COMING TO TERMS WITH MY COFFEE ADDICTION...

It started back in college, I suppose, at Daybreak Coffee in Lubbock, TX. I'd go up there with Danny, Sarah, occassionally Dale. I was never a coffee man until then. But there I was, drinking it with a pull of cream and a lesser helping of sugar. It'd be freaking 10:00 at night and I'd be on my fifth cup of some Brazilian bean. And I wonder why I couldn't crawl out of bed in the morning. I was like Jessie Spano singing, "I'm So Excited."

My lovely wife and I started talking about my caffeine intake the other day as well as my sleeping habits. I usually go to bed at 10:30, start stirring at about 2:30 or so, crawl out of bed at about 5:00-5:45 and then drink about 12 cups (standard cups, or about 4-5 mugs of coffee) and then proceed with my day. I do all of my consumption before the hour of 8:00 and rarely do I drink anything at work. What do I do during those early hours? This.

We figured that my sleeping habits were not really sound and I was settling for really bad sleep. I mean, when you see me, I'm running on about four hours of good sleep and an additional three hours of tossing and turning. We started a quick rundown of my caffeine intake and determined that, if the recommended daily allowance of caffeine is 200-300mg of caffeine, I was getting close to (brace for it) 1100mg--close to four or five times the recommended amount. And, remember, I get that before you even make it to work in the morning.

At that level, I'm prone to muscle tremors, nausea, irritability (let's go ahead and throw bruxism [teeth grinding] in there too), high heart rate, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, low bone density, increased risk of fractures, anxiety, wild mood changes, decreased attentiveness, reduced fertility. One lady I found online says she suffers from hallucinations--the most common being a black cat disappearing around a corner. I'm chased home by a witch on a broom who looks like Barbara Streisand. Freaky.

With my lovely wife's support, I've made an effort and have already succeeded to cut my intake in more than half to a more acceptable 400mg a day. I've noticed a deeper sleep at night. Of course, my energy during the day is less, but that's probably better. I've managed to curb the troubling frothing at the mouth and my focus seems much stronger. Add to the mix an hour of good cardio (jogging is my preference) and I can feel my body reaching a new norm. Does it mean less early morning posts? Yep, you bet. I'm just going to have to find a better time for that.

Caffeinism is no joke, kids. Ask Jessie Spano.

Today is People Under the Stairs day. Get it on.

CYPRESS HILL'S FIRST TWO ALBUMS APPRECIATION POST AND RESULTING MIX...

When it all goes down in the history books and they talk of hip hop in the same way they talk of jazz and Elvis shaking his hips today, it's possible that talented groups like Cypress Hill and the astounding contributions to the game through their first two records might easily be overlooked. The truth be known, though, that Cypress Hill was probably the most highly-discounted but incredibly sick crews of the early 90s. Peep those bucket hats, yo. They're like the Kinks of hip hop. "Lola" and "Apeman" were dope, but you never hear them anymore. You hardly hear anyone even mention the Kinks anymore. Same goes for Cypress. Led by Mellow Man Ace's brother Sen Dog of Cuban decent and east LA's very own B-Real of Mexican decent, Cypress was the first (and only, some may argue) Latino powerhouse in hip hop. Their music blended blunted imagery, calculated acts of violence, humor and the Latino heritage under the watchful and infinitely funky guidance of classic producer DJ Muggs who was in the best form of his career. Their first record was a proclamation that the new style had arrived. Led by tracks like "How I Could Just Kill a Man" and "Hand on the Pump" and lesser-played "Light Another" and "Hole in the Head," the self-titled effort was a spectrum of perfectly looped funk breaks laced with the shenanigans of B-Real and Sen Dog and a tidal wave of horns and wah-wahs. And what the self-titled record achieved in putting Cypress on the map, Black Sunday would take them off the map and into the stratosphere. Shamefully, it would be one of the most unlistenable track on the album that would vault its success, "Insane in the Brain," but nonetheless, it provided fuel for an album that would only follow the acclaim of their self-titled debut. It took the tasty recipe for the first album and doubled every ingredient making a poignant and powerful musical blast. When B-Real and Sen spat about weed, it was less a party and more a religion. When they were violent, it was less the jokery and more believable. Black Sunday was darker, louder and lower.
The albums that would follow (specifically III and IV) were strong efforts, but came no where close to the achievements of their first two records. There's no touching the first two albums. I've been jamming them endlessly for the last two weeks and decided that they would make the perfect platform for my next mix. I found about thirty breaks used to make the material on the first two records and have begun work on a mix that will seamlessly mix the roots and the results off of Cypress Hill's first two records. Yeah, Kool and the Gang is in there. So is Parliament, Chuck Cornish, Five Stairsteps, Willie Hutch, James Brown, Black Sabbath, the Music Machine, Pazant Brothers and, of course, Cypress Hill. I'll keep you posted.

Sox are tied for first place with the Tampa Bay Strays. Let's see if we can restore order in the East and pull this thing out.

WHO NEEDS SLEEP: MICE VS. MAN (WITH DOGS OFFICIATING)

Really, what good is a dog if it can fulfill the simplest of tasks required of him for occupation of a residence? I mean, I got a dog for companionship, sure. Absolutely. But sometimes, dogs gotta pull their weight around the house. F'real. I work my ass off to keep these guys healthy, fed, exercised. They act like they're due it.

I get a call from my lovely wife yesterday asking if we can order pizza for dinner. It's not common that we do, especially on a weeknight. I ask, "Why?" She says because she's hungry, tired and there's a mouse in the kitchen. Security breached.

I run to the store to pick up a six pack for the ball game and half-priced "mouse glue boards." Not sure if you all have ever seen these so let me school you on the concept. Basically, it's a disposable board about the size of a large note card. You peel off one side and expose a super-sticky surface where you place a small piece of food to "increase the effectiveness." Then you put it in an area where you have seen a mouse or droppings. Buying this thing was like buying triple-X porn (not that I really know). I felt like, "Yeah, I'm stupid white trash and I have a mouse in my trailer and there's only room for one of us!" I prepared a few quick comebacks in case the person ringing me up said something like, "Mice, huh?" The first was, "Yeah, it's for my storage shed," or "I'm pulling a prank on my roommate." No one asked. I bought the goods and was on my way.

When I get home, my lovely wife is in the study and has no plans of going near the kitchen. I go straight to the kitchen and begin opening the glue boards--keeping a watchful eye on the corners for my furry friend. I put one on the floor and one on the counter top where he was spotted. We're taking the power back here. Roaches and rodents are unacceptable in our household. I pulled Tux and Jax aside and reminded them of this. It's inexcuseable that two hounds can spend all day inside and outside, but restricted to the kitchen and not notice that security had been breached. After scolding them, I block off the kitchen and let the glue boards do their magic.

I walk into the kitchen about an hour later and BOOM there he is! Dashing across the counter. I freak out, yelling, "There he is! There he is! I'm-a get you, you stupid bastard!" The dogs look on to see how you take charge of a situation. He disappears behind the fridge and I carefully and studiously reposition the glue boards.

Now, the idea of these stupid things are, essentially, the prick will walk onto the board, stick and struggle until eventually he dies. There's no estimate on how long that will take, but there's no poison or chemical which slows him down to his death so, as far as I know, it's a waiting game once he lands on it.

The evening crawls on as I watch the Sox. I check back periodically, but nothing. Despite their neglect, we decide to pull the dogs into the bedroom for the night because I had feared that the dumbass mouse would step on the glue board, struggle and fall off the counter into the mouths of two now eager beagles.

The Sox game went late--14 innings to be exact. Afterwards, I drift off quickly into slumber, but it would be short-lived. I wake up at 2:30 to my lovely wife's horrendous snoring. It was so loud that the dogs were stirring about the bedroom. Sorry, babe. I shove her a little to see if I can shift her to a position less-snoreful. Hey, y'boy's gotta sleep too. About 3:00, Jax begins whining. Usually, this is a cry for water. He can hold pee for 17 hours, but the second he gets thirsty, dude's like a three-alarm fire. I try to ignore him because, well, to be honest, I don't wanna go to the kitchen.

But as I'm reminded of constantly, it's the man's job. Hosed. I try to pass it off on the dogs, you know, delegate it, but my lovely wife's right. It's my job. Okay, so I'll take Jax to the kitchen to get water. Tux, because he has no brain other than Jackson's, follows closely. I turn on the kitchen light and there he is...

STUCK TO THE PAD.

And wiggling about. Obviously in distress. So what next? I check the package to see if they offer any counsel. It reads, "After use, dispose of properly." Yeah, well...okay. So when do I know I've reached the "after use" stage. I mean, if the things still alive, wiggling and twitching, is the pad still in use? I stand there at 3:00 in the morning on the opposite side of the kitchen watching this thing struggle and emitting an occasional squeek. What in the hell am I doing? I should be sleeping.

I have to admit that I took great pleasure in watching him on that pad. It's probably not the most humane way of putting a mouse out, but I don't care. I stood there thinking that if someone would actually touch the mouse for me, you know, pick it up. I'd let them pitch it to me so I could take a hack at it and see how far I could hit it. I was paralyzed. I really hate mice.

I stood there for about five minutes just waiting for it to die. Again, sleep would be nice. I decide I'll go back to sleep. I grab the dogs and we head back to the bedroom where my lovely wife continues to buzzsaw through concrete. I turn on the TV, leaving the closed captioning on and muting the sound. I found that her snores were not only distractive to sleep, but I couldn't even read the captions it was so loud. I sit there trying to read captions on the TV, but I can't because my lovely wife's snoring is too distractive and I'm thinking when the mouse in the kitchen will die. This is what I do in the middle of the night. At 4:00, I decide that, to hell with it, I'm up and I'm gonna go get me a mouse.

I devise a plan because I'm an old scout. It involved a broom stick, a rolled piece of cardboard and a garbage bag. It took me about fifteen minutes to get up the nerve to approach it and, once I did, it took about five seconds to execute. I walked him out to the dumpster and let him spend the rest of his miserable death out there.

My lovely wife and I really do run a tight ship. I'm not sure how this breach happened, but trust me in this, it will be resolved. This is no pig stye.

I just heard a soundbyte from a guy in Texas saying he was going to stay at his house while Ike makes landfall saying, "These posts here are buried in four feet of concrete," and then smiling, "I don't think they're going nowhere." Man, those sound like famous last words.

Hip hop heads, I got a killa package from Mr. Matt at EMI with three CDs--all which were noteworthy: the new People Under the Stairs (a band you can trust) called Fun DMC, the new Madlib mix through BBE and then the Mighty Underdogs record starring Gift of Gab, Lateef and Headnodic from the Crown City Rockers (dope, dope). The record features, among others, a reclused MF Doom and DJ Shadow. A notable recording after one listen.

Roundhouse plays one tonight. Already tired of this election. Palin's accent is mad annoying.

THE HIP HOP GRANNIES WISH YOU A GREAT WEDNESDAY

Today marks the end of a complete week-long whirlwind.

Thursday, I left work in a complete blur to play an unprecendented triple-header for Roundhouse. Yeah, that sucked. 6:30, 7:30 and 8:30. We took the first two in grand fashion, but really had nothing left in us for the third game and dropped the 8:30. Had that game been first, we probably would've given them more of a fight, but, whatever, no room for excuses. We did all we could. I racked a first baseman on a close play at first. My knee, his nuts. His knees, the ground. After completing the 8:30 game, I went back to work at about 10:00 and worked until 12:15 on a project. Ugh.

Woke up at about 5:30 to get ready for a flight to Albuquerque for our Ice Cube event. Angry Tim, Serge and I flew out to ALB at about 8:30 and spent most of the time driving around visiting competition. Met some ultra-nice guys at a few spots. All day, we hear the radio station mentioning the Ice Cube signing and I start thinking we might have our hands full. We ended up with a request of 10 police officers, four security guards and then Ice Cube's personal guards. We were expecting about 800 people tops. Turns out, 1,500 people showed, we had 15 police officers, still about 4 security guards, 10 armed guards and about when we drove around the block, they had 5 horses ready for crowd control. It was like Gangsta Clause showed. Cube had done in-stores in Seattle, Salt Lake City, Chicago and San Diego and we beat the turnout at all of those events combined. We're lucky it didn't turn into a full-scale riot though as he only signed for an hour out of the two he agreed to. I was so starstruck that I really didn't say anything to him except, "Here," when he asked, "Where are the Sharpies?" Whaddya gon' do? Got back in town about 10:30 or so and packed for my weekend in Dallas.

Left at about 6:00 the next morning for D-Town. Saturday night, we found ourselves in attendance for the Sox and the Triple-A Texas Rangers. Turns out, Tim Wakefield's knuckle was like a softball because he was fooling no one. We lost 15-8. In what was like a social experiment though, my lovely wife and I were sitting between one dad who was drunk from about the 5th inning on (we called him "Drunk Dad") and some girl who was drunk and, turns out, was the girlfriend of a father of two, both in attendance. The girl looked the same age as the daughter (we called her "Girl Mom"). Betweent the two, we had enough soundbytes to get us through the game. Drunk Dad kept slamming beers and then hugging on his son who was visibly repulsed by his father. He also taunted nearby Sox fans (which actually surrounded him and notably outnumbered him about 40-1). What an assclown. He began taunting us in the late innings with the mocking cheer of "Let's go, Red Sox!". Just start chanting back to him, "Let's go, playoffs!" and watch the stupid Rangers fan shut up. Girl Mom, who was busy teaching her soon-to-be step daughter how to smile using her teeth and take the head off of her beer, took a break to inform Red Sox fans that when you're in Texas, you root for the Rangers. Wow, could've fooled me being that about 85% of the fans in attendance were Sox fans. I heard only 1,500 people showed for a Mariners-Rangers game a week earlier. We matched that number with Ice Cube in Albuquerque. Hell, if it weren't for Sox fans, they wouldn't be able to play night games in Texas. In the ninth inning, down 15-4, we managed to string together a bit of a rally and the Rangers manager yanked the pitcher with 2 outs and a 7-run lead. That's a team with a serious loser-complex. Hey Ranger fans, there's a Nascar race on somewhere. Go away.

The next day, my lovely wife and I hit up Six Flags. It must be my age because I get "stomachy" immediately on these damn rides. We started with the Toni Hawk ride and that went over like a turd in the punch bowl. I staggered around dizzily, wondering who kneed me the belly. We then hit up all the big rides. My lovely wife, as usual, was a champ. She can't stomach milk products and marinara sauce, but she can't get tossed upside down multiple times at about 50 miles an hour and skip away. I don't get it. Oh, people still pick their butts at Six Flags. They do it all day long. There's gotta be some mechanism or device that subliminally instructs people to use their thumb to pull their wadding panties out of their butt every twenty feet. When I see it happen, I can't help but imagine the stink of that thumb. Okay. Sorry. That was not very professional. Stop picking your butts.

Sox are on a pretty good run, although they got beat last night by those pesky Rays, 4-5. Tonight we put Beckett on the mound to bring us to a .5 game back of the Rays. Tux is ready. He told me that his favorite player is Jed Lowrie. Yes, he speaks to me. His voice sounds like George Burns. And, yes, Jed Lowrie.

Sox win tonight's game 5-3. You heard it here.

I DO BELIEVE...

...today was a good day.................(fading out with Isley Brothers' "Footsteps in the Dark")

NEVERMIND, I WAS WRONG...HERE'S WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIP HOP

It wouldn't be so bad if, I don't know, she wasn't smiling. Or maybe if they rapped. Wait...what in the hell am I saying...there is nothing at all that would make this remotely acceptable. This is probably the very worst thing that could happen to hip hop. While the Olympics were on, I found myself absolutely hypnotized by the coverage. Even by the Today Show coverage. My grandfather was gravely ill one week of the Olympics and I was at home after 8AM which, I have found, is always a horrible mistake. Because at about 7:50AM or so, the Today Show shifts from pertinent (or at least interesting) news stories to horrible, purposefully-marketed drivel. It happens instantaneously. I was sitting there at 7:51 and the Hip Hop Grannies come on and I thought to myself, "This is why I go to work everyday is to avoid crap like this." Then, I was thinking, there are millions of zombies out there watching this and I felt great embarassment. I felt embarassment for hip hop, its artists, its legacy. There are probably grandparents out there that thought the Hip Hop Grannies were awesome. I'd rather hip hop be represented by naked women and semi-automatic weapons if the alternative is the Hip Hop Grannies. I want the head of whoever booked this act on the Today Show.

Pedroia bat cleanup last night against the White Sox. We go from Manny batting cleanup to Pedroia, a 5'8"-180-pound second baseman, taking up cleanup duties. I'd be concerned if he wasn't batting .320+ and going 4-4 two nights in a row. The dude makes contact and that's what makes him ideal for the cleanup spot. You don't have to hit it out every time up--especially in Fenway where you have a 37-foot left field wall. Here we see Pedroia after the Sox secured a spot in the postseason last year--a year they'd go on to Championship glory once again.

Nice shirt, Pedroia. Since trading the biggest player of the last two decades and Yankee-killer, Manny Ramirez to the Dodgers, the Sox are 18-8. The Dodgers are 12-16. It's still early, but in a move that basically was supposed to get us to the end of the year, it appears we're shaping up decently. We're not out in the clear yet. Oh yeah, and Rory, I got your message. I'd love to talk Yankees and Sox especially since the Sox took the last series in that old toilet bowl called Yankee Stadium. We'll see you when you're in town.

I'm watching A&E Biography on Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys. This is incredible stuff. In my age, I've grown to be a huge fan of the Smile project which is recognized as the one album that marked the Beach Boys descension from world-wide acclaim into oblivion and also shows a mad Brian Wilson only becoming madder. At first, he called it "a teenage symphony to God," but later called it "inappropriate music" and refused to discuss it. It took 36 years for Brian to record and release Smile properly after most of the material appeared on the the record Smiley Smile/Wild Honey.

It's both depressive and hopeful, ugly and beautiful, political and blissful. Behind it, however, was a man who was so depressed and manic that he would lay in bed for weeks in drug-induced states, overeating and, because of a mounting fear of water, refusing to even shower. He had lost his mind, but in that loss, his musical genius came forth.

I'd say that Smile hits me still in the way that Abbey Road blew me away after knowing the Beatles as "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" for years. First time I heard Abbey Road, I thought, "Now that's crazy." Put "I Want You" off of Abbey next to "She Loves You" and there's an incredible level of musicianship and creativeness being achieved on the later stuff. If it were anyone other than the Beatles, you might find it difficult that they were the same group. The Beach Boys are the same way with me. I don't care about "Surfin' Safari"--I'd rather jam "Heroes and Villains" off of Smile. The dimensions of the music and the definitively bizarre sound of the music is more haunting and moving than anything the Beach Boys did prior and I don't really mind saying so.

Find a copy of Smile and purchase it. I was a little skeptical of the re-record aspect to the project, but it's killer. Trust me. Here's to Brian Wilson, America, Labor Day and the Red Sox. To hell with the Hip Hop Grannies.

WHAT'S REALLY WRONG WITH HIP HOP

What can I say, I'm in a speech mood thanks to the DNC.

I know this is gonna come off as some seriously elitist prickery, but I'm tired of this ish. It's just garbage. Let me set the mood.

(puts on Black Sheep's A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing...on vinyl, bitches)

Heads are sleeping like crazy these days. It's been that way for about, uh, let's say about ten years. Kiddies don't even know anything about hip hop anymore. They're quick to shake their asses to it, but they don't know. Listen to this garbage on the radio. Geez, just listen to LL's new record. It ain't nothing but keyboards and beat machines. We've moved from the gooshy, organic, elemental art form of hip hop to the stripped down beat-hook-chant formula that, let me tell you, just ain't working. You can start by blaming the labels, A&Rs and the artists. I mean, let's face it, we're just moving from what hot hook to another and, if there ain't nothing going, there ain't nothing selling. Labels are sniffing like hound dogs for the next quick buck because, honestly, in a day when the economy's in the comode and there's no relief in sight, labels are looking to more with less. They really just want a hit single. Record? Like full length? Only if. But give them a single first...then we'll see. There are no artists anymore because the labels have preached this short-term, hand-to-mouth bull-ish for years now. And to some cat coming from the block with visions of luxury and riches, he ain't about to shoot for artistry, he just wants to give what the label wants. If the label said they wanted two minutes of a dude rhyming while vomiting through his nose, dudes would run to the store for a cases of ipecac. They're just stupid. But then again, they don't have any reverance because the industry they serve don't have any either. Sampling laws ended that. Greedy muddahs decided that they didn't like these hip hop cats making money off of their recordings so they protected them by strict sampling laws which reduced hip hop heads to, well, generating from nothing.

The nature of hip hop is to loot. I mean, let's be real, it was born on James Brown records that were sampled with no clearance and no penalty. Heads would just sample the crap out of "Funky President" and "Funky Drummer" because those were the best breaks. Do the knowledge, kid. It's all there. Take "Sing a Simple Song" from Sly and Family Stone. That drum break was the framework for hundreds of hip hop classics. That's CLASSICS. Undisputed. You think any of these cats care about those old hip hop songs? Hell naw. Moreover, you think any of them know who the hell Sly and Family Stone is? Shheeeeeeeesh. Aight.

Hip hop was born on the notion that "borrowing for the greater good" is where it's at. I'm not stealing...I'm turning water into wine. Listen again to "Take Me to Mardi Gras" by Bob James and then "Peter Piper" by Run DMC. Jam Master Jay did Bob James better than Bob James himself did Bob James. It's alright to admit it. No one even knew who Bob James was until Run DMC sampled "Nautilus." Bob was one of the few saavy enough to recognize what Run DMC was doing, but then the Turtles sued De La, Biz got busted and almost lost everything and then labels got scared.

(Tucker leaves to the backyard on the intro of "Similak Child")

Twenty years later, hip hop has been reduced to almost nothing. Don't get me wrong, I like some Clipse, some Lil Wayne, but because I'm an elitist, I'll say this, "It's only because I understand where it came from." Watching kids bob their heads mindlessly to hip hop these days makes me think what these punk asses were listening to before they heard the new Soulja Boy. Probably the old Soulja Boy. More likely, probably whatever the urban radio station played before the new Soulja Boy. That's a dangerous trend for hip hop.

In my age, as dorky as it might sound, I've become obsessed (absolutely obsessed) with sampling. With the origin of a sound, a beat, a bass line, a trumpet, a vocal shout. I think about records like Black Moon's Enta da Stage or Black Sheep's aforementioned Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. Beastie's Paul's Boutique. De La Soul Three Feet. Take Public Enemy's second and third record. They were sampling James Brown and Slayer on the same side. Sonically, nothing can touch that. These days, not only can nothing touch, ain't no one even hearing it. It might as well not even exist because it doesn't mean anything in 2008.

It's almost a ritual my hunt for the breaks and the original samples. The second I hear something dope from 1991, I'm looking for the samples. I'm looking for the original breaks. I wanna know where it came from, how it was altered, how it was changed to fit a need. I'm come across some incredible recordings that, at times, I end up enjoying much more than the records that sampled them. Do you think that Root Down shirt was an original? C'mon now.

I had it too good coming up. I'm thankful for it. I had records that would end entire careers of these nincompoops these days.

(flip over to Side C of Black Sheep)

I encourage these kids coming up to dig back into hip hop's history. Let's be real, here. Hip hop lives in the origin. You're only as good as what you sample. And listeners, remember this: you don't know jack if you don't know where it came from. Someone said that knowledge of the samples is like learning the language. Hip hop speaks through sampling. If you don't speak sampling or beakbeats, you don't speak the language. And if you don't speak the language, then what are you really doing, pupil? And no offense to the emcees out there, but muddahs like to nod their head. You take away the beat, you can't nod that head. Go to a poetry reading and count the nodding heads. I like beats. I like samples. I like the elements. An emcee is an accessory. I know that sounds a little harsh, but I'm a beat kid. Scarface is dope. Pos is hella nice. I like me some KRS One, but I ain't about to listen to an acapella. I'm into the days when the emcee was really the ribbon on a good beat. Shotcalling. Hyping the crowd up. Good when you can find a nice one, but I'm just as good without one if you're sampling the Tom Tom Club. I have very few favorite emcees, but I gotta long list of favorite producers. The Shocklees. El-P. Prince Paul. RZA. Marley Marl. Premier. Ant. Madlib. On and on and on. Emcees? Uh, Del. Pos. Jeru. I'm stretching at that point. Jeru ain't squat without Primo. Pos ain't half the emcee I think he is without Pawl. You put a dude out there that emcees and produces and they're potentially my favorite ever. That's why I like dudes like El-P, MF Doom, RZA, the Beatnuts.

But it's all about the beat. The backbone. Without it, you're just listening to clever poetry. Take the Experience away from Jimi Hendrix, you still have a bad ass. Unplug Bob Dylan, it's still Bob Dylan and ain't no one touching Freewheelin'. Take Prince Paul out of De La Soul is Dead and De La ain't playing Rock the Bells last weekend--some fifteen to twenty years later. That's the absolute truth.

The other day, George brought a collection of dub-reggae over and I was captured by the Dillinger track, "Kokane On My Brain" because I was hypnotized by the bass line. I've heard this ish before. It's on the tip of my tongue. I sit there humming the bass line after it's over thinking, "Who sampled that?!" Ol' Dirty Bastard. Nah, Mobb Deep. Wait, was it Pharcyde? I thought for three hours about that, humming it over and over again. I never landed on it, but I know, given my collection, I'm soon to come across it.

I'm lucky in that way. I never take it for granted.

My mother is an accomplished pianist and organist (among many other things). While working on her doctorate, she studied this phrasing in organ music from the 1600's. That phrasing, in traditional religious compositions would be the bed rock for everything that would come later. My mother found some insane number of compositions that borrowed this sequence of notes. It originally began as a chant and then, over centuries, morphed and changed and transformed. Hip hop's the same way. You hear "Funky Drummer" in everything these days. It might not be the original sample, but it's sequences of drum hits that sounds exactly like the break in "Funky Drummer." Those eight bars or so lit the world on fire...back in 1987.

Sadly, I guess, what's wrong with hip hop is that no one knows what the hell I'm talking about. I might as well be Bob James crying, "Run DMC sampled me!" The obvious question follows: "Who in the hell is Run DMC?"

SAM THE SAME NAME GUITARIST FROM OKLAHOMA

You might remember Sam, the guitarist who shares my last name. There was some discussion with family in town that we might, in fact, be connected, but I ain't feeling the suggestion. I mean, c'mon, check this dude out. Loving the pocket watch. It's brings that class to an all-denim outfit. I gotta give it to Sam: homie can accessorize like Fonzworth Bentley.Sam's played some incredible gigs in his career. Here Sam and the guys of Badly Bent raise the roof at the Elk's Lodge in Bristow, OK. Watch out for that ceiling fan, Sam. I think this is one of my favorite "action" shots of the band. Check out Mike getting down on the far right. He's just shredding on that guitar (I believe, in Oklahoma, they call it a GEET-tar). Sam must be banking to buy Peavey speakers larger than his guitarist. Scared money don't make none.
Here, we find Sam and one of his fans deep in discussion. Sam can always take time to talk to his fans. He likes to give back like that and he just can't stand stuffy rock stars. Approachability is key in this business. And, especially, if you're a country star (established or aspiring). There's only room for one Kenny Chesney. Everyone else has to shake some clammy hands and listen to some boring-ass stories about sick relatives and someone's new double-wide. Sam's lucking out with this lady because she wanted to talk Nascar and there's nothing Sam loves more than talking race cars!
Here, our favorite Oklahoman axeman, dives into the acapella sing-along portion of "Friends in Low Places" by Oklahoma's favorite son, Garth Brooks. Can I get a "hell yeah!"

In fact, Garth Brooks is only a mere slice of their reportoire. Check out this diverse set list. The band asks that you please stick to the songs they know. Sam doesn't take requests off-list. Personally, I'm a fan of the "Wonderful Tonight"/"Wipeout"/"Knocking on Heaven's Door" medley. It's knocks me out every time. Another fan favorite is another Oklahoman's megahit, Toby Keith's "I Love This Bar" which has been reversioned to "I Love This Garage" and "I Love this Yard" so Sam can make it work for some of his birthday gigs. And you can't play a country bar without a rock and roll banger so Sam protects himself with the always-popular and infinitely sax-y "Turn the Page." Aw yeah. Ladies always dance sexy to that one. I digress. Here's the list.

"Smoke Rings in the Dark"
"I Love This Bar"
"Wonderful Tonight"
"Unwound"
"An Ugly Girl Told Me No"
"Wave on Wave"
"Amarillo By Morning"
"Much To Young"
"Change In My Pocket"
"Blues Man"
"Wayfaring Stranger"
"Silver Wings"
"Fast As You"
"But For the Grace of God"
"Lacy’s Song"
"Farwell Party"
"Don’t Close Your Eyes"
"Midnight in Montgomery"
"The Fireman"
"Honk If You Honkytonk"
"Knocking on Heaven's Door"
"Stars On The Water"
"Boot Scootin’ Boogie"
"Sweet Home Alabama"
"Give Me Three Steps"
"Help Me Make It Through The Night"
"Trashy Women"
"Walkin’ After Midnight"
"Folsom Prison Blues"
"Tulsa Time"
"Pride and Joy"
"Who’s Been Talking"
"Her Goodbye"
"Your Cheatin Heart"
"Nothing On But The Radio"
"Seminole Wind"
"Wipeout"
"Cocaine"
"Don't Be Cruel"
"Ramblin' Man"
"Turn the Page"
"Drinkin' Dark Whiskey"
"Some Beach"

The following picture slipped into the pile, but it's worth the viewing. Here, one of Badly Bent's faithful and more militant fans takes a hard stance with a public protest against questionable reproduction in Oklahoma by attaching profylactics to her headgear and screaming "stop unsafe Oklahoman inbreeding!" around the bar. Unfortunately, her cries fell on deaf ears and inbreeding continues in Oklahoma. Sox and Yanks tonight on ESPN. Sox took the first game of the last series between the two in Yankee Stadium, 7-3. That's three consecutive prepositions. Gangsta! Gangsta!

MY CR3W IS RED HOT, ESE.

Well, it should come as no surprise that Vegas' own Super Cr3w took "America's Best Dance Crew" title last night. Yeah, I don't care what you think. I watch it. They're dope. It certainly beats watching the world kick America's ass in track and field. I don't know what's with the gold motif except that it's probably something stupid that Mario Lopez made them do. Tons of respect for these dudes, though. And I ain't gonna hate Super Cr3w even though they're biting the number 3 as a "e." They can do windmills and sweeps until the cows come home. In fact they can do 'em until the cows dry up and squirt powdered milk. And their freezes were sick.

I'm not sure if their winning it all is much of a shock. There's nothing more entertaining than watching b-boys col' get down. These dudes represented to the fullest. Even when they had to hoedown to a "Footloose Megamix" they still rocked it. I resent the judges saying things like, "Ya'll are bringing it back" and "Ya'll are representing for b-boys everywhere!" Firstly, there ain't nothing to "bring back" because it never left. It's just that heads are sleeping. And no b-boy or b-girl needs Super Cr3w to represent them because they just rep themselves. It's not like we're talking about ballet. B-boying as an artform, in its very nature, represents.

Let's talk other notable crews in history. You got 2 Live Crew.
They didn't do much dancing, but they got people to dance. Specifically people who danced with their clothes off. Man, I miss these days. Look at the University of Miami gear! The jackets, the ballcaps. Dudes had mad flava.

Another crew that had flava was my man, Bill Allen better known as (or only known as) Cru Jones. If there's any cat that knows that pimpin' ain't easy, it's Cru Jones. Dude grew up in the sticks, was raised by Rocky Balboa's wife, was slinging papers to make a living and dodged five-0 as he hustled his game harder than anyone out there. It was really stacked against him. Then (if this ain't a rapper story, I don't know what is), without a sponsor, dude just sponsored himself, raised the money to enter Helltrack and took at all the money. Scared money don't make none, fool. He took on Tomax and Xamot, the dynamic dancing twins, as well as gymnast Bart Conner and still managed to come away with the girl from "Full House."

So good in his portrayal of Cru, he hasn't found steady work since. If anyone out there has a product they want him to halk, put the dude in a commerical. He still has popular appeal. Dude just needs work.

It's been a rough week. My grandfather passed away after a long battle with cancer. He was 88. Just keep us in your thoughts and prayers.

It's finally Friday...give yourself a high-five.

JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS: ROOT DOWN THREADS...

I'm pressing up some shirts for you kiddies. Time to get my billboards up and going. Here's the deal, I'm giving you, my beloved Root Down readers, a chance to pick the two designs I go with on my first round of shirts. You have to pick a "white" design (one where the image is white and will be printed on a dark shirt) and a "black" design (one where the image is black and will be printed on a light shirt). I tried not to make this a white and black thing, but it's hard these days to avoid it. I got a fairly good deal on shirts, so they should be really cheap. I'm shooting for $5, but need to find out how much printing will be.

I got weird colors in great sizes and great colors in weird sizes, but I got kiddy tees and some long-sleeve 2Xs as well as a few larges and some XLs that you can dry the crap out of and get them to a large. Don't worry, I picked colors with potential. There's no turquoise shirts in there. Problem is: I can't pick a design. Here's what you have to pick from this round:

SAM, THE OKLAHOMAN GUITAR PICKER...AND HIS BAND

In my tireless searches to find individuals sharing my last name either representing hardcore or disgracing the name, I found this man. His name is Sam and, yes, we share the same last name. He lives in Oklahoma and plays guitar in a band, Badly Bent.

We're not related, however, I almost felt related. He's a musician. He likes to have a good time. People appear to enjoy being around him. And he's from Oklahoma. I'm not from Oklahoma, but it's nearby. We have a panhandle. They have a swizzlestick. And, in the Texas panhandle, that hard westerly wind is because Oklahoma sucks so much. Oh, we also both live within earshot of I-40.


Sam was born in Henryetta some 53 years ago. He started picking eleven years back and claims that George Strait and Allen Jackson are his two favorite artists (hard to be a big fan if you can't even spell "Alan" correctly). He got paid $200 for his first gig which was at the Henryetta VFW and enjoys "riding his bike" in his free time. I assume he means a motorcycle. But maybe not.


And dude can col' get down. This is Mike. He plays/played in the band. I can't tell if he's an active member, but he looks like that type of cat that gets kicked out of the band on some bull-ish. My bet is dude pinched the hind quarter of someone in a bar and then Sam pulled him aside and said, "Mike, I like to get down like everyone else, but objectification is our number one no-no. You know that."
More on Mike later. Dude's kinda creepy. I hope he's not still in the band because he's gotta be bad for their public image. You can tell the ladies above are unsettled by his appearance by covering their face in the presence of a camera. And he uses a blue lighter.

Sam, however, never misses a photo op (as you'll see). Here, he displays his towering physique. His grand frame has cemented him in Oklahoma folklore as a Paul Bunyan figure. Except his axe is tobacco sunburst Telecaster and he doesn't have a big blue ox, he's got his drummer, James, who listens to Queensryche (I believe it) and Rush (that too). His favorite food is salmon patties with a cheese sauce. You can barf now. Here's James.

Odd that they couldn't find a better photo of James for a closeup. I mean, it's a digital camera. You can just delete the bad photos and take them again. He's either sleeping or in between sneezes. Loving the Rush shirt. Man, dude's a superfan. And, just so everyone knows, Rush sucks ass. Popular opinion will disagree, but I walked to the top of a mountain in Colorado and met a mysterious figure in a dark black cloak and he told me that Rush sucks and Geddy Lee was "born of the devil." He then told me to tell everyone I know. Rush's sound is that of four monkeys in an octagon bludgeoning each other to death with plumbing tools.

Unless my eyes deceive me, that's former Badly Bent bassist objectifying some woman doing a clothed pole dance at a New Year's Eve bash at Prarie Bell Roadhouse! Jeff, you've fallen so far. He's too drunk to even know what he's looking at, poor sonuvabitch.

I don't know. It might not be him, but if it's not, it still doesn't make it right. That picture just gives me chills and not the good kind. Something very "Too Catch a Predator" about it. And that girl barely fits in that outfit, but in Oklahoma, something tells me that's the look you shoot for.

I got some research to do on Badly Bent. I'll make them my new fascination now that Wolfmother has broken up. The rain continues outside. This is four days in a row with rain.

WALK PAPI, STILL GOTTA PITCH TO YOUKILIS...

Apparently, the league forgot that Manny wasn't the only Red Sock that could swing a bat. The logic that by taking Manny out of the Sox lineup made it easier to pitch around Papi, put his slow ass on first in a hack-a-Shaq tail-tucking has apparently proved a little more challenging once the Sox moved Youkilis into the cleanup spot. Yeah, don't forget, Youkilis is batting .322 with 22 homers and 82 RBIs. We ain't no suckas. Sox are 10-2 without Manny. Dodgers, I believe, are 8-5. I guess it worked out for both teams except Torre's playing babysitter and made Manny cut his dreads. Welcome to Mannyland, Joey. Manny's already talking, "if I come back next year" talk after a week of "I love L.A., man. This is where I want to be" banter. Dodgers will learn something very quickly: the only thing to trust with Manny is his bat. Everything else is spotty at best.

Friday, baby. Roundhouse got rained out like crazy last night. Mayhem's busting at the seams for some softball action.

IF I COULD FIND A VIDEO FOR THIS WEEK...

This week has been an absolute terror. And it doesn't help that I was up at 3:45 this morning. Sleep just doesn't seem to be something my body is too interested in. It doesn't help that I wake up thinking about the price of crude oil. What the hell?

Something happened over the last six months...Texas Tech is a ranked #11 in the preseason football polls. This could be the very worst thing for Texas Tech as any time they think they're good, they're not. Keep the expectations low. But when you pull off two of the greatest comebacks in bowl history in consecutive years, you tend to gain a bit of attention. Danny and I are catching the first home game of the season when the Red Raiders go up against the University of Massachusetts. Geez, thanks Danny. I didn't even know that UMass had a football team. I'll bring a pillow.

I think that "Intervention" has officially become my favorite reality television show after this week's episode that chronicles a pre-med flunkie that becomes addicted to huffing compressed air and pays for her habit by sleeping with a 46-year old married family man. You just can't write this kind of stuff. This girl huffed 10 cans a day. Kinda makes my daily four cups of coffee look like tee-ball.

The Russians invaded Georgia? Man, I need to call a few friends in Atlanta and make sure everything's alright.

The new Nas album sucks. I've listened to it five times now and I can't hear it. Of course, I'll be the first to admit that I've never considered him half the lyricist he's reverred as being.

I hate Home Depot. I hate everything about that place. It's the Wal-Mart of home improvement. Walking in there gives me an empty and lonely feeling. It's like the Nothing in The Neverending Story. Bad enough that I hate being there so much, but even worse that no trip is a short trip. It takes five minutes just to find an employee and, once you do, it takes five more minutes for them to help you. Then, because they're in such dire financial troubles, they hardly staff anyone on the front end and you spend an additional five to seven minutes behind some moron Nascar fan trying to operate the self-checkout. The other day, I went there to exchange out my propane tank because the local guy was cleaned out of full tanks. It took seventeen minutes to complete the transaction. Home Depot can kiss my ass.

Where was I going with that? Hmm...oh yeah. Despite my hate for Home Depot, the bathroom project is coming along quite well. It should be done by mid-September. We'll plan a formal unveiling that will include beer and beef products.

Ice Cube's doing an in-store in Albuquerque the first of September. Looks like a few of us will be in attendance for the event. Angry Tim's teasing with the thought of having him autograph a used copy of Are We There Yet? I'll be taking my vinyl copy of Amerikkka's Most Wanted.

Apparently, within the next ten years, whites will be the minority in this country. Republicans are scared. I say who cares. Just make sure that "America's Best Dance Crew" doesn't get cancelled and everything's gonna be alright.

Roundhouse goes for deuce tonight. Rockin' it...r'rockin' it.

BUMMER MONDAY

My man Isaac Hayes died yesterday. Ugh. That really sucks. I had the privelege to see maybe his last performance about a year ago in Memphis when he killed it at the Stax Revue. Dude looked very frail, but still put on the performance of the night. I kinda resent the fact that his legacy in the eyes of the younger generation has been reduced down to the voice of the Chef on "South Park." That's really lame. This man was probably one of the greatest soul men in history, but most of these cats don't even know that. His contributions in the world of hip hop are just as impressive--providing the breaks that would birth a generation. It was Isaac Hayes, Sly and Family Stone and, of course, James Brown. Do this history lesson and see if you can find the following two records. You'll thank me in the way I thanked my homie Clint.


Continuing with the Bummer Monday, Wolfmother disbanded. Whatta kick to the groin. With only one damn record to their name, they break up over "longstanding frictions." Geez, as tight as they were on stage, they couldn't overcome "friction"? Dude, Fleetwood Mac, Rolling Stones, Guns N Roses, Van Halen...these groups had friction. Even Oasis released some five or six records. How much friction could you really be experiencing?
Whatever. I know Sarah's sharing my sadness today. And Matt. They come in threes--Bernie Mac, Isaac Hayes and Wolfmother.

SIZEABLE CATCHUP

I've been so bad to you. I really have. I've left you alone, frightened, confused. So, to make up for my shortcomings in my service to you, I'm going to attempt to make your visit worth it. It might be difficult because I really have nothing prepared, but whatever, let's do this. Above you'll see Wes "Donkey Lips" Wyrick. We're not related, but dude looks like a kegstanding king kong. First time I've seen a frat boy in my search of the last name. Homie has forsaken his heritage. C'mon, dude, we don't even drink that watered down piss. We're ale drinkers. Whatta punk. Those parties probably have something to do with your massive frame. Get some 574's and start walking that keg home, Assmouth, oops, I mean "Donkey Lips."

Been working intensively on the first of the Owen/j3 collaborations. Below is the tentative cover although I've already changed it. I've been doing most of the work up to this point (about 2 hours is already done) because Owen and I can't ever seem to meet up. So I just started working the mix through in Audacity and, well, it's about 75% done at this point.

The mix brings together both rap, rock, film, funk and Tom Brokaw in celebration of the genre that blew the whole game up: Gangsta Rap. I've always been reluctant to use such a term only because I always found it as a horrible stereotype and oversight because, over time, media channels were just lumping any rapper with a parental advisory sticker on the front a "gangsta rapper" when you could put on any rock record back then and hear worse (i.e. Appetite for Destruction). But I wanted the mix to, firstly, be dope and listenable and, secondly, either parody the mass misconceptions of the genre or simply exploit them. As to say, "You thought "Cop Killer" was bad? Try this." This ain't your little brother's mix. This is for the adults. This is for the aging hip hop head. This is for the dude that complains about nothing being dope anymore. This is for that cat that fell out of love with hip hop. This is for you if you haven't heard "New Jack Hustler" in ages.
It probably will time near two and a half hours after it's completed. At that length, I had thought that it would be dope to have my own Wizard of Oz/Dark Side of the Moon thing goin' except I would sync up mine with American Me. Oh, and it's not called Gangsta Gangsta, but rather Gangsta Boogie. Here's the tracklisting up to the point I'm at:

Isaac Hayes "Hung Up on My Baby," Chicago Gangsters "Gangsta Boogie," Geto Boys "Gangsta of Love," Steve Miller "The Joker," Ice Cube "Endangered Species," NWA "100 Miles and Runnin'," Ice T "Original Gangsta," Cream "Sunshine of Your Love," MC Twist "Dope Story," MC Twist "S-M-O-K-I-N-G-C-O-K-E," Chuck Cornish "Ali Funky Thing," Cypress Hill "Pigs," Royal Flush "Call the Cops," Compton's Most Wanted "They Still Gafflin'," MC Twist "Bad Influence Intro," MC Twist "A Step Beyond," Geto Boys "Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangsta," Pink Floyd "Money," Geto Boys "Let a Ho Be a Ho," Above the Law "Murder Rap," Gene Chandler "Duke of Earl," Cypress Hill "Hand on the Pump," Scarface "Your Ass Got Took," Eazy E "Boyz-n-da-Hood," Gary Numan "Films," Royal Flush "Watch Out for the Plants," Ice Cube "Steady Mobbin'," Face Down "Medellin Cartel," Convicts "Free World," Ice T "New Jack Hustler" and Above the Law "Livin' Like a Hustler."

Yeah, I go deep. And it's one continuous mix. Thinking of maybe posting it as a podcast or something so that you can just download it right into your iPod. Maybe I'll just bust it up on zshare or something. Be patient. Owen and I are gonna listen to what we have so far over a six pack this afternoon. I have a feeling he's going to happy with it.

I swear I'm gonna get those jerseys out to you peeps soon. Maybe this next week. Jerseys are $15. I'll give you some options on payment in the package. I didn't forget about you. Kris, I'll just send yours in the mailbag. Be on the lookout.

Paul McCartney was in town this week. He's travelling cross-country on Route 66 in the Bronco that he first kissed his now-girlfriend in. I wonder what he thought once he got out west of the Yellow where there's absolutely nothing for about four hours. My guess is something like, "Geez, this blows." There was a spotting at our store just a few blocks down the road from the house. Crazy. You'd think if he'd already travelled half of Route 66, someone would've caught onto it by now and we could've gotten some warning. I wouldn't had mind meeting him. I would've asked him why he's always talking in photos. The above photo was taken from a Circle K in Springfield, IL on the same trip.

On "America's Best Dance Crew" this week, Super Cr3w knocked out Fanny Pak. Thank goodness. There is something right in the universe at this time. I really had a feeling that they might get bounced, but they killed it (or as Lil' Mama would say, "Kill't it.")

Geez, I just read that Bernie Mac died. That sucks. Must watch Kings of Comedy today in his memory. Dude was killer. Two big comedians this year.

Clay Aiken's a dad?! Uh. Hmm. Aight, whatever. John Edwards had an affair with a woman?! Geez, the earth's rocked off its axis.

Do people really think Bennagin's is an authentic Irish experience?

I always try to care about the Olympics, but I really don't. I mean, c'mon, baseball's still on. Speaking of, I never made it on my Red Sox diet. Once I heard that Manny got traded, I had to watch baseball. He's been succeeding in LA quite well. Guess that long plane ride had a therapeutic effect on his MRI-negative knee. Dope that he's playing for Joe Torre now. Check out this telling photo.
I know LA's enjoying him out there. I still got him on my fantasy team so I certainly don't mind because he's hitting home runs like free throws. That strong National League pitching! Cubbies are winning it this year anyway. You heard it here.

ODE TO THE PATIO...

When I reminisce over you, Patio Burrito. F'real.

I was in college at Texas Tech when I feel in love with the Patio. And I fell hard for it. I think my first Patio was a chicken with the light sour cream-ish sauce in the middle. I doused it in salsa and packed it down. I was hooked. I even remember: two minutes on high for one, 3:30 for two. I always ate two at a time. Never just one.

It took a while to get that timing down. Sometimes I'd burn myself on the first bite and spit out a huge, half-chewed chunk of burrito onto the plate. Other times, I'd find myself with a bean ice cube. That was more unpleasant than getting a second degree burn. Trust me. Once I got it down, though, I could've prepared that meal while sleepwalking.

My favorite combo was chicken and the beef and bean. I'd lather 'em both up in salsa and then crush potato chips on top. Yeah, I know it's sick, but college kids eat some disgusting stuff. I'm serious when I say that I probably ate Patio burritos for four out of my seven lunches a week. Easily.

And I managed to hold my weight at 200 pounds. Steady. How does that happen?

I gave up the Patio when, well, I started dating my now lovely wife. I mean, I juggled both for a while, but it would be too difficult to hold on to both. The Patio had to go. Something very juvenile about packing back microwavable burritos everyday. Patio, I never fell out of love with you. There just wasn't room in my life for you and happiness. Or you and health for that matter. Honestly, I see you at the store and I get a little vomitous. I'm just a new man now. I hope you don't hold it against me.