IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME...HERE'S YOUR SPACE MIX, HOMIE.

On behalf of The Root Down which is, essentially, just me, I present to you MUSIC FOR CONQUERING GALAXIES AND INTERGALACTIC LAMPIN'. I was speaking with Brian tonight about the mix and, I have to say that, contextually, it's probably one of my most accomplished. It's amazing what the creative mind can do when you just give it a concept to work with and say go. I mean, I won't profess it to be the greatest single piece of music ever assembled, but it all just started by a daydream and that daydream became a daily fascination became a few sleepless nights became a few extended "search sessions" became gazing at Youtube videos of Sun Ra became total obsession. If you know me, though, now that it's done, I'm really done too with space altogether. That obsession really only lasts as long as it takes for me to put this together. No, I don't want to talk Pluto with you. And yes, this is a total cosmic coincidence with the 40th anniversary of us landing on the moon.

The mix started out as a concept. Like if I had a spaceship and I was cruising the galaxy, what would I listen to. I mean, all the millions of dollars invested in those shuttles, they got a stereo system right? I'd be jamming some Parliament, f'real. Beasties. Hell, I'd jam me some "Electric Avenue." You bet. I had to pull back on the Eddy Grant, but Parliament and Beasties, yeah, they're here. It's almost like Prego...it's in there. It runs the gammut, but some of the most obvious stuff, I just had to avoid. No, it doesn't have "Space Oddity" by Bowie. It doesn't have "Space Cowboy" either. There's an earthly radio station begging for your listenership so they can sell you earthly products to waste on your earthly existence. We're heading upwards, homie.

Beatles, Black Sabbath, M/A/R/R/S/, Kool and the Gang, Parliament, Funkadelic, X-Clan, Cut Chemist, Digable Planets, Beach Boys, Shapeshifters (yep), Slug from Atmosphere and Murs (forming together "Felt"), Kool Keith, David Bowie (but not your "Ground control to Major Tom" garbage), Shatner, El-P, TV on the Radio, etc. etc. etc. We brought in Bambaataa too, but asked for permission to give him a little revisit. Not that I don't like "Planet Rock," but I just took some liberties.

I could do another whole mix too because just on the way home tonight, I thought of about fifteen no-brainers that I could've slotted in if I wanted to make this a four-hour mix. This one comes in just over two hours--the length of, say, "Close Encounters" or "Starman."

I've always had a secret fascination, though, with the cosmos. I mean, you think about how short your block is when you walk to park down the street. You think about how small America is when you hit the ocean. Can you imagine leaving this planet and seeing nothing but black in every direction and knowing that, as far as you know, it goes on forever? I mean, forever? That's how vast the universe is and when you get to the end of the universe, what's beyond that? Is it like Truman Show when you just hit a wall? How incredible is God's insane creation? I included the masterful work by Carl Sagan. While I don't necessarily agree with his ideology, his work entitled "Pale Blue Dot" is an incredible work. It describes how this photograph taking from millions and millions of miles away in space illustrates Earth as a tiny speck amongst the vastness of the universe it sits in. It's a beautifully written piece that perfectly communicates the tiny world in which we live. It's rare you get that kinda view.

During the course of time I was working on this mix, really the last ten days, I found myself looking upwards to the moon and thinking how much I really take for granted. You never think about the moon or the stars or the sun. They're just there. Trust me, when you're running directly into the sun at 6:00PM, it's really there. But to think that as hot as that sucka is where we are, we're 91 million miles from that dude. Imagine what 40 million miles away feels like. 20 million miles away must be like hell. It must melt skin at 20 million miles away. I'd be outside and I'd just look up at the moon during the daytime and you think about how incredibly distant that moon is. It's always there, just hung up in the sky looking down on you. I'm trying to run 26 miles and can barely make three right now. That moon is close to 240,000 miles from where I sit tonight. How in the hell did our space program land an object on that thing? Imagine being the first dude to say, "Screw it, I'm gonna travel to that thing." We just don't marvel anymore. It's takes too freaking much to amaze us anymore.

Back to the mix. Imagine if you will, you're heading out at a speed that basically takes you to Pluto and back in two hours. That's fast as hell. We're talking light speed. You go out and, about half way through, you round Pluto. That's a lonely place out there. Then you make your pass again at Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, Mars (not necessarily in that order). I desperately wanted to do the mix in the style of Holst's Planets, but determined that being a sane and married man, that was entirely too much time spent in my own imagination. Eventually, I gotta go to work, right?

I see how sci-fi writers go so weird now, though. I mean, you can truly drown in how vast all of this is. It's easier to think about your little plot of land, on your little block, in your little city, in your little state or territory, in your little country, on your little continent on your little blue planet in your perceivably small little galaxy. Ah, on the fiftieth minute right now. Vanglorious. A little X-Clan.

Not often you get this much dope all in one place. Aight, I'll hit you up with the tracklisting:


Dennis Wilson "Farewell My Friend"
Pink Floyd "Fearless"
Parliament "Ride On"
M/A/R/R/S "Pump Up the Volume"
Beastie Boys "Intergalactic (and Damn Krispy Too! Mix)"
Cecil Holmes "2001"
Edan "Making Planets" (w/ Mr. Lif)
Mr. Dibbs "Live at Ulitmate Beats and Breaks 2" (segment)
Galactic Force Band "Space Dust"
Galt MacDermot "Space"
Afrika Bambaataa and Soul Sonic Force "Planet Rock (Root Down Got You All in Check Mix)"
Gary Bartz "Celestial Blues"
TV on the Radio "Staring at the Sun" (intro)
El-P "Constellation (Heavenly Bodies)"
Beach Boys "Gettin' Hungry"
David Bowie "Starman"
ESG "UFO"
X-Clan "Cosmic Ark"
Beatles "Flying"
William Shatner "Rocket Man"
(rounding Pluto and setting sights Earth-bound)
Dexter Wansel "Theme From the Planets"
Mandrill "Universal Rhythms"/"The Children of the Sun"
Capleton "Wings of the Morning"
Mystic Moods "Cosmic Sea"
Cut Chemist "Storm" (w/ Edan and Mr. Lif)
Funkadelic "Cosmic Slop"
Sun Ra "We Travel the Spaceways"/"Celestial Road"
Shapeshifters "Who Gots Presence?"
Jack Nitzsche "Starman Main Theme"
Felt "My Alien Girlfriend"
Black Sabbath "Planet Caravan"
Outkast "Extra-terrestial"
David Matthews "Star Wars"
DJ Spooky "Object Unknown" (w/ Kool Keith and Sir Menelik)
Kid Koala "Space Cadet 2"
Digable Planets "Time and Space"
X-Clan "Earth Bound"

Man's obsession with space travel has been well-documented. Music's obsession with the universe probably lesser, but here's your crash course. If you ever win your trip to space in the year 2030 when they're giving them out like Carnival cruises, make sure you load this little mix into the chip that you put into your head and surrounds you with sounds that aliens could never even recognize as music. Click here to get in touch with your intergalaxy. Or just the cover art above.

SPACE IS THE PLACE, HOMIE.

The other day, when I was on the way home from work, I was thinking about a new mix. I'm supposed to be working on a mix for Bryan's party, but I'm kinda cheating on those efforts right now. I became transfixed on the idea of doing a "space" mix. Kinda like a mixtape for intergalactic explorations. Fitting that as I just looked at the television screen, Buzz Aldrin is talking about "there's still places to go that are beyond our belief." Of course, you give me a theme, I'm gonna obsess about it. And I did. The song titles flowed forth. It started taking shape even before I began. Sure, it'd be easy to do "Space Oddity" and "Space Cowboy," but I never want just regurgitate expectation. I wanted to go beyond that. I wanted to pull in things that, contextually, made sense. Not just lyrically.

I'm about 40 minutes in right now. In just the first three songs, you got a Beach Boy, Floyd, Parliament and Sun Ra. Last night I remixed the Beasties and threw that in there too. Bryan, this might be your party mix. The Party of a Million Pretentions might have to come later.

I spent some time gathering material for the mix yesterday and found some great Sun Ra material. Dude was truly on another planet. Like, you'll hear about Outkast thinking they're from another planet, but that's just the same thing that George Clinton was always talking about. Sun Ra was from another planet. Dude just wasn't quite earthly. Check out this awesomeness.

I mean, this dude was on some Heaven's Gate tip. It reminded me of the clip from Scratch in which Mix Master Mike and Q-Bert talk about a DJ's ability, through scratching, to communicate with the unknown. It was then that I knew I had to do it. During a walk, my lovely wife asked, "How many songs are really about space?" as to suggest that I wouldn't have enough for a mix. "Oh, tons," I responded. It just starts at "Space Cowboy." Music's obsession with space has been evident for years. You should hear the mountain of funk I sorted through from the early 70s that romanticizes leaving earth and soaring through the universe. Hell, that's what Parliament/Funkadelic's entire catalog dwells on and that's just scratching the surface. And wait until you hear the Shatner cover of "Rocket Man" and the ill "2001" cover I had around here. You're face is about to melt off.

I got a message from a Beatle fan about the Beatlemania mix that was very complimentary. It just got me thinking about how you kinda throw yourself out there to a certain crowd when you do a mix focused like that. I mean, I'm not the world's biggest Beatle fan, but I suppose I'm privy to the millions of Beatle fans out there that I potentially speaking to with a mix like that. Then I'm getting an email from a cat I don't even know about a mix in which I'm clueless how he found it. It's probably a bit of a letdown that I can't share a story about Beatle fandom. I mean, I like Abbey Road and the White Album, but I don't have Beatle salt and pepper shakers. I don't have a signed lithograph from Paul McCartney. I've never met Ringo. In fact, I'll go even further to say that I hate their pre-Rubber Soul material. I'm just not that big of a fan.

No telling what sort of souls I'll catch the ears of with a mix of "space" material. I'll just go ahead and tell everyone who might be reading this that I haven't even seen all of the new Star Wars episodes, I could give a damn about Star Trek and I think Battlestar Galactica is for dweebs. Sorry, Jacko. That being said, this mix comes from the same October Sky, boyish curiosity. It is, though, at the very heart of it, just the flavor of the month. I'll be onto something else three weeks from now. These fixations never last long. I gotta freaking marathon I'm training for.

Speaking of, Koolz and I hit our first three miles together. In fact, we busted out 3.15 miles with the last .15 miles coming in a sprint. It felt fantastic. Now we must replicate that success every time we go out. We do that for a month and then we start stepping it up the distance from there.

Keep your feet on the ground, but keep reaching for the stars, gangsta.

COLORADO...IT DOES A BODY GOOD

Sorry it's been a full week since I've blown up this piece. Long week. They're all long weeks when you're trying to train for a marathon. I've just found that to be a truth. No steady three yet, but officially had my worst three jogs this last week. Brutal. It's gotta go up sometime. I'm confident my body can do it. Not sure what fantastic delusion allows me to believe that, but I do regardless. Went to Colorado for my cousin Maria's wedding. She married a cat named Tim and, yes, dude is not only smart he's cool. Or do you say that the other way. "He's not only cool, he's smart." He's both equally. And he's got decent taste in music. It's a prereq for this familia.

My lovely wife and I used the entire trip to discuss the ethics of graffiti and the health hazards from not wearing a mask (be safe kids). It was one of those discussions where the highway just brings forth such deep analysis of such a small segmented issue that we truly explore it to a satisfactory conclusion. I've determined that graffiti is okay if it's on train cars...still. I mean, really, are train cars good for anything else besides hauling crap? My lovely wife would disagree. One time I concluded that, in the end, our prisons are really just housing units for a lot of cats with early head injuries. Do the do, kid.

Traveled the first day to Denver where we chilled for a day before journeying further north to Ft. Collins which is officially the furthest north I've traveled in Colorado. It's damn-near Wyoming. Denver's ill, but there's some weird parts of it. Some parts of it are just like the Yellow: full of white trash in big trucks. Then there's the hippiecats who smell like stinky oils and put their hair in dreads. You know, the Marley type. There're the funky, progressive earthy folks who drink elk urine and can climb any tree in the neighborhood because they have monkey like feet from walking barefooted at an early age. There's the microbrew cats who drink beer like water and their beer gut starts from below their beltline and goes all the way up to their chin and it's normally covered in fur. They laugh loudly and talk alot about acoustic music. Ugh. I'm really just an observer. Someone's gotta be.

We hit up Twist and Shout and I managed, for the first time, to walk in and out of there without putting down a nickel. Solid selection, but just really didn't find anything that made me tickle the wallet. If I lived there, I would shop their habitually. Know this. Definitely worth the visit.

Denver was rated as the number one town that people in the United States want to live in. Not sure why, but that's an interesting claim. Meaning when people are asked where they would like to live other than where they currently do, they say, "Denver." I usually would answer that question with, "Fenway Park."

You know, I like Colorado, but I really like the mountains. I like the solitude. The city is just like the same suffocating metro feelings as Dallas except there's mountains to the west. On a cloudy day, you wouldn't know the difference. The mountains, though, that's the realness. I'd live there if it weren't for the Freedmen's Bureau and the fact that no one knows any good hip hop once you pass the first pine tree. Not sure why, culturally, hip hop has no place in the mountains. I know that I listened to De La Soul is Dead on the way up and it worked perfectly. Oh, on a non-related note but not really, I asked a kid at our record store down the block (that I work for) to look up "De La Soul" and he looked blankly at me and asked, "How do you spell that?" I just said slowly, "DE....LA........SOUL." It's the most I could do to keep me from taking a swipe at him.

Speaking of, 7/31 marks the date in the Getdown. I got my ticket. Do you? I mean, not only are you going to miss one helluva show, but you'll miss yours truly shaking his ass like James Brown for two hours straight. Worth the price of admission, easily. Plus, you get a De La Soul show out of it.
That's a half-pound burger with green chile strips, Bermuda onions and strips of bacon at the Cherry Cricket in Denver. In other words, it's your first meal as you pass the pearly gates.

Where was I? Oh yeah, I was in Denver. Near sundown, I turned the wheel towards Littleton to see if I could locate Columbine High School. Because I'm a news junkie (but I'm also a respectful news junkie), I felt that, after ten years, it was worth a visit. I think to myself that it's much like visiting the Grassy Knoll where Kennedy was assassinated. One of the darkest days in our history, but it was one of those extremely important days in our history. We searched that damned town for about 45 minutes until we found it. We filed into the adjacent park and saw a sign that said, "Columbine Memorial" and kept following signs to an incredible memorial in memory of those lost. It was really pretty awe-inspiring. Very humbling. It did, however, lead to the question of why weren't Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold remembered and how, as a society, we don't see them as victims worth remembering because they were the perps behind such a horrific act and how, really, aren't they the first victims in all of this? Dwell on that.

Next day, we head north to the fort of Collins and, this day, we were to do a little rafting with my other cousin Carrie. Carrie's an adventurous type. She climbs things, plays rugby, ain't scared of a little running water. It's just her nature. We met her new "friend" Eric. Fine fella except he's peculiarly a White Sox fan. Didn't know they existed. You learn something new everyday. We'll let it slide. He's a Chicago native so he can pick who he wants. If you're not from Chicago, you root for the Cubs.

I'll give you the abridged version of the rafting story to say that everything went as it would except that some lady got dumped out of the boat on one rapid and my lovely wife pulled her out of the water by the personal floatation device like freaking Rambo and saved this woman's life. Coolest thing that I've ever seen. She pitched herself on the edge of the boat, snagged her under the straps of her personal floatation device (they call them that because they didn't want "life jacket" to infer that it'll save your life--it really just makes you float) and then yanked out of the water like some superawesome baptism. The lady landed on my lovely wife with a thud and a grunt in the boat. My lovely wife was pinched underneath her in some weird pretzel configuration. That's just how they landed. Being the illest thing I've ever seen, I lift from my seat up front and instinctively tried to high-five my lovely wife immediately after as she was flattened by the weight of this woman laid out on top of her in the boat. My lovely wife just pushed out a "we're fine" and that was it. She doesn't like being the hero, but on The Root Down, she's as good as Charles Bronson.

Day of the wedding, my lovely wife and I decided we'd kill some time by visiting Odell Brewery there in Ft. Collins--apparently one of about six breweries--the biggest being New Belgium. Odell was a recommendation of Angry Tim. What I found was hop heaven. We walk in and I'm met with a six-beer sampler that was enjoyed by my lovely wife and I equally as one of those beautiful afternoon Rockies rain storms rolled in. They're IPA is the stinkiest bit of goodness that you'll find in a bottle. Just trust me on that.

We happily too the free tour and found my new calling. I'm gonna be a hop farmer. I'm gonna be a hop farmer and make me a lot of money because, my friend, people like beer. And even when the economy is crashing, they like beer. In fact, they like beer even more when the economy is crashing. It's a difficult crop, but if you partner up with a regional like Odell, you're golden.

The wedding was super nice. I got the best seat without having to be in it. Second row. It was a party. A nice warm Hammond B3 with a soul singer and decent drummer and guitarist. New Belgium wheat and some fancy hour'dourves from Malaysia. Danced to "My Cherie Amour" on the Hammond and, dude, I got me some Horace Silver even. Uncle Tony's a beast on that thing. We didn't get our deserved Outkast cover, though. I got a great family. I'm not going to lie.

Good to see my grandma. Cousin Krister. Cousin Gio. Cousin Angela. Aunt Pam. Aunt Karla. Missed the Aunt Madonna.

And we got Tim now. He's col' family. No turning back now. He's cool though. Smart too.

Listening to MF Doom on vinyl tonight wondering how I'm gonna start on Bryan's party mix. Well, I got the start done, but where do I go from there? People are just mad weird about their music sometimes. They don't know what they like, but then they'll be the first to critique when they hear something they don't like. I'm like that, "just tell me what you want" cat. But then they stand there with their thumb up their tail end. I'm doing what I want and you're going to have to just deal with it, homie.

LIONS AND RUNNING ON EMPTY

Yesterday was the fifth official run. We took a different route. We jogged into Bivins. The route was a perfect three miles. To complete it successfully would be to achieve goal. While only once, it would still be achieved.

I found that Ice Cube is quite decent jogging music. I sample from all of his catalog from Amerikkka's Most Wanted to Lethal Injection. I think "When Will They Shoot?" easily gave me an additional quarter mile the other day when my body was starting to shut down on me. So, with Kool Aid and Ice Cube in tow, we took off into the 90-degree cool that blanketed the Yellow. I had a pretty good pace early, but as we turned the corner and hit the half-mile mark (yeah, half mile), I started to cramp up just below my belly. You know, those cramps that you used to get in grade school when playing kickball. Yeah, awesome stuff. I kept running hoping to deep-breathe through it. It's all I could do.

Then I lost my Ice Cube as my iPod lost it's charge. Logged into the journal: "Charge the iPod before running." So now I'm jogging to the harmonic sounds of a panting 32 year-old and the rhythm of feet painfully smacking on asphalt.

When we approached Georgia and the mile-mark, my calves started to flare up on me. I mean, it was a pain that was undescribable. It felt like someone was jamming an ice pick directly into each of my calves. Kools continued with very little sign of weakening, but meanwhile, I was getting what could only be described as "a painful crash course in running for a non-runner." Never yet had I felt so inadequate for this journey. I felt like I was at the starting point again. While approaching the two-mile mark, I simply stopped running. While I walked, my calves turned to a fiery inferno on both legs. They literally felt as if now the ice pick had been removed and then they were doused in lighter fluid and then set aflame.

Feeling fat. Feeling out of shape. Feeling low.

Kools continued down the block and left me behind and said he would come back. I told him that was fine with me. Actually, I didn't speak because I was breathing too hard. Why on earth could I not even do two miles today without almost collapsing? I walked for about a quarter mile and then just started again. For some reason, it felt better running than it did walking. At least it was a well-earned and honest pain when I ran. Feeling that pain when walking was just like your body laughing at you. Running and feeling the same pain was like you laughing back. We turned the corner to head back to the house and I began to block the pain and then went mentally jogging. My body was failing me at what was supposed to be close to a standard jog after two days of rest.

As we approached the interstate, my body stopped again. But this time, Kools wouldn't let me have it. He said, "C'mon. Finish strong." At this point, I felt like truly finishing strong was impossible, but finishing with dignity was still achievable. I came into a jog again and not only reached the finish point, but jogged past it, I suppose, just to prove that I could overcome it. I cussed the entire final fifth of a mile, but I did it.

And, about thirty minutes later, I found out what it means to "do it until it's running down your leg" except it didn't run down my leg.

Worst run yet. Figured they'd start getting easier before too long, but yesterday's jog was just embarrassing. I don't fall down that easy, though. It's gonna take much more than that to discourage me.

I don't have any neighbors to the north anymore. I really like that. Don't know how I'll get along without the late-night headlights through the bedroom window, cars parked in the lawn, a chihuahua that won't shut up, drug use in the backyard, underage drinking and the alcoholic that drinks there every other evening and keeps his own personal cooler in the car. Think I'll have a long talk with the property owner when he gets his ass up here from Dallas.

I got a copy of the Lions' No Generation from Allegro this week per request. I texted Sarah and Duke down in Austin. Duke replied with, "I think that's the one we picked up at the show. I don't remember, but I think I sold my soul for it. Would do it again." I'm enjoying it this morning. It's quite good. Surprised with how impressive the second side is. The first side rocks, the second rolls.

Bryan is leaving town for the Hub. Wants to throw a pretentious party to celebrate. Of course, that would have to be created because none of us seem to be truly pretentious. I could only last about five minutes. I'm working on the mix. More rock than I'm used to, but we're doing some funk, reggae, hip hop, sweaty soul music, some blues. We're running the gamut. The word "gamut" is the combination of the words "gamma" and "ut" which represents respectively the G of the bass clef and the highest E of the treble clef. You've been learned, homie. Bryan, I need a deadline if I'm going to finish this thing. And don't tell me you're throwing this gig the end of the month because that, of course, is De La Soul in Dallas and I will not compromise that engagement.

HAPPY JULY 4TH, EV'RYONE

I don't like getting political on the Root Down because I don't like putting readers in compromising or awkward positions (really, I don't), but July 4th is a rare day for me in which, annually, I'm hit with a reflective patriotism that, I'll be honest, I seldomly feel. It's that "purple mountain majesty" patriotism that makes me extremely thankful that I live in this country. Freedom, baseball, Rocky Road, tornados, democracy, the Ultramagnetic MCs, the Grand Canyon, the Boston Red Sox, Hemingway, Eastwood, New Balance, Simon and Garfunkel, the Beach Boys, the right to assemble and worship in peace. It's a great country. Unmatched. But it's also the day that you get to see in full display people in their arrogance and ignorance as to the matters of the world and in their own community. We're a nation divided far more than in halves. We're bitter, hardened, impoverished, defeated, depressed and confused. We're struck into fearful action by our own news organizations who hawk fear in the name of advertising revenues. We've lost that ability to dance and play. We're skeptical. We're afraid someone is going to give us the flu that'll kill us or someone has a bomb ready to detonate in their shoe. We feel it's necessary to jam our country down the throats of others in vengeance of horrible tragedy. We can't admit defeat. We can't give up. Even if it means the battle turns the country on itself.

And, like a classic case of disassociation, every July 4th, we celebrate by getting drunk and watching white trash in their dangerous exhibitions with pyrotechnics with no connection to what the holiday means. Many businesses are open like any other day and retailers are cramming their buy-one-get-one sales as the perfect capitalistic opportunity to shove more things that no one needs (and no one can afford) into the living rooms, backyards and closets of any sucka dumb enough to fall for a slick marketing message. We just don't really stop to reflect anymore. We just charge along trying to bring back that loving feeling by beating it to death. I guess that's how it is everywhere in this world. Maybe not. I haven't traveled enough to know. I suppose they act the same way down in Mexico on September 16th. It's not really a day that we sit and reflect on the country and it's history, it's preservation. In fact, we take the day off from doing all of those things.

You feel almost outcasted for wanting to "talk America" on July 4th like it's inappropriate. Like you're just supposed to grin and bear it. Put on a smile because we're celebrating a birthday, here. Don't get all political, bro. Don't be a party pooper. Relax. Chill.

Alright, I'll chill. It's 10:00AM and I feel good. Maybe I just needed to get it off my chest. As I complete this, the sounds of Sly and Family Stone's "Stand" fills the small corner of the room.

Stand

In the end you'll still be you

One that's done all the things you set out to do

Stand

There's a cross for you to bear

Things to go through if you're going anywhere

Stand

For the things you know are right

It s the truth that the truth makes them so uptight

Stand

All the things you want are real

You have you to complete and there is no deal

Stand. stand, stand

Stand. stand, stand

Stand

You've been sitting much too long

There's a permanent crease in your right and wrong

Stand

There's a midget standing tall

And the giant beside him about to fall

Stand. stand, stand

Stand. stand, stand

Stand

They will try to make you crawl

And they know what you're saying makes sense and all

Stand

Don't you know that you are free

Well at least in your mind if you want to be

Everybody Stand, stand, stand

#29: "THE PHUNCKY FEEL ONE"

CYPRESS HILL
"THE PHUNCKY FEEL ONE"
CYPRESS HILL
1991

Admittedly, I wasn't necessarily on the front end of Cypress Hill's fandom. I would say that I was a fringe fan. I liked Black Sunday. In fact, I liked it alot, but it was the popular favorite. I liked it only because you couldn't avoid it in 1993. Over time, however, I was drawn more and more to their first recording and this song, the 29th greatest song in hip hop. Many elements of "Phuncky" follow the typical Cypress approach, however, it's the nine different tracks in it that, without a doubt, set it apart from the others. Anchored by the driving rhythm guitar from Kool and the Gang's "Life is What You Make It" and then intermittently switching over to the broken drums of Kool's "Give It Up," "Phuncky" represents some of DJ Muggs more intense work with breaks as later in his career he would shift to less sample-based production and more of a ground-up composition approach on Black Sunday onward.

"Phuncky" also represents a time in hip hop's history when the art of sampling was fading because paying royalties sucked and, at the end of the day, people were finding ways of making quality product cheaper. It was the year that, after Biz got slapped, he released his All Samples Cleared album which was a sparse, sometimes down-right boring album, but it was legal hip hop. As the practice of sampling was become less equitable for hip hop artists, "Phuncky" is a celebration of the artform taking almost every sound within from a previous recording and orchestrating them into a powerful and undeniable symphonic performance. And you can hardly talk about "Phuncky" without also mentioning "The Funky Cypress Hill Shit" and "Light Another" from the same album which equally exhibit Muggs' mastery of breaks and his affinity for funk. Years from now, you'll be able to put Cypress Hill's first record alongside Funkadelic and Meters records as one of the finer funk recordings in history because, essentially, it is just that...the whole record is a mutha.

Time tested and Root Down approved. Don't be foolish.

FIRST FULL WEEK OF RUNNING

Now I know why I never tried running before...because it totally sucks. But I'm coming around on it. It would probably help if I took the advise of Wil and actually ran at an hour when it wasn't 95 degrees out. The sun has a way of completely taking it out of you and dripping it down into your sock. The sun is a complete beast when you're on the street. Jay Z is my soundtrack this week. Better than the first week when I was listening to Company Flow and only found three tracks listenable while jogging. Amazing how some things make perfect sense at home with the headphones on, but you try to take them on the trail and the recording just turns to mush. I'm waiting on Fear of a Black Planet until I really need it and that would be the last part of August when I start ramping up from the steady three which I'm trying to achieve right now. I'm at a steady 2.00 to 2.25. I could probably do three if my skin wasn't melting off of the bone.

Avoiding Sportscenter this morning because I don't want to hear how the Red Sox blew a 10-1 lead to the Orioles...again.

I'm finding it very difficult to balance my time with "training for a marathon" thrown in there. For a married man who has a demanding job, likes to write and puts together two-hour mixes of obscure Beatle covers, throwing in there "running four nights a week" is tasking. Nonetheless, I push on. The lovely wife has been supportive, but maintains that I need to get the ankle inspected before I get too far. Ankle has been feeling good. I ice it as a precaution, but it feels pretty solid.

Every once in a while, I'll see someone else out on the trail in an exhausting jog/run and I still think that I'll never consider myself one of them. I don't fit the mold of fitting the mold. I don't see myself as one of those cats that will want to talk about marathoning after it's all said and done. I just wanna do it. Some of these cats are so captivated with this running thing. I mean, I'm not wearing the daisies with the splits up the side yet. No headband. If you see me running it pretty much looks like me running for my life after just getting my ass whooped. It helps when Kool Aid joins me because then it appears to be a controlled jog.

Listening to EPMD this morning. Man, that hits the spot. I've been up since 4:45 and really don't have any clear explanation except that I was absolutely freezing. I didn't know that our air conditioner had the capability to drop to 45 degrees.

Wish I could take my dogs on the jogs with me, but three miles at a time might be too much for them. They need the exercise, though. Dudes act like they wanna run, but you get about a mile in and their bodies begin to fail them. Reminds me of a conversation I had with someone and they were telling me that very few animals are made to comfortably run 26 miles and a human is not one of them. Hell, a horse isn't even built for those distances. And dogs run more than three times the relative distance as a human so running three miles with me is like ten to them.

You see the tentative Team Root Down design above. It might need a little work still, but thinking about getting some pressed up on a limited level. It'll have the logo running up the back starting at near the bottom and then having the shoe print on near the top right shoulder. The wrong will carry some sort of slogan. Need some help with that, though.

"I know you got sole."
"Don't sweat the technique."
"Run on."
"Can't knock da hustle."
"Ain't no half-steppin'."
"Who stole the sole?"
"And y'don't stop."
"Renegades of Run"
"I run this."
"I ain't no joke."
"Steady mobbin'."
"Gotta get mine."
"I wondered, why not golf?"

The creative doesn't come as easy as it used to.

Michael Jackson means sales. I mean, geez, people are picking up those old crappy Jackson records that were on Epic. It's like anything that dude put out is straight right now. We have conversations up at work from time to time about what artists' deaths would be best for business from the perspective of people flocking to the stores to buy product. I've always thought that Bob Dylan would be probably the biggest. Maybe Willie Nelson, Mick Jagger or Paul McCartney because of the expansive catalog alone. I think Trent Reznor or Jay-Z. These are not people I really want to die, but when you see the reaction in sales that you did with Johnny Cash or Ray Charles dying, it gets you thinking about whose death would chart the highest. I didn't really think about Michael Jackson. Dude didn't have a ton of great records. In fact, in my humblest, he only had two great records, but he did so much volume on those records alone that, hell, almost everyone owned Thriller. I was watching his old Motown 25 performance of "Billie Jean" the other day. Holy cow.

Dude was killin' it. When he goes into the moonwalk for the first time, it sounds like someone in the audience pulls out a gun. I heart this video.

Hit me with your suggestions on the shirt in my inbox or comment field. One last cup of joe before I go to work. I'm gonna need it.

I'M FIVE YEARS OLD AGAIN

You know, I used to hate when I was in the record store and someone would die and not but thirty minutes later, cats would be coming in and buying that ish like all of the sudden that ish was nice. Like it wasn't a bad record until dude died. Like it went from garbage to classic because you burried a cat. Well, tonight I fell into that trap. I fell into it hawd.

Let's be real here. Thriller is the undisputed greatest selling record ever with some g'zillion records sold. Like everyone owned this piece. I remember we had it on cassette. My brother really owned it. He jammed it all the time. My brother was two years older than me so the rhythms, the melodies, the content made, well, about two years more sense to him. But that record blew my mind. You gotta understand that, up to that point, the only thing my ears had really been fed was heavy classical music and church hymns. I wasn't really knowing what was going on with popular music in 1982. But this thing was unavoidable. It was so ill and it was everywhere. It permiated everything around you. It was my first rock record, it was my first dance record, it was my R&B record and kid would col' shake his ass off to it, no doubt.

I'm listening to it right now on the picture disc you see above. It sounds so damn nice. Quincy on the boards and Mike on the mic. It was the first funk I've ever heard. It was the first time I've ever heard Paul McCartney. I didn't even know who the Beatles were. And Vincent Price scared the crap outta me, f'real.

I'll be honest: it sounds so much better now that he's gone. I mean, I could always jam Thriller, but I have no problem coming clean, it just got too freaky there for some time that it really overshadowed the music. I could put it on and listen to it, but enjoying it was sometimes a struggle. Tonight with a col' St. Arnold, this record never sounded better. Now, those who respected him as an artist (and likewise denounced him as a freak) can finally let it go and just let that record play. It's all over now and we don't have to defend ourselves, defend our tastes. We can just say that Thriller was one helluva recording and be done with it. I listened to Off the Wall earlier and the same thing could be said for it. It was just so tight.

I look on TV and I see all this footage of fat little kids screaming for Michael, you know, the fans that were left. That's not the pandamonium that I remember. I remember having a freaking spiral with the image with him and tiger on it and I thought I was the slickest thing at school. When Michael was damn near untouchable. Watching him age was painful enough, but then all of the trials, the pajamas, the skin disorder, the "sharing a bed" whatever...it was just too painful. Everyone from about thirty to thirty-five would just sit there and shake their head like, "whatta shame" because he was the hero of about everyone who still wore Keds and occasionally crapped their drawers.

I can't chose when I was born. I didn't have Elvis or James Brown, I had Michael. That's just how it was and I ain't got no problem saying that Off the Wall and Thriller are uncontestable, infallible and damn near perfect recordings respectively. Listen to them tonight or tomorrow with a cold one. You'll hear it.

That's it. I woke up at 2:30 this morning and it's now 11:00PM. MJ died and Red Sox lost. I'm closing out "Thriller" right now. There's Vincent. Holla.

2:30AM HEARTBURN...WORD 'EM UP

You gotta love my grandmother. She emails me with nothing in the subject line. It reads:


Dear J3 [yes, she calls me j3],

Had your nice newsy letter, but I want to remind you that [your brother] ruined his knees running those two long races he ran! for sure. I do hope that you will reconsider yuor idea to train for and run a marathan!!!!!!!!!!!!! There are surely other things you can do that would bring that much satisfaction - I wondered, why not golf? Andy othr sport. Have you told your brother what you are planining to do?


I remember that I "prayed without ceasing" the first time Todd ran - I found out you can pray only if you are not doing things that you have to think about-can duset the furniture, etc. I skipped church that first Sunday to pray.


Have you asked Todd what he thinks abut this?


End of sermon, but this grandmother hopes that you will surely reconsider your new thoughts about training for a marathon and direct your efforts in another direction. Love, [grandmother]



I determined that my long-jog shirt will have the text from the above email on the front and then the Team Root Down logo on the back (which I've yet to concept out--you know, training, working, getting the house ready for a garage sale, etc). I've started keeping a journal for my weekly training. Getting everything in order. We'll be jogging Monday, Wednesday morning, Thursday morning and Saturday morning. Saturday's will be the long-jog. Sundays and Tuesday's will be used at the gym for weight training with a focus on upper body and core. We'll start getting our paths coursed out. I want to do residentials primarily, but by experience, I run better on busy streets. Guess I like the audience, but it's not really safe. Journal will also help track the different shoes I'm wearing. I need to hone in one pair and, unfortunately, it might not be one I own. A pair of shoes should be able to go 500 miles. Why don't they make any dope running shoes? All the pairs I see are blinding white with silver accents. What about a red shoe with yellow and black accents. Something ill type. Journal will also track any specific dietary changes. Right now, it's the same ol'...eggs with cheese, orange, apple (sometimes with peanut butter), spinach and chicken at lunch and then a reasonable dinner (a pound burrito if I can squirrel one in). I hate protein bars and bananas, but might have to eventually break down. I had peanuts before my jog the other day and think it might have effected me positively. Must write that one down.


My ankle is a growing concern to my lovely wife. She just doesn't want it to fall off. Of course, neither do I. Official training begins the week of August 23rd so must get it looked at in July to ensure that I have the go from an official. I ice it at night, but honestly, it's felt pretty decent to this point.


Texas lost the College World Series. Oh well. I'd tell them the same thing I tell OU fans. Guess you can't win every championship in college sports. I love how my next door neighbors are such huge Longhorn fans however it was oddly pretty quiet during the CWS. Oh yeah, that's because they only root for the football team because they didn't actually go there. In fact, they didn't even go to college. In fact, they probably didn't even get their high school diploma. Man, I'm a little fiery this morning. Must have been the 2:30 heartburn.


Red Sox continue their onslaught of the National League either proving the NL's inferiority or the Sox's supremacy. Actually, it's not that lopsided, but they are 9-5 against the NL. And, it's just the Braves, Marlins and Nationals. But we did sweep the Phillies on the road. But, it's not like we're squaring up against the Dodgers. Papi's heating up, though. Up to a meaty .219 average. But he's hitting the longball in the right places. He knocked a 3-run jack last night and the Sox won 6-4...the difference. I'll take it.


Hip hop sucks. But what's new? Oh yeah, that Mos Def record is actually quite decent. But overall, people are abandoning the genre like it was a sinking ship. Everybody's up on this Gnarls Barkley tip. Everybody wants the iPod commercial. No one wants to make the ill ish anymore. They just want to blow up and get out. I need this De La show so bad. Help calibrate me again. I honestly haven't given a serious listen to probably more than three hip hop records this year. I mean, from beginning to end. I usually end up ejecting the disc and throwing across the desk and letting it land where it will. The new Meth and Red, the new Grand Puba, the new Black Eyed Peas (yeah right), the new Busta Buss...you take the best from each and it's still hardly listenable. I need to time to think as to why. Why can't anyone make decent hip hop in 2009? I need to dig deeper. I need recommendations. I'll ask around. Someone's gotta be making dope music in 2009, right?

The Beatlemania mix has been downloaded 500 times. I'm happy with that. Time to start scouting out the Halloween mix. I got mad material, but throw on top of it that I'll be training and will need material for those jogs, I'm gonna be busy. Will postpone the second volume of the Christmas mix another year. Will have to get out the Valentines' mix as well. Geez, I'm planning 2010, what'chu doin?

I'M RUNNING A MARATHON

This last weekend, I sat down with a man who mentored my brother as he trained for OKC and, among a number of topics, I asked him, "Are you still running?" He said, "j3, I can't. Not with my back. It's in such bad shape." I came clean with him saying that I had considered running a marathon. I guess I just threw it out there to see if it was met with laughs or with a studious headnod. Sam told me, "The human body is not meant to run 26 miles. It's not." Well, that was my starting point.

If you asked me two nights ago, I would say that the human body isn't meant to run two miles either. Leaving work promptly at 5:15 and on the trail at 5:30 (with 95-degree heat), I officially began my training. I tell you, 32 years of not treating my body like I should hit me like a ton of bricks that night. I struggled as I got to the third mile and my legs just stopped working. So I walked. I rounded a corner and started again. I probably completed 2.25 miles in a run and .75 in a walk. I guess walking to work almost everyday for the last four years did very little for endurance. Makes me wonder what it did achieve. Maybe nothing. It certainly didn't benefit me in long-run training. I wouldn't dramatize it to say it was the hardest thing I've ever done. I mean, I've done two miles before, but maybe I was just picking the best and coolest hour to do it. Maybe I was a tad lighter. Maybe I was just having a good day.

The goal is to get to a steady three miles on each run at which point I can start the training under the close guidance of what will become my running bible for the next 20+ weeks, The Non-Runner's Marathon Trainer. Once you make it to a steady three, the training plan will begin adding miles each week for 16 weeks until, ultimately, you find yourself at the starting line of a 26-mile trek which it requires you to go ahead and pick now and mark on the calendar. My marathon of choice? Well, it came down to Tulsa and Dallas White Rock. I suppose because I'm a Texas boy, I chose White Rock in Dallas. My D-Day is December 13th.

As word made it through Facebook, I had a few people come up to me with both words of encouragement and some with disbelief as they scanned my frame from top to bottom simply asking, "You?" Mo mentioned that she, too, was training for a marathon. Cherie just finished a marathon. Kristi told me she was a runner in high school and had completed a triathalon and would never do it again. Kool Aid said he used to run for a team in college and would like to train with me. It's like I stepped into a counter culture of runners. Me, the new kid.

It really feels like I don't know what I'm doing. I imagine it's like riding a bike. Each day you go a little further until you can do it (relatively) effortlessly. Is my posture right? Is my stride adequate? How much water should I drink? Is there anyway around eating bananas? Do I need to go get another pair of shoes or will my Newbies suffice? Lots of questions that I'll answer in my quest for the steady three.

Kool Aid said he's in for training, but gave me a half-ass answer on the actual marathon stating that he would like to get running again and this would give him a chance to do that and get back in shape. I figure if we train up to 18 miles, you might as well commit to a marathon. I can't think of any other reason to run 18 miles except to eventually run 26. But Kool Aid's an athlete. He plays soccer and likes lacrosse--two sports that require quite a bit of running. I like skiing which really just requires you to put long planks on your feet and let gravity do the rest.

Either way, this is the announcement. I'm doing a marathon. Team Root Down with a team of one.

Entertain yourself today and watch these "Republican rappers." They're mad hot. Oh, and Huckabee, Russell Simmons is not a rapper. He's black, yes, but not a rapper. Maybe the distinction that all black people don't rap is tough for the conservative mind to make. Not sure.

Don't do drugs and stay in school.

I DON'T BELIEVE IN KOBE

I don't believe in Kobe. My mind just resists him. I don't even know if it's truly hate as just a stubborn resistence to him. It's like when I watch him play, I don't even really see him drive the lane, nail those threes. I don't see him at the free throw line. I just see Laker points rack up, but it could be anyone on the floor shooting them. I don't believe it's Kobe. He's more like a video game character to me. A puppet. He's a stand-in in a commercial. He's a CG'd sports star who just paints on a smile during the hard times and muscles out the Jeter-ish, "They're tough competitors and we'll get 'em tomorrow night" drivel. And while his numbers are extraordinary, at times, his game lacks a grit, a grime. It lacks personality. It lacks character. I mean, I'm not a big fan of Lebron, but at least he has some character. It doesn't have to be good character necessarily. I mean, he calls him team his "supporting cast," but at least that's an honest expression. He'll get blasted in the press for not carefully picking his words, but maybe that's what I like about him. He's got this naivity, that stupidity. Kobe just tries to be above the game and it's players. He reacts to the press with such a coolness and suave. He always likes to look dashing. He pities fans. He likes to appear to float above the court. He rarely passes. He likes to pose for the cameras. He "loves the game" like Jeter. He carries around this smug smile. He's so LA. But I don't believe in him. He's Santa Claus to me. He's the tooth fairy. The Easter bunny.

There's a lot of people that hate Kobe. There's my grandmother who thinks he's a rapist although we have to remind her that he was never convicted so, technically, he's not quite that. There's others that just hate him because he's good. There's others who might hate him because he so badly wants to be Jordan and so clearly still is not. Then there's other who hate him only because of the team he plays for. I just don't believe in him.

Maybe I do kinda hate him because of who he plays for. I mean, it's the Lakers and I root for green. I think my brother's hardest on me for my sports allegiance because I often root with complete blinders, but if you don't stand for something, you'll end up rooting for Kobe, the Longhorns and the Yankees.



Paul Pierce is a player's player. He plays with not only a passion for the game, but a unapologetic and reckless abandon. His pace is both panicked and patient. Sometimes he heroically carries the team on his shoulders and other times he just drags them clumsily through the finish line. I've seen Paulie pull off more greatest comebacks in the history of the game than historians could even count on hands and feet. There was the Nets game when Paul led them back from a 21-point deficit going into the 4th quarter. Or the Nets game when he just col' killed 'em with a that 3 down by five and 16 seconds on the clock to drive it to overtime where he tore them apart. How about this black mamba action? Then, last year, when he took ova and annihilated the Lakers in Game 4 in LA. It ain't always pretty, but the guy is a born winner.




I remember watching this dude just run circles around those great Tech teams of the early to mid 90s. Paul was as sick as they come. Then when he came to the NBA, the guy was stabbed eleven times in the face and back and returned to score 25.8 points per game that season. His nickname, "The Truth," was given to him that season by Shaq who grabbed a Boston reporter after a Celtic loss to the Lakers and said, "Take this down: My name is Shaquille O'Neal and Paul Pierce is the truth. Quote me on that. Don't take nothing out. I knew he could play, but I didn't know he could play like this. Paul Pierce is the truth." To Kobe, Paul's a warrior who swings a big sword and he takes out entire teams with one mighty swing. Kobe fences. Kobe's game is delicate. It's intricate. Paul is Charles Bronson breaking through doors and knocking all the life out of one room with one rusty six-shooter. Black mamba's have a 50% kill rate in humans. "Black Mamba" is also a song off of Jethro Tull's worst record. It's also commonly the name given to a large black sex toy. That's according to Wikipedia.



To Paul, Kobe is a ficticious baller who plays late at night on the West Coast in front of Donald Sutherland and Jack Nicholson. He puts up video game numbers and has lived under Shaq's shadow ever since Shaq left, what, six seasons ago? Either that's a big shadow or Kobe's really that small. I don't believe in this guy. Kobe's like a superhero. He's like Spiderman. A fabrication of the pop culture whose sole purpose is to entertain. Paul was born to play basketball. I believe in Paul Pierce.

Peep the new look. I'm heading down to the Hub today and it's a monsoon out there. It's not only wet by West Texas standards, it's wet by Carolina standards.

HARD FOULS, HALL AND OATES AND THE NEW DESIGN

That is until I get sued to high heaven for it...

You know, I feel personally that you should be proud of where you're from. That's what hip hop is all about. And, aside from Mr. Coop and some cat that used to sling promos out of the back of an ice cream truck, nothing that great has come out of Lubbock. Oh yeah, there's Buddy Holly, but let's be real, you don't really get to chose where you're born and I, myself, was born in a cultural vaccuum that was as geographically isolated as any city in the United States. Given that, you have a perspective politically, socially, artistically, spiritually that very few can identify with. So, for those that, like me, represent West Texas and the LBK to the fullest, I offer up this design. Don't know what moron would be dumb enough to print it up, but you never know, maybe someone won't see the similarities. Wil, know anyone that would just do a quick run of 50 shirts no questions asked? Yeah, you bet you do. Hook it up. I think it's a pretty clean design, myself.

Well, let's play a bit of catch up, shall we? Spent last week down in San Diego listening to a million ideas of how to save the music industry, but none of them included releasing better music. Sorry folks who keep complaining about how music sucks. It's still gonna suck and you're gonna have to listen to the old stuff. When you're ready, let me know. I'll give you a list of albums a mile long to get you started. While I was down there, my boys Hall and Oates were receiving an award for Sustained Creative Excellence. I came in a close second. What can you do? Anyhow, they graciously awarded us with three songs in gratitude...all acoustic. It was hella dope. They started out with "Out of Touch" followed by "She's Gone" (head explodes) and then ended their brief, but impactful three-song blessing with "Maneater." Dude, I gotta tell you, Daryl Hall still got it. Don't listen to the streets: dude still brings it. Afterwards, because I'm absolutely psycho and can't help myself after a few beers, I dash up to the "backstage" area which isn't really that. I mean, I wasn't trespassing. I wait patiently for them to appear. Me and apparently about twenty other superfans, but I was there early, close and ready for my photo opp. I wait with my hands in my pockets as my palms became alarmingly clammy. The door in front of me kept opening very slightly...only enough for me to capture a glimpse of the boys backstage ready to come out and make an appearance for their diehards.

Seconds later they dash out and begin shaking hands. They were only about six feet in front of me. I had to do everything in my power from going into the chorus of "She's Gone" eerily in their presence. It was either that or "Method of Modern Love." I swayed and smiled half-heartedly just trying to squeeze myself a little closer. A cluster of (I'll just say it) prostitutes flew toward them which was met with mixed responses from Hall and John Oates. They awkwardly posed for a few pictures as I stood by waiting for my turn to meet Santa Hall.

"Thanks guys, we gotta go."

As soon as it started, it was over. They left. Gone. Split. Nada. All I managed to get was a video on my phone of Daryl Hall posing nervously between a couple of strippers. Yep, so close, but so not a picture of me with the boys. Awesome stuff. That was my chance.

I was playing ball the other night by myself as a stormed rolled in. The cat playing next to me quickly invited me over. "Hey, bro! A little one-on-one?" He stood there in a black denim shorts, red black and green Nikes and some black undershirt. I declined. "Man, I ain't played in about a year and a half. Nah, man."

"C'mon, bro. I've only been playing three years."

Okay, Slim Shady, I ain't your "bro" and I ain't gonna be hustled. Leave me alone. Believe it or not, I'm content shooting by myself. If I wanted to play, I'm grown enough to initiate the game. If I don't ask right off the bat, I probably don't want to play. I continue take a little shoot-around. He goes back to shooting on his goal just about thirty feet away.

Minutes later, two cars pull up and out jump these two dudes who want to play some ball. Of course, Stan is willing and ready. He jumps to it and they begin playing a game of 21. Now, I don't know what era of basketball I grew up in, but 1) you didn't wear denim to the court, 2) you laced up your shoes and 3) you didn't foul with your forearm. These dudes were playing prison yard ball. Slim Shady got popped in the freaking head and he just bounced up and clumsily threw up a prayer. I would've called a cat if he hit me that hard. I think the dude was just scared that if he called anything, he'd get his ass whooped. Then I saw him dealing it back.

Call me a purist, but I defend without using anything more than my fingertips (and sometimes a my belly) and I work hard on that turnaround jumper so when you see it, respect it. My game ain't great, but at least it's studied. Dude's these days watched too much of that And1 garbage and think every game is a dribbling exhibition. This ain't no video game. Points aren't awarded for passing behind the back. You don't get points for a crossover. The only thing you're awarded with points for is putting the ball in the bucket. Dude's just want to show off. Their game ain't go no substance.

Also, dude's need to know when someone's waiting on the raquetball court. F'real. I'm not sitting there in awe watching you play. I want the court that I had reserved. Hit the showers, old man. I gotta 7:30 date with my lovely wife.

And seriously, if you're bumping bass at 7:30 in the morning with no one else in the car, you're sorely desperate for attention. No bass before 1:00PM. You're just playing yourself and going deaf in the process. I'm going to start a treble trend. I want to see how absent of a low end I can get my car's stereo to go and then I'm going to pull up at an intersection and make everyone in my vicinity go numb from the screeching guitars of early Megadeth. And it'll be completely void of bass and twenty times louder than the acceptable volume. That's tough, bro. They can't touch my steez. Don't forget to grab that Beatles mix (see below). 400 downloads and counting. Thanks for the positive response. I got my eyes on a Blue Note mix next. More on that later.

THE ROOT DOWN EXPERIENCES BEATLEMANIA (SANS BEATLES)

Wil asked me in an email, "Where do you find time to do all the sh*t you're doing?" I don't know. I guess sometime between when I get home from work and when I go back. I finished this mix at approximately 9:20 this morning after working on it for close to four hours to that point after crawling out of bed...on a Saturday. Altogether, it took about 14 days to complete and that was with being out for five of them. So really it took about nine days. And, all that talk about how you're not ready and you have no idea, well, you're not and you don't. I'd say that to do a Beatlemania piece without the Beatles is pretty difficult. I even just wanted to loop "Flyin'" for about two minutes to lay a bed for excerpts from a John Lennon interview, but I thought, "I told myself no Beatles so no Beatles." So what you'll hear is completely Beatle-free. And it's not a celebration as much as it is a protest. It's not love and appreciation as much as it is disdain and disappointment. The short of it is that as much as I love the Beatles, I have such a hard time understanding how their material is so much greater and so far superior to that of anyone else that no one can download it, buy it for under $10, buy it on vinyl, put it on an iPod, play it on Guitar Hero or hear it digitally remastered without stopping the earth's rotation to announce that some unheard recording of John farting was pulled from the vaults and will be delivered to you at the suggested retail of $18.98. They've halted the progression of their legacy by gouging their remaining fans and locking out potential new fans. That's the short of it.

So I've assembled my favorite covers of Beatle or solo Beatle material for you. Actually, 37 covers to be precise. What you'll hear is "an infinitely ill collection of funk, reggae, jazz, blues and otherwise undefinable covers of Beatle favorites." And all of it seamlessly mixed together for you're longplaying enjoyment. This thing tops two hours and ten minutes so grab a six pack and head for the patio out back. It shakes, twists, jumps, soothes, sways, sprints, boogies, breaks, jams, jives and damn near dies if it weren't for the third "Hey Jude" (third of seven that I considered available and, more importantly, tasteful) as provided by the Temptations. I won't tout it as a the single greatest achievement in popular music, but it's near it. And considering that I kept about forty other Beatle covers for a possible second installment, there's enough for a second run.

It's not even close to the single greatest achievement in popular music. Not even close. That would be Fear of a Black Planet. But I do find it a rewarding listen in the way that it serves as a irreplaceable reminder of how widespread the Beatles' influence was. You listen to it and you'll hear reggae, soul, ghostly avant-garde, Motown, blues, jazz, bop, country. I mean, it's not of question of what to include, but where to stop. In fact, I had a separate collection of about ten songs that sample Beatles covers. So, not only were the original tracks so highly revered, but the covers were so dope that hip hop sampled them as well. On another note, Brad presented a jigsaw puzzle of the White Album. If that's not dope...

Listening to Bunny Sigler's soul-crushing adaptation of "Yesterday" right now. Man, this thing is insane. Then it goes right into Junior Parker's "Tomorrow Never Knows." The madness continues from there. I don't record them, I just assemble them. Hopefully you find it a rewarding listen. I'll go ahead and tell you what's not on the mix so if you wanna turn back now, you can. Eddie Vedder is not on the mix. Neither is the Breeders, Rufus Wainwright, Bono or any of that garbage from Across the Universe or Love. There's no Cirque de Soleil dancers flying through the air. Jimi Hendrix is not doing "Day Tripper" even though I really like that version too. No Oasis or Joe Cocker. Yep, no Joe Cocker (met with a thousand gasps). If you're expecting something from the I am Sam then you're a sucka. None of that either. But it does represent my very favorite Beatles covers. And, yes, it features three "Judes" so deal with it. For a two-plus hour mix, that's actually not a bad ratio. Discussions are welcome. Even criticisms. Why not? I do it for fun. Here it is: the Beatles mix. Tracklistling below. Next up, either Halloween or De La Vol. 3. Speaking of De La Soul is hitting up Dallas. Wil? You down? Zack?


Tracklisting:

Bill Cosby "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band"
Bud Shank "I Am the Walrus"
Ramsey Lewis "Everybody's Got Something to Hide (Except for Me and My Monkey)"
Nina Simone "Revolution"
Overton Berry Trio "Hey Jude"
Wilson Pickett "Hey Jude"
Dillard and Clark "Don't Let Me Down"
Jimmy James "Good Day Sunshine"
The Mar-Keys "Let It Be"
Kashmere Stage Band "Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey"
Wes Montgomery "A Day in the Life"
Joyce Bond "Ob La Di, Ob La Da"
Al Green "I Want to Hold Your Hand"
Bunny Sigler "Yesterday"
Junior Parker "Tomorrow Never Knows"
Five Stairsteps "Dear Prudence"
Jazz Crusaders "Golden Slumbers"
Peter Tosh "Here Comes the Sun"
El Chicano "Eleanor Rigby"
Ramsey Lewis "Rocky Raccoon"
Eddie Hazel "I Want You (She's So Heavy)"
Stevie Wonder "We Can Work It Out"
Bobby Bryant "Happiness is a Warm Gun"
Otis Redding "Day Tripper"
Booker T and the MGs "Lady Madonna"
Sergio Mendes & Brasil '66 "Fool on the Hill"
Soulful Strings "Hello Goodbye"
Jimmy Ponder "While My Guitar Gently Weeps"
Shirley Scott "Get Back"
Gene Ammons "Something"
Willie Bobo "Michelle"
Esther Phillips "And I Love Him"
Charles Lloyd "Here There and Everywhere"
Ramsey Lewis "Cry Baby Cry"
Groove Holmes "Come Together"
Junior Parker "Taxman"
Temptations "Hey Jude"

You should've stayed in school, punk.

I FOUND HELL AT SONIC

Last night, before I left town, my lovely wife went out for dessert and my worst fears, most paralyzing anxieties were delivered to me in a paper sack...a brown paper bag to be exact. We come around the bend on a Sonic north of town and there in front of me...a PT Cruiser rally. Before me was a sea of tricked-out PT Cruisers. One even had Lamborghini flip-action doors. Another had flames covering the entire car. I look down the wrap-around and under the lights of Sonic are the shiny humps nearly fifty of these God-forsaken wastes of metal and American ingenuity. We pull through the parking lot so I can face my fears and what was especially horrific was that the owners of these garbage automobiles were excitedly prancing around and taking pictures and even handing out prizes, I would guess, for "most tricked-out," "most honorable to the brand," "best innovation of what is otherwise an huge setback for American automotives." They truly do exist: PT Cruiser enthusiasists.

In all of their pride, they absolutely took over that Sonic like, "Here we are." I felt like calling the cops to break it up. In fact, I thought it might be more suitable to call the Armed Forces to use their artillery on the place and just obliterate it in the way I used to stomp out ten roaches under one stomp in my second apartment just across from the lake. I saw chrome, neon lights, glossed hoods, woodies, Nascar logoing and more white trash than a thousand episodes of C.O.P.S. It was absolutely terrifying.

I'm looking for the next rally so I can catch them in the action. This is more dangerous than a Klan rally. In fact, this might be a Klan rally. I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I'm planning a 2004 Honda Civic get-together unfortunately most of our members are busy channelling Vin Diesel like freaking teenagers as they top 80 on residential streets while listening to lousy hip hop and tilting their hats to the side. We probably wouldn't have much in common anyway.

Okay, now I'm really out until Thursday.

HOW NASTY IS NINA SIMONE...

From the upcoming Beatlemania project which is "an infinitely ill collection of funk, reggae, jazz, blues and otherwise undefinable covers of Beatle favorites" and courtesy of yours truly. After breaking this stupid thing down, scrapping it and then starting over, I'm ten minutes in and thought I'd share this little treat with you.


Heading to San Diego for four days to listen to industry executives and label heads complain about how bad things are yet not suggest anything that'll fix it. Oh, did I say that out loud? I'm sorry. Keep rockin' and trust me this Beatles thing is coming. I finished the cover art this morning over a mug of coffee before I even began again. That's like buying the rims before you buy the car.

#30: "END TO END BURNERS"

COMPANY FLOW
"END TO END BURNERS"
"END TO END BURNERS" 12"
1998

There are moments in everyone's musical profile that are those defining, path-changing moments. Like you don't forget the time and place. For some, it's the first time they heard "Careless Whisper" or "Eternal Flame." For me, it's the first time I heard Co Flow and "End to End Burners" was that song. To understand it fully, the popular landscape of hip hop in 1998 was dominated by the likes of DMX and No Limit. Juvenile and Cash Money were on the come-up and Big Pun was everywhere. To one who was in a constant state of reminiscence, there was very little to appreciate. Depending on what mood I'm in, I might still insist that 1997 was hip hop's last truly great year and it's been in a constant diminishing state ever since. If this is true, it was 1998 that started it. There was an almost complete exodus from LA and New York hip hop and it was largely replaced by the sparse and sometimes underwhelming sounds that would come to represent the "dirty south" sound. For all my criticisms, however, 1998 also brought us Outkast's third record--their breakthrough Aquemini--and Lauryn Hill's g'zillion-Grammy winner, Miseducation, an album she still hasn't managed to follow up.

I had just started slinging CDs at that point and my musical snobbery was beginning to develop. I broadened my scope. Began listening heavily to blues, jazz, funk, Black Sabbath, old Public Enemy records and denounced anything that was popular. And when I had all but abandoned hip hop's modern era, enter Co Flow's "End to End Burners." I remember the video blazing itself into my mind as it made it's single run on BET. I would never see it again, but that chance run-in led to a fandom that has been largely absent otherwise. I ordered everything in our system on Co Flow including the single for "End to End" and their only legitimate full length, Funcrusher Plus.

"End to End Burners" represents an almost kaleidoscopic perspective of hip hop and its affiliated cultures. An "end to end burner" is the term given to a graffiti piece that stretches from one end of a train car to the other end and, like the very composition of Co Flow's masterpiece, it stretches from one end of hip hop to the next. Echoing (or almost hailing) that signature Bomb Squad soundclashing, anchored by Rev Run's "dance to the rhythm, the rhyme of col' flow," then the head-splitting delivery of a young El-P and partner Big Juss as well as Len's phenomenal turntable work, "End to End" is like some freakish space funk or intercepted transmission from galaxy to galaxy. The best part, however, is that it's infinitely delicious. It's a ferocious composition and complicated beyond what words are capable of describing. I remember sitting and listening to it repeatedly thinking, "Geez, who makes music like this?!" Listen to the instrumental at the beat-skipping, the sequencing, the morphing of sounds. I sit marvelling at how anyone could accomplish lyric over such sounds still. Take five Tylenols and bob your head to that, fool. You should've stayed in school.

For all of those that push the boundaries of an artform so insistently beyond what it is intended to be, their careers rarely last long. And, for Co Flow as a group, this was absolutely true, however, as solo artists, both emcees have staked their claim led by El's two classics (I have no problem throwing that word around, trust me) and, of course, his continued contributions through his label Definitive Jux.

Recently, I was digging in Dallas and I found "End to End" on 12" for a buck at one of these hot spots. Dude didn't even know what he had right under him. That's when you lost, sucka.

I'M THE WALRUS, HOMIE

The Beatles mix has come to a screeching halt after I finally located the Ramsey Lewis Mother Nature's Son album. This thing is so dope, I'm considering using at least five of the eight songs. Ramsey was ill, but his work on the Moog on this record is incredible. It blows my mind that I haven't heard this record until now, really.
Just put on the White Album this morning. I've been thinking about the Beatles lately on my walks as I prepare, now, to break down this mix and begin at the 00:01 again. My criticisms of the music industry have been fairly well documented, but my specific concern about Apple, Capitol and the Beatles not so much. Nonetheless, I've found it absolutely shameful what Capitol/EMI has done with the Beatles' music. First, there was the sheer exhaustion over those Anthology pieces (three 2-disc sets) that retailed for almost $34.98 and still are near the same price some thirteen years later. There was the acoustic Lennon recordings which were forgettable at best. There was the limited (and numbered) repackage of the White Album which was really just a digipak with a few baseball-card sized pictures of the individual members. There was that dreaded version of Let It Be (the Naked version) which was completely unnecessary. There was the Grey Album fiasco when Danger Mouse mixed their White Album compositions with Jay-Z's Black Album acapellas. Sir Paul McCartney quietly but assuredly rushed to quell the leakage on that project even when Danger stood to make no profit from it. There was that horrid Love package where they let George Martin's son Giles obliterate the old recordings with his own sort-of "mash-up." I guess when it comes from the inside, Paul doesn't have a problem. Then they made a Vegas show out of it with people and pianos flying through the air. Then, there was Across the Universe. Whatever. The songs still aren't on iTunes which, I don't really care one way or another except for the fact that it's indicative of a model that has refused to move forward and, in today's market, either you move forward or move out.


In the Beatles case, it might be too late.


In the eyes of music distribution, there are few exceptions to the otherwise accepted truth that CDs are priced too high. And those exceptions have been traditionally Led Zeppelin, Metallica, the Rolling Stones, the Eagles, Pink Floyd and the Beatles. Over the last year, five of the six have been dealt quite aggressively...some at near 30% off of its everyday cost...in order to fuel sales at retail and to remain competitive with offerings at iTunes. Hell, that last Eagles album was an exclusive at Wal-Mart that was selling for $11.88 everyday. They're doing it, essentially, for survival of not only the physical good, but of the band themselves. Without the music, what are the Rolling Stones? The Beatles, however, are rarely dealt and, when they are, it's pennies and nickels in savings. The result, then, is the inability to price them cheaper than their tag price without losing money on every unit sold. In a market that has now proven that $9.99 is the going price on full albums, a $15.99 tag on Abbey Road is not only unreasonable, it's shameful. Hell, the White Album is still near a $35 tag price. You can get the first four Beastie Boys records for ten bucks cheaper than that including tax. The result is a hard and evident test of price elasticity. Look at the sales of CDs that have been "revalued" in the market place and dealt at aggressive prices to retailers so they can keep promotions healthy and those included titles go through incredible jumps. The aforementioned first four Beastie records were selling in our stores for $5.99 for a period of two months and the numbers we generated in that time frame outsold the previous four year-end totals...in just two months. When you hit the right price, people thank you with their pocketbook. Adversely, the Beatles are never promoted and the result is the opposite. Week-to-week sales are on a decline and Abbey Road is posting record lows every week. Is their reluctance to play along with the market going to inevitably ruin the Beatles? It could. And that's just the physical good. They're still not even available digitally (and legally) which means that Beatles fans have been hindered from fully making the leap into new technology because they're favorite group of all time are stubborn bastards who think they're better than everyone else and don't have to play nice.


You look at Beatles Soundscan from last week against the same week from prior years, Abbey Road sold only 1600 units last week. This same time last year, it was selling 2300 units. Not a huge downturn considering that the economy is in the toilet, but that's among it's lowest volume week ever during the Soundscan era. The White Album only managed 850 units last week against 1400 a year ago. Dark Side of the Moon sold 3200 units last week against 3600 a year ago. People are still buying Floyd, but they're among the groups that are usually dealt at 30% off of cost so that retailers can generate traffic. Master of Puppets sold 2200 units last week against 1700 from a year ago--actually selling more this year. Again, fueled by discounting. Three other hits packages are posting significant units: Guns N Roses, Creedence Clearwater Revival and Fleetwood Mac sold 5800, 5000 and 4400 units respectively last week. All of which can be purchased at $10 or less. Korn's Greatest sold 2500 units last week. Typically $10. Beatles 1 managed 2900 units last week. Would we consider CCR's best songs more valuable than the Beatles?! Well almost twice as many people did. The most staggering of all is Bob Marley's Legend that, even with a downturn in sales, sold 7200 units last week. Against the Beatles best, that's almost three times as many. Not all too concidently, it's a title that even with an exhaustion of Marley product available, usually sells for under $10 at most retailers because it's usually dealt at levels to allow such a sale price. Is it possible that, in the worst recession in recent history that price will determine taste? It seems so.


And, on 9/9/09, the Beatles will reissue once again, digitally-remastered versions of all of their studio records and guess the price...that's right: $18.98. You will still pay full price. And the old "unmastered" versions will be made unavailable--not discounted. Which means, really, you don't have a choice. You'll have to buy revamped versions of the old records at full price and most ears won't really be able to tell the difference. At least those belonging to original fans who are now 60+ years old.


Just so you know, the going price on used versions of Sgt. Peppers is $5.00. Don't pay full price for that record ever again--remastered or not. Oh yeah. And to completely exhaust September with the Beatles, they're releasing the Beatles Rock Band so you can play along to songs that probably represent technically the simplest in the Rock Band song selection. They're scraping for everything they can get at this point.


I remember my uncle turning me onto Abbey Road when I was young. It blew my mind that, among all the garbage I had ever listened to, I never heard Abbey and it was pure love from there on. I suppose that was a long time ago. And not that Abbey is any less of the record it was then or decades before, but tastes change. Music changes. How long can one hour of recorded music sustain its greatness against social, political, economic and artistic change? Will people still regard Abbey the way they used to, say, twenty years from now? Will each generation pass it on to the next? Will my kid tell his kid about Abbey? Will I remember to pass it onto Parker? If I don't, will anyone else do it in my place?


I suppose I'm doing this Beatles mix as a protest. You won't get the Beatles doing Beatles because that's simply too costly. You'll just have to shell out market value for that. What you'll get for free is hopefully a superior product of others doing the Beatles. Yeah, I'm a prick like that. I will say this, I got some funky treasures for you. Some you might have heard along the way, others that will be fantastically fresh to you. It runs the gammut: funk, jazz, blues, reggae, dub, salsa. And, the paramount piece of the project, Ramsey Lewis. Hopefully proving to be an affordable and tasteful alternative to the real thing. Something Giles should've thought of.

It's Friday folks. Good for all of you. Make sure you get that Black Moon mix if you're so inclined. And have a good weekend. Cheers and a goo-goo-g'joob.

INCIDENTS AT THE DOG PARK

You know, I'm glad I go out to the dog park often. It makes for good material. And it makes for pretty good life experiences. I go out there because I believe that socialization for an animal which will eventually become not only a pet to myself and my lovely wife, but family pet is important. And, yes, I own beagles because I want an animal I can trust. It comes with the breed. There's very little unpredictable about a beagle. Even their bad behaviors (like dumping over garbage cans and cornering possums in the backyard) are predictable. You know what you're getting.


On Saturday, we take Jackson and Tucker out to the dog park. As always, Jackson goes into patrol mode (like a pimp in a prison yard just col' walking the perimeter) and Tucker dives right into sniffing every unit and brown-eye in the mark. Two distinctively different behaviors, but neither definitively aggressive or troublesome.


The dog park is as much a mix of different dog owners as it is different dogs. You have the type who have very little control over their dogs, those who might have too much. Those who don't want their dog to experience any enjoyment at all and then those who think the dog park is just some lawless, unregulated plane where anything goes and "dogs will just sort it out themselves." My feeling is dogs need to enjoy themselves and I won't be overprotective of my dogs out there. I give them plenty of room to roam and don't crowd them like anxious parents. But make no mistake, Jackson and Tucker are never far out of view and control. They respond extremely well to my vocal commands and it takes minimal instruction for them to respond. Good for any dog, but especially good for beagles.


I do quite a bit of people watching out at the dog park. I do it anywhere, really, but it's especially interesting out at the dog park. On Saturday, I keep my eye on this cat and his labrador. The lab looks young because of his awkward movements and overly playful behavior. The owner looks like Chris Parnell, has his socks pulled all the way up to his knees and talks in some weird combination of a whisper and a whine. He walks around like his undies are bunched up uncomfortably in his backside as he kinda shuffles his way around the vast dog park. Tucker, as we've seen many times, takes a keen interest in the most playful dogs in the park. He and the labrador begin dashing around the park, playfully jumping and leaping. This goes on for probably five minutes and then my lovely wife is alarmed when the labrador has essentially pinned Tucker on the ground and has put his mouth around Tucker's neck. Tucker begins to panic and vocalizes his distress. Jackson, who always has a watchful eye, stands nearby and begins barking at the labrador to defend Tucker. Jackson gets closer and is now barking directly into the ear of the labrador and appears ready to put a beatdown on the labrador. My lovely wife hurredly approaches the scene while Chris Parnell and his bunched panties waddles nearby. He only begins approaching the dogs when he sees my lovely wife doing so indicating that either he didn't know anything was happening or he did and didn't care. Either way, dude had no control of this dog. When they separate the labrador's jaws from Tucker's head, my lovely wife turns around and snaps at the cat, "Your dog is exhibiting very bad behavior!"


Gangsta, gangsta.


He kinda sits there swaying from side to side sucking on his thumb and my lovely wife turns to me and is obviously pissed. We leave. She explains to me the obvious and that is this: if a dog has his teeth on another dog, it's probably not desired behavior and is an exhibition of aggression that was not corrected at a young age. End Scene 1.


Fast forward to Sunday. We arrive again with Jackson and Tucker in tow. A new day. The dogs are ready to play. As we approach the scene, I notice a pit bull scurrying around. You remember the pit bull right? Mean as hell, preferred in dog fighting, banned or restricted in over eleven countries, involved in close to half of all dog-related fatalities and not a registered breed with the AKC.

I examine the behavior of the other dogs in the park and it appears that the pit is not disturbing the harmony at the park so I see no harm in at least giving it a run. Man, you can almost see where this going. I spot the owner fairly quickly. He's a scrawny, toothless man who had the dropout slouch. We enter the park and, as always, I keep a close eye, but I'm not suffocating my dogs' space. Just let them enjoy themselves.

I see my neighbor and his girlfriend/fiancee across the way. My lovely wife and I walk over and introduce ourselves. They're nice folk. They had a boxer puppy and a Boston terrier which, I was unaware, could reach land speeds of upwards of 30 MPH. Insane. We're talking for probably 15-20 minutes and I notice the pit taking a liking to, of all dogs, Tucker. At the time I take notice, it seems relatively playful. Some humping. Some jumping. Some chasing. Not really anything alarming. About five minutes or so pass and I've now recognized two things: 1) the pit ain't giving Tucker any room and, 2) the pit's owner has no control over him at all as exhibited by zero response to his name "Spike" which the dumbass owner has now been calling repeatedly for the last five minutes. I, myself, employ the command "leave it" to Tucker which essentially means to "leave the distraction and come directly to me." Sometimes it's a piece of food on the ground. Other times, it's leave the dog alone. Everytime I call him and tell him to leave it, he spins around towards me and begins coming my way...followed of course by a pit with both testicles still in tact.

I quickly take to walking around the perimeter of the park which usually will be followed by both Tucker and Jackson. Pack behavior...I'm the pack leader. Wouldn't you know it, Spike the moronic pit follows and is now snapping at Tucker and beginning to bark aggressively in Tucker's face. Jackson returns the bark, again, trying to divert the pit away from Tucker, but Tucker's bouncy behavior is communicating something else. At this point, it escalates quickly. I look over my shoulder to see my lovely wife about thirty yards back and, about twenty feet away from her, the pit owner all walking in the direction of the action, but really with no urgency.

"Spike! Spike! C'mere, Spike! Spike!"

Now irritated and in a evidently eruptive state, I spin around to the pit owner and walk directly towards him and yell, "Dude, do you not have any vocal control over your dog?!"










(pause the tape and rewind that)








Here's where, my lovely wife, who has worked in the prison system and now works with juvenile offenders would say I made my first mistake. She would later describe this behavior as too confrontative and probably the very reason it escalated so quickly. Regardless, the man snaps back at me whistling through his two teeth.

"You act like it's all my dog!"

I return, "Is that a pit, bro? Because those dogs are just beagles. They're not aggressive dogs."

He says, "Nah, it ain't a __ckin' pit, bro! I got papers out in the truck to prove it, asshole!"

Aight, now as a result of my idiotic comments, this dude's quick temper is immediately ignited and he's ready to fight. Probably because his mommy drank too much leaving him without the ability to control his impulses. His admittance that he has papers in the truck is pretty interesting. I know that I, personally, don't keep papers on my dogs in my automobile. Probably because I know I'd never need them. It's not like insurance papers. I don't expect to have to provide papers on my animal to, say, an animal control officer or police officer. I suppose he doesn't want to ever be far from papers prove that his dog is not the dog that everyone thinks it is (a pit) even though it is. Get that?

He snarls at me. "You think that just because it's a pit, it's a bad dog." Okay, yeah, you got me. I mean, I know I'm completely alone here. Everyone else thinks pits are great family dogs. I hate pit owners like this. Where it seems they own a pit just so they can fight the power and have some sort of protest in their otherwise meaningless life. C'mon, dude, go vote. Go save a whale. Start recycling. Work on a mission in Mexico. Buy a hybrid. Owning a pit so you can have that, "You think just because it's a pit, it's a bad dog" argument is so played and so thirteen years old.

And, dude, you said it wasn't a pit anyway. I wonder what those papers in his truck say. I mean, being that the AKC doesn't recognize the pit bull as a breed because there's really no standard for the breed. The papers probably are a handwritten note that says, "My dog ain't no pit, asshole."

We exchange pleasantries and I use probably the most publicly flagrant language I've used in probably the last ten to fifteen years. I come close enough to this dingleberry that he says, "You better get out of my __cking face, man!" Toothless Wonder actually thought I was gonna take a swing at him. I hate to tell you, homie, but I actually have income and a lovely wife. I'm not about to take a swing at some nincompoop at the dog park. Too much to lose.

As we approach the dogs, he says, "We're out here all the time! I never see you out here." That's probably because I actually have a job that makes it impossible to come right after the "Judge Judy." F'real, do I really need to tell this dude that I come out there weekly? I turn to him and say, "I just wanna leave, really. So can you pry your dog off of mine so I can go."

"Spike. Spike. Spike. Spike."

Eventually he grabs Spike by the collar and wrestles him to the ground so that my lovely wife can leash up Tucker and we can get out of there. I actually thanked the guy. Politely, even. I wave to our neighbors, quite embarrassed of my tirade. We head for the car and I can feel "the talk" coming on. My lovely wife, as good as she is to me, was not without comment. I knew I screwed up. She coached me on how to see myself through those circumstances.

I was such a dumbass. Why on earth did I do that? I never act like that. I usually have such control. I apologized to her. It was just stupid. We even laughed a little about it, but she thought that I was actually going to take a swing at this dude. Anyhow, when we get home, I know I'll have to apologize to my neighbor. As embarrassing as the whole thing was, I didn't want his girlfriend/fiancee thinking I was a wifebeater or, even worse, a beer-swilling Nascar fan. As they return from the park, I dash up to them and say, "I'm really sorry about what happened out there at the park. Normally, I don't act like that in public. Actually, I don't act like that in private either." Matt said, "I don't even know what happened. I just saw ya'll leaving." Yeah, right. I told them I'd make it up to them by cooking them dinner sometime. We scheduled something for middle of June.

No more dog park for us for a while. Especially since Jackson just went under the knife yesterday to have a small tumor/growth removed from his ear. The vet said it had "tentacles." Better than it having testicles, I guess.

Today, I'm listening to Roland Kirk and am a better person for it.