case is about aggravated assault. Mr. XXX XXXXXX has been charged with aggravated assault with intent of serious bodily injury to Ms. XXXX XXXXXX. Yes, sir?

MORON #1: I don't think a man should ever hit a woman. Period. No exception.

ATTORNEY: Sir, I certainly appreciate your opinion. Do you think that your strong opinion might hinder your ability to objectively reach a ruling in these matters should you serve on the jury?

MORON #1: Well, no, I'm jussayin. I don't think it's right, but I can put it behind me.

Say it with me now:

Another one:
ATTORNEY: Would any of you have a problem with relying on only one witness in this case if that one witness is a Amarillo police officer?
MORON #2: Hey, sir, one of my best friends growing up is a cop.
ATTORNEY: Okay, is that going to affect your decision in these matters should you--
MORON #2: Whaddya mean? I don't gather.
ATTORNEY: Well, sir, if you were selected to serve in the jury trying this case, could you put your relationship with an Amarillo police officer aside?
MORON #2: Wha?
ATTORNEY: Does your friendship with the Amarillo police officer affect your feelings on this case or would you be able to put that aside and approach this case objectively.
MORON #2: Oh yeah, man. Sure I can put it aside. It wouldn't affect anything.
Again, say it with me:
I'm just trying to get out of here as soon as possible. It seemed like everytime a hand popped up like a prairie dog, the world came to a screeching halt. I don't care if you think it's wrong for a man to hit a woman, if you like cops, if you hate cops, if you smoke weed, if you once got a ticket for speeding even though you were going five miles-per-hour under the speed limit, if you got shot in the arm, if you once lived in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Shut up! Stop talking. Stop raising your hand. Everytime you speak, I lose brain cells. By the time I left there, I could barely find my way home. If he dude farted, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from claiming it. If you ever wonder what slows down the judicial process, it's the process and the fact that the process includes more idiots than the customer service line at Wal-Mart. It's remarkably...uh...remarkable. Imagine you're falsely accused of some horrendous crime. Like they just got it wrong and you're sitting across from twelve of this dimwitted dog turds and they're either going to acquit you of all charges or lock you away for forty years. Do you feel comfortable that the system is working? Do you trust these people to set you free? What does it mean if your tried by your peers? Do you really trust your peers? Would you rather anyone but your peers try you? Who are your peers? I don't know if I'd feel completely normal with twelve of anyone in this town deciding my fate.
It's a bizarre system we tolerate. Fun to take in once every year. They can keep calling me. I'll keep going. It's my civil service. I can't help myself in that way.
Speaking of the system, this Guilty Simpson record is so damn ill. It's the Madlib mix of his new material in the first of twelve installments of the Madlib Medicine Show. Buy it, homie. It won't disappoint. Dare I say I like it better than the proper Guilty Simpson album. Slammin' stuff.