WHAT THEY MAKE CANDLES OUT OF: UPCOASTING

Just unpacking and getting things back in order before I jump back into the fire tomorrow. The Root Down is back up and going after some time away...some much needed time away. A little fatigued and my back is sore from backpacking it the entire time, but I really can't complain. I figure you don't go to Boston and NYC to sit around and watch it all happen. You gotta get out there. And we did. I'm sitting here behind a mug of dark coffee listening to a copy of El Michels Affair's Sounding Out the City that I picked up at Fat Beats on Friday...remembering NYC fondly.

The view from the hotel in Boston

But the trip doesn't start there. It starts in an Alamo Rental lot at Boston's Logan Airport with me with my head stooped low in my own misery as the attendant explains to me that he can't rent me a car for our trip up the coast (that we've been planning for about seven months) because I don't have a credit card--only debit. You see, when I paid all of my credit cards off years ago, I shredded all of them. I have no use for them. Well, turns out, that my debit doesn't mean much to these folks because they're afraid that I'm gonna hop in one of their piece of crap Pontiacs and drive it off a cliff somewhere. I'd be doing them a favor if I did that. The dude stood his ground though. I fussed for a few minutes. I mean, I'm not going to leave with a simple, "I'm sorry, sir. I can't rent you a car." My lovely wife and I have been planning this trip for too long for me to just walk away and go sit on my thumb back at the hotel all day. I stand there like a complete moron until he offers some other advice. Eventually, dude caves. He leans to me over the counter and drops his voice, "I know that Budget has been known to take debit and I know for certain that Thrifty does." Thanks, homie. That's what I needed. I need the liberty to hop in a car that didn't belong to me, drive it into the ocean and walk away with no consequences. Not that I'd do that, but that's kinda what I'm looking for.

We walk next door to Budget and sure enough, they rent us a car. It would've been just as easy for me to find a credit card on the ground, take it in and drive off the lot with a car. We got a Pontiac. Didn't even know they still made Pontiacs, honestly. I thought they were extinct by now. They should be. It had XM though which was a pleasantry. I inspected it carefully. This tin can had about thirty different dents or scrapes. I noted every single one.

The next challenge was finding our way out of Boston which proved to not only be difficult, but expensive. Firstly, the scale of Boston is so tiny that, on the map, it would appears that you're driving miles, but really it's only feet. One thumb-width is about 500 feet and, before you know it, you're in Connecticut. You gotta have your eyes absolutely peeled because at 50 MPH, the map runs out quickly. We take one wrong turn out of the airport and end up paying a toll of $3.50 to drive about a quarter mile through a tunnel. Then, we end up on the Mass Turnpike heading due West (not North as intended) and square up at another toll booth and have to pay another $1.50. That's five bucks to end up West of Cambridge. We double back through the neighborhoods and downtown and finally get our bumpers facing North and South. When you see this bridge, you're heading in the right direction.

The premise of the trip was just point the car in one direction and step on the gas. Something I'm capable of doing and, armed with a keen sense of direction, distance and navigation, I figured there's not much that could really go wrong. The car was due back in 24 hours. No problem. We headed out on Highway 1 which maintains about a one to five mile distance from the ocean at all times. It would prove slow going because of morning beach-goers, but the view was much more rewarding then just hopping on the interstate and dashing up the way to Maine. We stopped in Newburyport, Mass so I could get me something to drink. I opted for some Dunkin Donuts coffee (which they call water in New England apparently) and we stopped for some photos just off of a dock in Salisbury just north of there. This is where I thought the steak was named, but had no evidence to support it. In fact, it didn't look to be a community of red meat eaters. Probably more seafood and vegetables.

It's was the perfect morning even despite a brush with Hurricane Bill that sent large waves rolling into the shores which made all beach-goers spectators not participants. Not that I really knew the difference between a rip tide and a regular Sunday morning because I don't usually see water puddling bigger than a playa lake, but the waves were pretty magnificent. My lovely wife tiptoed into the water. I stayed back and photographed.

Yeah, I suppose now looking at it, those waves are probably more of what I would expect from California. Not upstate Massachusetts. We continued up the coast to New Hampshire...Hampton to be exact. Not the Hamptons, but just Hampton. Nice beach community. However, I discovered that white trash migrates as far north as New Hampshire. I was surprised to find this cat riding alongside the main drag. The midriff is a dead giveaway. Either he's European or white trash. I diagnosed him as white trash. My lovely wife doubted my assessment saying that's he tan and looked to be in pretty good shape...suggesting that he might not be white trash because he looks to take pretty good care of himself. He's lean because he eats varmint and he's tan because he wears a midriff. That'd be the difference.

I applaud, though, his shamelessness. Dude rocked it like mad. We stopped at another beach and fired up a few pictures. My lovely wife built a small structure from the rocks nearby.


The waves crashed against the rocks and tossed a mist into the air. I told my lovely wife, "This is the kinda ish they make candles out of!" We laughed.

Onward through New Hampshire. It was the kinda stuff we only saw in magazines. Not used to seeing such natural beauty because I'm from the badlands of West Texas where it's an oddity to find a tree taller than twenty feet that hasn't been windblown to half it's height, water is virtually non-existent and it's stunningly flat and abandoned.

After crossing through Portsmouth, we arrived in Maine...the final state we'd be visiting on our venture. It was now past mid-day and travel proved to be pretty challenging because of the density of coastal population and its resulting traffic. Seemed like everywhere we pulled through was a thirty minute traffic clog. Knowing the interstate was only a mere two miles away at all times, we continued on Highway 1. Maine was more my steez. Less populus. More scenic. Densely painted with perfect coastlines, evergreens and puffy clouds. I'd live there in a second.

First stop in Maine was what is called "the Yorks" which consists of York Harbor, York Cliffs and York Beach. Because of Hurricane Bill's winds off coast, it was pushing waves over the roadway rendering it unpassable so we stopped off and got ourselves some grub. My lovely wife opted for the lobster looked ready to crawl right off the plate. We had to bludgeon it a couple of times just to make sure that it was cooked thoroughly. I had the prime rib and a Sam Adams which was spectacular.

Hunting for a lighthouse of up the coast, we continued through back roads and neighborhood streets until we dumped out into York Beach--a small boardwalk community with an arcade, a candy store and some clothiers. The lighthouse we were looking for disappeared somewhere in between. Rather than spending more time in the car looking for it, we parked at York Beach and took in some of the sights and the fat pale people in swimsuits. There must not be a great deal of sunlight in Maine.

After walking down the boardwalk, we hit up an arcade where we played a round of miniature bowling. You tossed these hard wooden balls the size of bocci balls at pins that were about halfway the width between a standard bowling pin and a broomstick. Place was so ill. I've made plans to have one installed in my home on the coast of Maine.

Despite my incredible form, I got owned by my lovely wife 47-43. Shaddup. There was a serious learning curve for a guy who sucks at regular bowling. The tendency to absolutely chunk this ball was assumed because it weighed only about four pounds. The harder you threw it, the less accurate you were, but physics would suggest that given the weight of the ball and the pins, you were going to have to throw it hard to ensure maximum destruction. It didn't work. She schooled me.

Listened to a spotlight on De La Soul on XM on the way up to Portland as we finally hopped on the interstate as daylight was becoming sparse with the clouds moving in. Portland would likely be our final stop as we wanted to see the Portland Head Lite...a famous lighthouse in South Portland.

Portland reminded me strikingly of Pennywise country...especially on this day. I was looking for ol' boy crawling out of a gutter. They all float down here, homie.

Thought about opening up a penny arcade and calling it Pennywise Arcade. My lovely wife thought of a few ideas for how we could make a living in Maine. Somewhere between a cupcake store and veterinary practice. Yeah, I have high ambitions. I'm gonna open up an arcade and make my millions one penny at a time just so I can name it after a fictitious clown from a Stephen King novel.

After about thirty more minutes of travel and enduring biblical downpour, we located the lighthouse. This was it. We spent about thirty minutes on the grounds. It was first lit in 1791 by using whale oil lamps. That's it in the background.



It was almost haunting as the Head Lite blew it's fog whistle conversationally with a nearby lighthouse to the north with the waves filling in the gaps. Hypnotized, I stood there in complete awe as moments passed.
It has been called the "most photographed lighthouse in North America." I guess I have to believe it because I'm not an authority on lighthouse photography.

After a few more photos were taken, we hopped back on the interstate to travel south back to Boston. It poured on us the entire way back in. Thanks for nothing, Bill. Seems everytime we head out on a big trip, we heading into some sort of weather. One outing on our honeymoon was disrupted by a tropical storm. Now Bill in Boston and Danny was waiting in the wings.

Beckett got slaughtered by the Yanks as we made our way back into Boston making a good excuse to call it an evening and plan our Monday in Boston.

I'm being ordered off the computer by my lovely wife. We'll continue more later.

THE ROOT DOWN BACK UP FROM A WEEK'S VACATING

Back in Texas. Amazing to be able to look 500 feet away and not see anything that's at least four stories tall. This $1.35 beer never tasted better. I spent $7.99 for a sixer of St. Arnold's tonight. The other night, off of Times Square, I put down $15 for a sixer of Sierra Nevada. It was worth it. But this St. Arnold's that I picked up by hopping in my car and driving a mile down the road and parking in a 16-spot parking lot accessible by two different traffic lanes without seeing a taxi was quite refreshing. And here I sort through all of the notes I took and want to mention on the blog and am thinking, I'll just give you a taste of NYC and Boston (and Maine, New Hampshire and Connecticut) and then throw up the rest later.

Best vacation ever, me thinks. Better than my honeymoon? Hard to say. I was with my lovely wife, so I would say that it'd be easy for me to say that I, yeah, better than the honeymoon.

If you told me I'd be scraping sea gull feces off of a boardwalk in Maine 50 hours a week, I'd start packing tonight and the car would have a full take of gas, my lovely wife and two beagles in it by 7:00 in the morning. I love the peacefulness, the serenity. How awesome, though, to experience a direct contrast by jumping into the fire of the New York City transit system only two days later. We went from Better Homes and Gardens to a solid and unforgiving punch to the groin in just 48 hours. I wouldn't have it any different.

I don't vacate, I just walk a hair slower and speak about half as much.

Ya'll be good to your neighbor.

BIG BILL THE HURRICANE

When my lovely wife and I first married, we went to Cozumel and planned the most wonderful outing to the mainland where we would walk through ancient ruins and swim in the ocean. That day, a tropical storm blasted the coast of Mexico and we spent our entire day under cover drinking free beer and watching lightning.

In February, I bought tickets to the Sawx versus the Sox in Boston for Monday night. Well, turns out someone else has a ticket to Boston...a category 4 hurricane named Bill.

Possible that this cat might just skate by New England and dust it with a little wind and rain. Or he could just land right on top of Boston and rain out the entire game. Or, this path might completely bend back to a complete 180 and head back out to sea and never hit the states. As of right now, though, the projected path takes it directly toward New England hitting portions of the Boston area on Monday morning.

Stay tuned to The Root Down...your Hurricane Big Bad Bill vs. New England headquarters.

POWER OUTAGES, SLEEPJOGGING AND OTHER CONTEMPLATIONS

Woke up at 1:25 this morning to a rumble of thunder. Finding it odd that there was thunder because, being a well-aware meteorological-centric West Texan, I didn't really believe there was much of a chance of rain at the time I went to bed. Surprised, I did my typical get up and walk the house briefly. Making sure everything's cool.

I hop back in bed and turn over as the lightning became more rampant and the thunder louder. Not but about five minutes later, the sound that could really only be described as a "deafening boom of nuclear proportions" dropped on our house. I mean it shook the house. The power leaves the house immediately. The hum of the fan silenced. My lovely wife finally wakes up in an absolute panic. I tell her we lost power. Thinking that certainly our house got struck, I grab the flashlight near the bed and begin to inspect the ceilings. I walk into the kitchen where Tux and Jax have completely shat themselves. Tucker's eyes are the size of sand dollars and Jackson's tail is wagging furiously. It's like their lives passed before them.

I open the gate and let them roam the house. Tucker begins circling the house madly. He's not well. The lightning continues providing me brief glimpses of my surroundings. I hop back in bed and await the power to return. Dead air is sleep's enemy. I mean, when there's no air moving in a house, sleep cannot exist.

Tucker jumps up into my arms. He's shaking uncontrollably. I stroke his back in hopes to calm him down. It took about an hour for him to calm when he just fell asleep. I go outside to inspect the exterior of the house for any damage. Nothing. Close, but not a direct hit. I go in and call the energy company to report the outage. The man says that he's got a couple of calls of the outage and currently there are 160 homes without power. During the call, he explains that initially he thought it to be repaired by 5:45, but then states that power should be restored by 3:00. No problem. I can deal.

I go and lay back down and attempt to sleep. An hour passes. Then, two hours pass. I hop up and decide to go check on the status outside. It's a dead calm. Nothing's happening. I hop in my car and decide to drive around the block and see if I can find anything going from the energy company. Nothing. I call them back.

This time, I'm told that it's going to be 5:45. I explain that I was told that it was going to be 3:00 before after it was initially reported to be 5:45. Being that it was now 3:30, I was pretty sure that 3:00 wasn't going to happen. And, I figure that now that it's 5:45, I'm pretty much kissing a good night's sleep away. That's wake-up for me.

I stir until about 4:15 and, in a loss of sleep and moving air, I decide to take matter into my own hands and create my own moving air by simply moving through air...as in going outside and squeezing in my scheduled four-mile outing. I was practically sleepjogging. I laced up my Nike Lunarlites which are perfect for running at night because, well, these shoes are so bright they're day.

I had some James Brown on the iPod. Good thing. Something incredibly eerie about running in a darkened neighborhood at a naturally dark hour. The shadows move around you. The JBs kept my pace up. Another thunderstorm was rolling in from the west. The lightning lit up the sky and the streets around me. It was beautiful.

I get back to the house which is dark and still. I fall down into the chair in the bedroom and kick off my Nikes. It was the most comfortable I had been all night. I started thinking about the milk in the fridge and before I could give it a second thought, I pass out.

The next three hours were much a blur. All I remember was never getting the power back and somehow crawling into work late just in time for my 9:30 meeting.

Long day to say the least where, somehow I managed to squeeze a visit to the dude who is going to perform a root canal (not to be confused with a Root Down which is much iller) on my pathetic ass. He said it's not as bad as people make it out to be. In fact, he tells me that he's had three (as he chomps his teeth to prove that they still work). Worst part, though was their sensitivity test where they tapped on my teeth and then pressed a cold piece of metal into the tops of my teeth and then had me bite down on some sort of gauze. It was hell. Hopefully it only goes up from there because that absolutely sucked.

Another storm is rolling in as I type this behind a half empty (half full) pale ale. Yummy. Here's the radar. Tell me our chances of avoiding this puppy.

Got the marathon design finalized. It's important business. It'll be our flag that, on race day, we'll wave for everyone to see. Unified in the insanity that is a 26.2 mile run. I'm going to probably hit up a limited run which will include 20 tees and probably a couple of hoodies with the design huge on the back. Also, I'm looking into printing tech shirts in hopes that we can wear them on race day. Remember to lube up those nipples. You don't want blood on your new Root Down shirt. So, here it is. We abandoned the RUN TRD look for RUN ROC with "roc" obviously meaning "White Rock" which is the lake that eats up a clean nine miles of the marathon with the super ill "TEAM ROOT DOWN" banner at the bottom. Likely, I'll inverse the black so that we can print up on dark shirts. We'll start with mediums and print up to a couple of double XLs for the bigboys.

Koolz wanted the Metallica logo because I think he's afraid that no one will get the logo. He just grew up that way. He probably wouldn't know Run DMC from Liberace. No offense, homie. You just kinda missed out on the '84 hip hop fun. Here's a photo for you to reference. Don't worry. People will recognize it.
Heading to Boston and NYC in a couple of days. Can't wait. I need a vacation so bad. Saturday we'll chill around Boston. Probably hit up some stores. Maybe pick up some sneakers to feed my habit. Yankees are in town so I imagine finding a bar to watch the game at is assumed. Sunday we'll travel up the coastline to Portland, Maine. Check out some lighthouses and property where we'll build our summer home (or just home). Monday we go see the Sox play the other Sox. Damn good tickets. Tuesday, we take a train to Manhattan. Spend some time in the Village. Wednesday we head downtown and Lady Liberty. Thursday is Broadway. Friday is Brooklyn. Saturday is back to reality. We don't vacate. We sport. Give me a week and see what I'll fit into it. Gonna be a great time. You won't hear from me because I don't love you that much. We'll have pictures o'plenty when we return. I might hit up Facebook with a couple of updates but really just to let you know how cool my vacation is and how much yours sucks.

I'm getting grumpy and mad tired. I'll finish Side D of this record and then retire. Eyes are getting heavy. Daniel, shave your head, son. Your bald spot is not quite as obvious.

TEAM ROOT DOWN DESIGN-OFF

Well, the training is in full swing. Ran tonight after a good rain with my new Camelbak in tow. Went well except my eager moronic ass bit a hole right through the Camelbak's nifty hydration system. I bite my nails too. Probably has something to do with it.

Things have been rough lately. Work's killing me, but some days I get to kill it back. Those are good days. Can't get any footing this time of year, though. We're all preparing for the fourth quarter where, idiotically enough, the music industry bails in close to 40% of their annual business and releases. Yeah, like no one's shopping for anything else in December but music. To call their wisdom infinite is a gross understatement. It's incomprehendable. So I get to spend the tail end of my summer planning for their fourth quarter which, ultimately, will fall far short of the one prior meanwhile we sit on our hands from January through June waiting for some sort of action. Geez, if it weren't for the Grammys or Michael Jackson dying, how in the world would we get anyone in through the door. Oh yeah, cheap CDs. That's right. And, boy, do we got 'em.

It's a fantastic business that can watch their profits slim at the rate of 15-20% per year and still not hold themselves accountable in any one way. It's kids downloading. It's Steve Jobs. Yeah, we still have a customer that'll pay $17 for Led Zeppelin and Beatles. Sure. They're just, uh, they're just out...uh...just trying to keep their head above water before the electric company shuts 'em off. But they'll recover and we can expect them to pay $17 once again. Yeah. We're down 15% ever year for the last five years, but we're going in the right direction. We know that it'll turn around.

I ran into a former employee tonight. Well, not really into, but rather walked by. Reminded me of the dinosaurs that, in some corners, still operate today. There's some folks in the industry that still believe that profits are expected, business will happen and good music is always worth buying. They buried themselves. They couldn't think themselves out of bed in the morning so you certainly can't expect them to drive an entire industry. I remember some cat reppin' Def Jux at NARM a few years back spoke of a world where music was all digital and the digital distribuion of music was the new reality. People would have virtual in-stores, all music would fit on the tip of toothpick and music in a physical form would become largely extinct. They boo'd and hissed. I remember hearing people afterwards saying, "He was a total dumbass" and "He didn't know who he was talking to." Who? People that rely on the physical good for profit? Maybe he knew exactly who he was talking to. I mean, no one really makes money except for the artist when it comes to digital. Record labels make nothing. Distribution is non-existent. It's run by two nincompoops in a room in Omaha. They needed the physical good, but since then, they've done nothing to innovate or perpetuate it. They've only done what they could to perpetuate their profits. Yeah, the foretelling at that keynote was not some Orwellian future where we all had flying cars and all had TV screens on the inside of our foreheads. Nah. The future is now. That being said, you can still sell $7.99 CDs to some cat. Still cheaper than downloading. And, when you hit $3.99, people don't even think. The wallets just open with gratuity. But $15.99? $24.99 for the White Album? C'mon now. You can't even fill up your car for twenty five bucks.

But I digress.

Trying to fix myself before I step into this training biz. We hit a three miler (tonight), four miler on Wednesday, three miler on Friday and then five on Saturday. It's like everyday, I hit a new personal record. My calves are strengthening, but must not have stretched well tonight. Still crampy. Taking up bananas. Still not totally with it, but man, I used to eat absolutely no fruit. Now it's an orange, apple and banana a day at the very least. Definite improvement.

As a commitment to my lovely wife, I told her I'd get my balky ankle checked out before going into this. Well, have yet to do that, but will do my best before the end of the week. I would think that "devestation" would be the best way to summarize my feelings if that was the end of it. But the training is intensive. Over the next 18 weeks, I'll do 72 runs equalling over 450 miles at the end of it. Someone asked me if I've lost any weight yet? Are you kidding me? Hell, I hope so, but you don't run 450 miles to lose weight. You do it because you're sick in the head.

So, the ankle will get checked out. Cracked a tooth down to the gum because I don't take out my frustrations by beating people in the face. Instead, I grind my teeth at night. We've talked about this before. Yes, I'm a bruxer. Grinding your teeth at night is so gangsta. So I'll need to cap it off or something. I kid you not...I haven't been to a dentist in well over ten years. No telling what that cat's gonna see when he raises the hood tomorrow. "So, does your therapist recommend eating cinder?" I used to be so healthy. Never had a cavity. Never broke a tooth. Never wore braces. I'll probably leave with a grill like Weezy.

Giving up on Red Sox baseball until I go to Boston in two weeks. Hell, that's about 12 days in counting. Geez!

Need to shave my neck hair. That has nothing to do with running, but everything to do with everything else. Playing softball two nights a week, jogging four. Sabbath stays holy. Growing the beard out during the training. Sure I won't be able to endure it too long, but as beards have almost a spiritual quality in my journeys, I'll likely own one until the day. Biblically, I believe to voluntarily remove one's beard is a display of mourning. In my case, it'll certainly be a display of arrival and then I'm gonna put a hurting on 26 miles of Dallas roadway.

Team Root Down needs two designs to move forward with for our shirts. I gotta contact (thanks, Wil) and will soon order shirts. Yes, Sarah, mediums included. Gonna try to sell them for a profit at $5 as opposed to a loss at $5. That profit will go towards the journey. Junk like a replacement for my Camelbak hydrator which I broke tonight. These Asics that I'm eyeing for the big day. Jogging shirts, shorts (yeah, the short kind), socks, Vaseline, magic jelly beans, etc. For such an elemental sport, this ish really adds up. Also looking at one of those 1GB Shuffles that just clip on with some nice wrap-over buds. Some of that money might also go to cover the registration costs. Likely one of the designs will also include a quote from my grandmother: "There are surely other things you can do that would bring that much satisfaction. I wondered why not golf? Any other sport."

I love her dearly. So, firstly, we have the OG, original gangsta design. I put this one up a long time back. I still stands as is. It'll likely be the entire front of the shirt as big as I can print it. We'll call this one "rootprints."

Then, one of my personal favorites for obvious reasons. We'll call this one the "Run, turd!" Fashioned after or appropriating for my own use, the old Run DMC logo's never looked better. Obviously, TRD stands for Team Root Down. We're still looking for members. Capable members. "I'm the king of rock, there is none higher!" This can be printed on white or you could go illy still and print it on black with the letters in white, but still with the red bars.

And then, lastly, you have the old Ride the Lightning look. Most likely would be white on black instead of what you see here. I was just too lazy. I think this one's pretty tight and, plus, it comes with the snazzy slogan. I usually avoid slogans, but was thinking something really needed to accessorize one of the designs. This one's for all my mullets and metalheads. All my Dream Theater heads. All my Megadeth peeps.

So hit me up with your two picks on the designs via email or comments below. I'm looking to have them available for purchase near the end of September.

WHEN THE MUSCLE GOES FLAT AND THE HUSTLE GOES SPLAT

Had a hard night last night. Progress is slow going at this point. I got to three miles steadily (but still not what I would consider the "steady three") and last night I had a punishing run at about 9:00PM. The sun was down, the roads still barely lit, 88 degrees. Warm breeze. By the second mile, my back had completely locked up on me and my calves were on fire. By the end of the second mile, my jog had been reduced to almost a crawl. But still, I remained. I kept the legs moving. Not sure if this is a "wall" that joggers refer to. Pretty sure that doesn't happen between mile two and mile three. This would be more of a speed bump.

But it'd be enough last night to trip up my jog. My schedule's pretty brutal right now. Jog on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Softball (usually a doubleheader) on Tuesday and Thursday. That leaves the Sabbath for resting. Pretty sure my calves are a softball related ache since, well, I never really stretch before playing ball. No more doing anything without stretching.

My lovely wife drew me a epsom salt bath last night. I've only put my fat ass in a tub about three times since we've been married. Last night it was well deserved. She takes good care of me. The back pains are frustrating. Barely slept last night. Feels like I took five Nolan Ryan fastballs to the lower back. Every time I move, it tightens up and leaves me almost with little breath to even grunt. Friday will be better. Even if it won't, I have to tell myself that.

Must get the Team Root Down shirts pressed up for distribution. Wil, any word on that contact?

Thinking of a new mix that revolves around the concept of "rappers having bad days." Let's face it, for every good day a rapper has, he has two to three bad ones. You can see right through all that gold and Maximas. Rappers got problems. Some they bring on themselves and others are brought on them. Del has to ride the bus which he absolutely hates in "The Wacky World of Rapid Tranit" and Kwest gets busted at home with his girlfriend when her father comes home in "Daddiez Home." And rappers have a beautiful way of articulating their bad days. Probably won't be 100% hip hop, but certainly focused on it. And Halloween is right around the corner too. Gotta get that mix going.

Thursday. Hmm. I hate Thursdays. Probably more than Monday. Mondays have so much promise. Thursdays are like Friday Eve. Friday, I go in front of the board and tell 'em what I've done right. It's like a firing squad. At 8AM.

TEN YEARS AFTER: DE LA SOUL IN THE GETDOWN

(puts on Ill Communication on vinyl which has been tastefully remastered)


Friday at just before noon, I hopped in my car solo and put on the blitz toward Dallas which was the promised land as far as I was concerned on Friday because, that night, De La Soul was going on at House of Blues. I get there with a little time to have a few drinks and some dinner before heading downtown for the show. We're grubbing at Taco Cabana and I get a text from Wil asking my location. Last I heard, he wasn't going to be there so I was delightfully surprised that he was gonna be there. Ten years ago, we caught De La in Denver. Ten years later in Dallas.


Saw some cat lose his cash to a bum underneath Central posing as a parking attendant. Most gangsta thing I've seen in a bit. That's probably because I live in the Yellow and nothing hood happens here except for meth trafficking and vandalism. I mean, I'm from the panhandle and I wouldn't fall for that garbage. Whatta sucka.


We're out front where the line was non-existent and this cat walks up to me, notices my stylish Root Down lowrider tee (still got some, homeslice, if you're interested) and asks, "What y'know about the Root Down, man?" I stand there for a second thinking of a pretty obvious answer, but not wanting to assume we're talking about the same thing. To buy me some thought, I ask him to repeat it. "Huh?"

"I said whatta y'know about the Root Down? That's a sick shirt."


"Uh, I write for it."


"Dope. That's my fam." (fam would be short for family, but is really to represent someone that you have a close affiliation with, normally not a blood relative).


"Yeah." I stand there like a dumbass for a second thinking do I know this cat? I ask, "Oh yeah, how so?" He said "I'm DeLoach from Strange Fruit Project (Texas hip hop). Yeah, I'm down with them."

Them? Bro, it's just me. Now, I recalled doing a review on one of my year-end lists a few years back of the Strange Fruit Project. I imagine that's the only way he would know of The Root Down. I nod awkwardly and shoot him a half-grin and walk away.

We walk into the concert hall and it's perfect. The floor has a small assembly of hip hop heads. Most of them in huddles talking about real hip hop and reminiscing. It was like a gathering of likeminded and jaded hip hop heads. Most of them slightly between a scowl and a smile. Like they're somewhere between a rant on Lil' Wayne and a beautiful memory of the first time they heard Stakes is High. And, unlike most concerts I've gone to, this one was like walking into a living room filled with friends, except I knew no one. The fact that you were there and paid the price of admission, elevated your coolness to a level that could not be matched. You were instantly fam. Jacko, who was an awesome date who provided fine conversation and a safe ride home, and I meandered around the crowd. I was looking for Wil.


Then, right there before me, the great Wil Hall with his 11 year-old son, Bijan, in tow--both sporting the Daunda garb (need the hook up, Wil). It was Bijan's first show and, Wil, doing the right thing, raised his kid on De La from an early age. To Bijan, this was like finally seeing the Beatles. Shy kid, but I would be to if I was the only cat younger than 25 walking around at a De La Soul show.


I've determined that I'm simply too impatient anymore to watch anyone perform that's not on the face of the ticket. Now, when I got my ticket in the mail, it said "DE LA SOUL" and no one else. Reality is that cling-ons and opening acts are just life at any show and especially at a hip hop show. Tonight's little dingleberry was a guy named Kenan Bell. Hmm, that's a little rough. But let's roll with it. Some hipster with this big ol' bright Nikes with the tongue flipped out and Kanye sunglasses, hat cocked off to the side. Lots of attitude. He pulled with him a three-piece band which played over a dat which I thought to be a little weird.


Let's make something perfectly clear here, when you're opening for cats that have put twenty years into the game. You'd be better off just telling a few jokes, buying everyone a round of drinks and then just put on Black Sheep's A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. Dude was eager and wanted to speak his clout, but I'll go on record to say that I've never been impressed by an opening act that I wasn't expecting to see meaning: if you ain't on the poster outside, you might as well just find a stool at the bar. Wil said that I've become pretty jaded. It's one of the wonderful biproducts from working in the industry. You become pretty cynical of the whole rap game. It's all fake. It's not real. Nothing's real and rappers' attempts to keep it real are laughable at the very best. The rapper's plight is a futile and bizarrely comical irony. Kenan Bell is more a cartoon character up there than a rapper. While he passionately strives for the audience's respect by desperately reaching for reminiscent moments about De La Soul between his songs, no one in the audience believes him and they kinda roll their eyes like, "Next." By about the third song and very little applaud, Kenan and his band are reduced to the "De La is just about to come out, ya'll, we promise" act. Then please see yourself to the side.


But no.


The kid playing the keys goes and pulls some old lady who is, by his proclamation, down with De La. I'm not sure who she was and he could've been truthful, but to everyone in the audience, she was just an old lady. And then there was a blonde girl who was, uh, I don't know, about seven months pregnant. They bring them out from sidestage. He sits the old lady down at the keys and the pregnant girl stands center stage and he tells her just to dance along.


Awkward.


The blonde pregnant girl starts doing these weird gyrations like she's dancing for money and I keep thinking, "Someone tell her that she doesn't need to do this and it's totally not worth it for the audience." She danced through the whole song and, meanwhile, every iPhone in the house was snapping shots of this chick dancing. No one, at this point, is watching Kenan and friends. In fact, to prove it, I searched "pregnant blonde De La Soul Dallas" and found this tweet. Wil and I were halfway between a gutbusting laugh and tearful breakdown. What the hell?


Kenan ends his set without anymore acts of rookie dumbassery and it's met with a collective sigh from the audience. Bring on De La. Next was some guy who simply was in too deep and panted as he moved from one side of the stage to the other. He kept yelling into mic and had us doing crowdcalls to make sure we were aware and awake. Here's a tip, if you wanna hear us rock it, bring out De La. His "set" (which was more a Fat Man Scoop impersonation) lasted about fifteen minutes and then, again, another sigh from the crowd. The Dallas crowd is a funny one in this respect because, while I like the Denver crowd and the Austin crowd because they just like to have fun, sometimes you respect the other side of the experience--the crowd that just has too many road miles to act like you're into something. For me, it's what I would liken to an Apollo-like experience. In Austin, the stinky little white kids will dance to anything. In Denver, the don't know any difference sometimes between the opening act and the headliner so it could take an opening act halfhours to wrap up because they're getting too much love. Dallas, though, like the many times before, meet anyone outside of the headliner with this "get lost" coldness. I used to think it was played, but tonight, I'm in the same boat and I'm thankful they're as discerning as they are.


I head to the bar in the down time and am walking back to my spot and I hear some dude holler out, "The Root Down!" as I walk by. I kinda shoot off a half-look at it's DeLoach from earlier. I talk to him again and kinda work to straighten out how he knows my work and how, apparently, I'm fam to him. Turns out, he was referring to The Root Down which is a production company out in LA that puts on these hype parties out in Cali. I knew of them, but assumed that, certainly, he was talking about the dope-ass blog that you're now reading. We spoke for a second and he mentioned his album. Checked it out earlier this evening and it's pretty ill. Only available digitally, though. Rappers don't even shop a physical good anymore. Game's changing, folks. Here's a picture of the cover art. Try not finding it in the racks of your favorite record store.

It would be probably another thirty minutes before the house lights would go down and De La would take stage. Trust me this, it'd be worth every second of the wait and every mile down the road. I had every intention to make note of the setlist, but unfortunately, I was shaking my ass so much, it made it a little difficult. With them on stage were about ten instrumentalists who provided the backdrop to Maseo's turntables. Everyone had so much energy. Pos was on fire. Maseo was getting down. Trugoy, well, he just stood there, but dude's big. What can he do?

With controlled exuberance, they blew through their standard set which included a hype version of "Jenifa" and a super-nice version of "Pass the Plugs" while the band played the break to "Pass the Peas" by the JBs. The first portion of the set focused around Three Feet material as this marks the 20th anniversary. But they hit everything from Three Feet to Grind Date.

As much as I hate to say things like "my personal highlight" because I know you really don't care, my personal highlight was the performance of "I Am I Be" where Pos came out to a dark stage illuminated only by the crowd's cellphones and spit that golden verse that I've recited a thousand times. At one point, Pos hops into the crowd from the side stage and makes his way toward the middle of the crowd as he spits verse and, as he's meandering through the crowd, you see people moving toward him, throwing an arm around him and posing for a picture. As he approaches the stage, there's Bijan wide-eyed and jaw at the floor. Pos throws his arm around Bijan and keeps rocking his verse. Lucky kid.

The harmony was temporarily broken up by two dudes shoving each other behind us. F'real, who fights at a De La show? Dallas is a little uptight sometime.

All in all, the show probably lasted about an hour forty-five and I bought the obligatory tour shirt on the way out. I would've bought one of everything at the merch table, but it was shockingly absent. Their merch table was a long table with a box of shirts on it. "Twenty bucks," said some cat from Kenan Bell. Easy.

Wil mentioned in a post later on Facebook that he believes "hip hop will be the only genre saved by its elders." I thought of that notion for a while afterwards and how true it possibly is. Hip hop has always put their future in the trusted hands of the next generation. They've always passed the torch, but can they save the genre from its ruin? It would seem unlikely. Delay it, maybe. But not likely to save it. Rock and roll has always been pushed forward by the sounds of its youth. Blues and jazz, even have reinvented themselves by the progressive advancement of its youthful core. But hip hop's youthful core, so to speak, only regurgitates what has already been done. The problem is, for the older cats, hip hop is a youthful game. It's a sport. And there's a point when you're just not relative because your hair's turning grey and you got kids (Beastie Boys), know one rhymes like that anymore (Rakim), you're just not as good looking as you used to be (LL). Rappers will get old and what's more useless in a young man's game than the old vet? I can talk about the first four De La records until I'm blue in the face, but it doesn't make them any more relavant. I said it before and I'll say it again, it's gonna take a lot more than a dude in Texas with a blog to bring it back. But God knows I'm trying.

Before the De La set, some cat walked up behind us and struck up conversation when he saw Wil with his son. His sentiments were much in the same vein to say that the garbage on the radio is such a far cry from what we fought for growing up and how he doesn't let his son listen to any radio. Like Wil, he's been raising his kids on De La. It got me thinking that, not only will its elder acts save the genre, but it's elder fans. Over the years, I can name virtually hundreds of cats that I've shared a hip hop memory with either over the first Pharcyde record, an Atmosphere show, a debate about which Public Enemy is the best, but those cats don't listen to it anymore. It was, eh, an outfit they wore for a year or so or a book they read over a summer. I'm reading a book that likens the hip hop experience (specifically to a white listener) as a tourist attraction. Something that we like the convenience of going to and exiting without truly connecting to the experience. In many ways, I think that applies far beyond the white listener even though, yes, I'm white and, yes, I listen and so were many of the folks I'm speaking of. Not that necessarily you have to commit to the fight to preserve the genre as a listener, but I would contend that it'll come down to the audience that is currently, say, thirty years or older that will ultimately help preserve this hip hop game. I mean, we're raising kids now. Not that I think it's as important to instilling values, setting the foundation for a purposeful life, but I've always found that a steady diet of hip hop has given me perspective. It's in the hands of all of us older cats. Know your role. Each generation has its music and it's only worth something if you pass it on. Our parents gave us Beatles, they gave us the Stones, they gave us James Brown. What's our musical legacy and are we committed to passing the torch to our kids?

It's Tuesday and, for me, it's hell week. Let's go.

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.