SARAH'S PHOTOS FROM TAOS EXPEDITION

Courtesy of Sarahtopia.Blogspot, here's just a few of the photos from the trip. Firstly, yes, that's my new hat. It's hella warm. I bought that sucka for only 12 bucks off some weird woman who told Dale he was "beautiful" in a hat he tried on. So overwhelmed I guess from her compliment, Dale bought the freaking thing. She didn't tell me I was beautiful, but she didn't need to. I know I am. Gonna have to pack it up until next season though. Winter just really didn't come to Texas this year. Here's Dale modelling his new hat and, I agree, from one man to another, he looks does look beautiful in it. We were also modelling two new harmonicas as played "C Jam" for about half an hour in a break between domino hands.

The great thing for Dale and I about a harmonica after spending years of our lives playing bass, is they're mad portable. You don't need a hatchback. Just a back pocket. I wish, though, they had harmonicas with more of a bass register. That'd be the one I'd tote. Danny was having a difficult night at the table. We'll blame it on the slight concussion leading to an imbalance that threw off his domino vision and ability to count past four.

March Madness is off to a blinding start. Yes, I correctly picked Western Kentucky with 9 points. Yes, I'm that good. Still in last place, though. I really thought Radford had a chance.

Celtics get Kage back tonight against the Spurs in San Antone. The aforementioned Danny will be in the house watching it live. Jealous. Guarantee my seat here at the house will be more comfortable, cheaper and a better view.

THE NEW PROJECT

After conceding on the Fear project, I've decided to shift my focus to one of two different projects. I have lined up material and readied a concept for Black Moon's Enta da Stage which is a bonafied classic as well as the undisputable masterpiece Low End Theory by A Tribe Called Quest. Both are extremely similiar in their heavy reliance on the elements of jazz and funk. Hell, if you listen to them today, they're more jazz than anything new that's coming out today. In the history of jazz, these two records have to be mentioned. Between the two, they probably singlehandedly (between the two? doublehandedly?) slowed the extinction of those old jazz recordings. Who in the world would know Ronnie Laws' "Tidal Wave" if it weren't for Black Moon? Or "Oblighetto" by Brother Jack McDuff? You play those for any jazz head, they'll fall asleep. You play them in front of a handful of hip hop heads, you're likely to incite a riot. That's because of these two albums. Donald Byrd, Cannonball Adderly, John Klemmer, Grover Washington, Lee Dorsey, Lafayette Afro Rock Band, Ahmad Jamal, Lonnie Smith, Art Blakey, James Brown, Grant Green, New Birth, Weather Report, Freddie Hubbard, Paul Humphrey...they're all in there. In the same way that Del's I Wish My Brother George Was Here was, for all intents and purposes, was a funk record, so these are jazz records. Betta recognize, homie.

Looking to start with Black Moon though. Often overlooked and even more often underappreciated.

The tournament begins today. Today is why March is the greatest month of the year. There's no competing with it. 16 games on the board for today. This would be the perfect day to skip work. In celebration of the start of the tournament, how about a little lesson in dunking. This clip is why I have always advised against the two-handed slam. It's a lesson in momentum (which is the ratio between weight and velocity, I believe--Dale?), inertia and, ultimately, gravity. It's the brutal reality of the two-handed dunk. Also, the brutal reality of why white dudes should just stick to the layup.

I AIN'T TOUCHING "FEAR OF A BLACK PLANET"

After busting a throw-up on Okayplayer (the definitive music spot and a super spot for diggers' input and advice) inquiring as to the origins of one of the baddest records on Fear of a Black Planet, "War at 33 1/3", I got nuttin'. I mean, dude's couldn't even name the drums on that track. One guy said, "I think the cymbals/hi-hats are Donald Byrd," while another cat added, "the problem is the Bomb Squad's technique required so many damn samples for just one song, thats its almost impossible without liner notes." There's probably 10-15 samples playing at the same time and not one head can name one. If you're ready for your head to explode, click the following. And, this is just the instrumental...imagine it with Chuck D on top of it. Just don't make 'em like they used to. Never will.

After the thread ended with 130+ views and nothing conclusive, I determined that, without properly breaking down one of the greatest records on the greatest hip hop record ever recorded, I conceded and wrote Owen an email simply stating, "The Fear project has been permenantly suspended. I will never attempt to replicate the greatness of the Bomb Squad. Fear is the perfect record and nothing I can do would ever make it better. The Bomb Squad is greatness. I'm sorry for ever thinking I could do it." Chomp on this trailer for Copyright Criminals. Ain't seen it, but the trailer looks mad ill.

Don't wait on the Fear mix. It ain't happening. I got some other treats for you instead. I love you.

THE NEW SHIRT...NEED A PRINTER

In honor of Michael Jackson's nose challenged this last week to endure fifty sold out shows in London (yep, fifty), I'm looking for a printer that'll do a limited run of the above Jacksons tee. Yep, the whole gang is there and look at Michael's beautiful nose when it, well, uh...when it existed. And that glorious afro. Dude was holding it down in a hard way, no doubt. I'm shopping it out to any printer that'll give me a run of fiddy shirts all on white in varying sizes...front only.

Gold's Gym turns into a prison yard after 9PM. I mean, it gets mad hood during that last hour. There'll be one dude on a machine and then ten other dudes around him talking. Like only 10% of the people there during that hour are committed to fitness. The other 90% are just mad dogging each other. Not only that, I've simply had it with all the dudes checking themselves out in the mirror. There was a dude last night that was walking back in forth in front of the mirror bobbing his head to his music and flexing to himself. Dude looked to be my age and I just kept thinking, "where did this guy go wrong coming up that he finds it necessary to stare at his stupid tribal art tattoo in a long mirror at the gym for minutes at a time?" I like working out with the old men. That are just stick to the raquetball courts.

Considering taking up handball.

THE CHOPS ARE GONE

I'm regretting to inform the 16 year old grocery sacker who, out of adoration for the fanciest chops this side of the Mississippi said, "Love the chops, dude. I was just admiring them," that I finally knocked 'em down to a sportier and speedier model. Not before, however, we logged them and submitted them for the USA Beard Team's consideration (Jacko) in the Sideburns Division. They were getting to the length that they could be braided which is pretty thick. I fluffed them in the sunlight the other day and my lovely wife claimed that "all kinds of stuff flew out of them." I was betting it just to be a little West Texas dust, but you never know what mite might have been nesting in there.

So we shaved them down and shaped them into a sharp blade design--a look I'm not really fond of. It's a little more "boyband" that I usually wear them, but we'll see. Not that I have ever likened my burns to that of pansy Jason Priestly, but in my semi-weekly search for images of Jason Priestly to use in an upcoming collage I'm working on to honor his acting career, I came across this look which, minus the moronic looking goatee (which I would contend that almost all goatee's a slightly moronic--c'mon, it's like a "mini-beard"). Anyhow, this is the blade look. Mine are better, though. Jason, you're just played, son.
Mondays are freaking awesome. At least the coffee's good this morning.

MARCH 24TH

After over four years...dude's back.

SATURDAY MORNINGS ARE FOR WHOOPING SOME TAIL

Coltrane whooped quite a bit of tail in his career. In fact, he put the freaking beatdown on a number of heads. Bought a Coltrane record last night at the store. That's the only reason I mention.

You know, I love Saturday mornings. Not having any hard deadline at 8AM and nothing but a tall pot of coffee. I have snow on the ground this morning. Almost poetic that two weeks ago, I was in getting ready to ski Taos in the very worst condition I've ever seen it and, now, they have 20 inches of fresh snow. They say that skiing is a sport that, when done correctly, is only about 30% exertion and 70% natural motion and gravity. That's assuming that conditions are suitable. Skiing in the southern United States is 70% good timing. I lifted a couple of photos from Sarahtopia (ill) where Sarah posted some images from the trip. Here we were at Eske's where I enjoyed a beautiful Reuben which sat a juicy split sausage atop a mound of the gnarliest sauerkraut you've ever tasted on a bun laced with dark seeded mustard which explains the resulting photo. Reubens can have that effect.

Then, after a couple of ales, Danny and I were happy to recreate the cover of Who's Next on Eske's western wall.
No public urination was committed in the creation of this photo. I promise you.

I'm coughing up brown crud this morning that can eat through plastic. Doctor visit? Maybe.



Madoff should have his greedy little hands cut off. Let's keep it Islamic.

The headline reads this morning, "Rapping reaches new heights" as rapping flight attendant offers "free entertainment as you buckle up your seatbelts." He raps the pre-flight instructions. One passenger just said, "I've never experienced a rapping flight attendant before. And I don't like rap, but that was pretty good." I'm going to go run my head into a concrete wall now.

An old colleague of mine moved to Seattle recently from the Yellow and I noticed everytime he's on Facebook, dude insists on telling us how incredibly happy he is now. Like he's just rubbing it in your face how awesome Seattle is and now not awesome the Texas Panhandle is. I'll give you a sampling from the day he first moved up there. From the top:

_____ has made it into Seattle and is trying to get settled in.
_____ is on the job hunt.
_____ is sleepy.
_____ is really happy he moved to Seattle.
_____ had a fun hike today on Mr. [assuming he means "Mt."--if not, that's a good joke] Rainier :)
_____ needs some mo' hikin'. [uh, okay...on Mr. Rainier?]
_____ wants his friends from A-town to move up here to Seattle :) [like it's that easy]
_____ is enjoying a cool, slightly moist day in beautiful Seattle.
_____ knows the Universe is taking care of me :)
_____ hopes that Cali legalizes weed :) God bless the West Coast :D [hmm. okay.]
_____ made a little bit of money at the casino last night :)
_____ needs to get some sh*t done today...
_____ be movin' into a new place tomorrow :)
_____ is trying to adjust.
_____ feels strangely serene...
_____ is smokin' and enjoying this fine neighborhood.
_____ is gonna go chill down by the canal.
_____ finally got a desk for his computer!
_____ can't sleep when there is so much to do here!! [yea!]
_____ is applying everywhere but can't seem to find a job!! AHH!!
_____ loves Seattle and is happier than he has been in a long time. [less exuberant "yea"]
_____ is happy to have Seattle's police cheief as the new Drug Czar.
_____ misses his friends back home but ain't never going back. [how awesome of you]
_____ is enjoying the beautiful weather in Seattle.
_____ just ate two enormous pot cookies. [hope you find a job soon]
_____ rode his bike down to the beach today :)

Something tells me this monumentous elation soon will dissolve into brutal reality of trying to pay rent in Seattle (which boasts a cost of living 31% higher than the national average) with no steady income. Good luck to him, but I'd spend less time on Facebook and more time in the classifieds. It ain't my life though.

Man, this Coltrane is going down good.

Michael Jackson announces that he'll be doing 50 shows in London and reports are that they sold out. How in the hell is he going to do 50 shows without his nose falling off?


I mentioned to Owen yesterday that I'm seriously considering unmixing Fear of a Black Planet and that, additionally, I should be committed to a padded cell. What I've done so far in my ventures has felt like, uh, I don't know...homework. Fear would be like a Masters thesis. It represents one of the most intensive sampling masterpieces in the history of recorded music. I know that I've often romanticized about this record on The Root Down, but I do it not because I like hearing myself type (?). I do it because it's warranted and deserved. If one was to listen to Fear in the way that prefer (through headphones--always), you'll hear the beauty in this record. At times, it's a brutal assault of grunts, shouts, screams--a horrific collage simply composed out of sounds. It's layering of sample on top of sample on top of sample is like a messy puree of James Brown, Parliament, Sly and Family Stone, MLK and Malcolm X. But altogether, it's one of the very tightest hip hop records you'll ever hear in your lifetime. It shreds, slices and demolishes every record in its path. When Fear came out in March of 1990 (man, twenty years next year!), the only thing that was remotely close to that sound was PE's prior recording It Takes a Nation of Millions and even it couldn't even hold a match to the intensity of Fear as a recording. The trick with unmixing Fear and then putting it back together again is adding to the integrity of the recording and not distracting from it. When a recording, in my eyes, is perfect in every way possible, you gotta be really careful if you're going to make changes or additions to it. So that's the challenge I'll be taking on. I'm starting to dig through what I got and see what I'm short in samples. Just pulled Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" this morning for the mix. Yeah, this is gonna be dope.

I'm talking about the record Fear of a Black Planet, not this post on the Tube. The guilt of the white man. Geez, dude's played.

Think I might go for a walk in the frozen tundra that is the Yellow dreaming of places like Seattle where the weather is nice and I don't have a job to worry about.

AN "AW" MOMENT FOR YOU THIS FRIDAY

My nephew's the best. Parker J came up for my birthday last weekend and, like a bad uncle, I'm just getting around to throwing up these pictures. Dude rocks hard the Root Down bongo tee. Of course, no Root Down kiddie shirt is complete with out the small smear of saliva near the collar.
Duke's got the "cute" gene. Whatta heartbreaker. And he's awfully opinionated too. Just like his father. And, well, like his uncle for that matter. Here, he let's me know what he thinks of my new sideburns. I know, little man, my lovely wife hates them also.

Uh oh! I'm gonna have to fire off the "socks with sandals" alert on Parker. Maybe he's European. Only kids who don't dress themselves can pull off that look. God bless'm.

SLEEPLESS...WATCHING "THE RUINS"...CONTEMPLATING THE NOTION OF ARTISTIC MURDER

So, we got Direct TV last week and, along the way, I ended up meeting a host of idiots who now have my freaking number. Direct TV's good--better than cable which is really the only reason we picked it up. I though, though, that technology had advanced past the dish that casts a shadow that a family of six can picnic under. It's like a freaking golf umbrella. Nonetheless, we got it and it came with a free three months of these "premium" movie channels which, I'm finding, is really no more than a few Emmy-nominated shows packaged in between about 22 hours of a movie rotation that you could only find at the worst movie store in the country. It's like the movies that you would find on the bottom shelf at the back of a truck stop an hour out of Omaha with a sign that reads FREE WEEK RENTAL WITH PURCHASE OF A MEDIUM FOUNTAIN DRINK. Last night, during prime time, it was something like What About Bob?, Die Hard 2 and Point Break. People pay money for this crap?

So among their killer lineup of sequels, throwaways and "Taxi Cab Confessions," they're championing the recent thriller, The Ruins. Let me tell you something, when you're laying on the couch at 2AM on a work night wondering what happened to your sleep schedule almost sobbing in your own anguish, there's only one last thing that'll push you over the edge (aside from someone running in and punching you in the nose) and that is this stupid movie. I'll spoil the whole thing for you so you don't have to invest the time. I'll do it in one sentence. Stupid tourists in Mexico visit ancient Mayan ruins and then get eaten alive by vines. It took 90 minutes for director Carter Smith do to what I did in fifteen words. This movie was absolutely excrutiating. I started thinking while I was mindlessly watching the stupidity: whoever wrote this sure fooled a ton of people on the way up. I mean, if I pitched a movie about "killer vines," my lovely wife would probably leave me...with nothing. So I get up this morning after falling back asleep in my bed and I look up this movie to find out who wrote this garbage and it's an adult (yeah, I couldn't believe it either--in fact, the dude's 43 years old) named Scott Smith who also penned the hella-dope A Simple Plan. See A Simple Plan. I promise you it's ill.

Scott Smith wrote a story about killer vines and managed to find hundreds of people to help him make the movie, but found a studio that would fund it and then got a nationwide opening and, despite probably horrible reviews, he got it into HBO's rotation. Of course, we're finding that HBO's rotation also still has To Wong Foo in it.

You see movies like this and you realize that it's totally possible to make that remake of Children of the Corn. I'm starting pre-production next year. Be on the lookout.

RE-UPPING "MUSIC TO FILE YOUR TAXES TO"

Because we're about a month under the gun for getting your cash to the greed machine that is the IRS, I'm throwing the Mad Money Mix back up for your downloading pleasure. I originally posted it some two months ago and just in two months, the whole landscape has changed. We used to say, "Dude, this ain't 2003 anymore." Now we say, "Bro, this ain't January anymore." The layoffs are hitting feverish levels and bankruptcies are like a freakin' way of life! It changes everyday. You betta buckle in because this is gon' be one bumpy mess. Anyhow, I was listening to it just the other day on the way to work and I heard it in a way that I hadn't ever heard it when I was mixing it down. Interesting in how, within the hour and forty-five minutes of the mix, how dynamically different the messages are within. It's the Gucci Crew's almost lusting for money, the Geto Boys and their almost anthemic "I Ain't With Being Broke" where Willie D tackles the morality in his hustle. Dude's pissed because the prostitutes in his neighborhood are making more money than he is. Bushwick recounts getting brought into this life with nothing. Even the rats and roaches dine better. Scarface considers suicide or, maybe even homocide, as a result of his financial stresses. He wants to make an honest living, but ain't no one hiring kids from the ghetto so he contemplates illegal means. You have the somber moanings of Ray Davies and the Kinks as the taxman comes and sweeps up all of his luxuries. You have a young Biggie Smalls bustin' raps about getting his cash and rising to the top of the empire. You have Puff's "Benjamins" which is the arrival at the top of the empire. Swimming pools, condos, Bentleys. Funkadelic paying homage to the "Funky Dollar Bill," Jay-Z taking his pimp game to new levels, John Lee Hooker coming home from the war with not even a penny to his name and, as a result, a loneliness like he's never known becomes his reality, Rakim on the come-up as he's "thinkin' of a master plan" in the classic "Paid in Full," Showbiz and AG keeping the pockets fat, the Clipse and their boastful "Mr. Me Too," Al Pacino in Scarface depicting an immigrant's "American dream" where a fascination with money and power leads to his ultimate demise all crescendoing to Lil Wayne's classic (yeah, I said it) "A Milli" where Weezy raps of his financial exploits over a sparse, bass-laden backdrop. In the truest sense of his rap, dude pushed a million first week off of a song that didn't even a hook. Bruce Springsteen can't even push half a mill off of his newest masterpiece. That's when you know you got it.

So, for those late filers or those who simply passed the first time around, here's your chance to get your grimeys on something that's truly tax-deductable. Well, actually, there's no real tangible value to it so technically it's not deductable. I'll check with Clint, though, and see if there's a tax break for those who download. Click the cover art above to start saving! Let's see if the Bank of Obama can make good on his master plan.

32 IS THE NEW 27

30 was the new 20 a couple years back, but life is hard these days. The economy sucks and there's nothing but bad news everywhere you turn. Looks like that gap closed a bit over the last couple of years.

This man and I share the same name (first and last). He's a plumber in Northern California with 6 years of experience and apparently goes by the nickname "Morphine." In his case, 32 might be the new 48.

Another year down. Not really unlike the last one, really. My mother even still put JEFF IS 31 on my birthday cake. Guess I'm turning back to the clock in her eyes too...or at least managing to pause Father Time like Zack Morris.

I was listening to Tribe's Low End Theory last night and caught myself thinking back to when I was in grade school with my Sony headphones (always under the ballcap so that it created a "noise-cancellation" effect and no outside noise could make it in--not even the constant wind of West Texas). Those moments of nostalgia are a blessing to me. It's like Uncle Rico or Andrew Dice Clay doing everything they can to relive their youth. I suppose it's how I keep in touch with that stupid kid in me that insists he knows everything and, one day, that red carpet's gonna be rolled out for me and it'll lead right into my mansion on the hill. That mansion on the hill is now a three-bedroom abode in the Texas Panhandle. I have neighbors I hate and my Porsche looks more like a Honda Civic, but lemme tell ya, it's paid off. You realize from the years between 14 and, say, 30 the differences between fantasy and reality. You ain't the greatest hitter in the history of the game. Your improv skills are weak and your fingers ain't as fast as the next cat. You ain't no rapper. You ain't as good. You ain't as dedicated. You ain't as smart. You ain't as creative. And you ain't as funny. Everyone of those realizations is another diversion of the path and the quicker you arrive at them, the less painful growing up is. I couldn't be happier with where I am today. I have a lovely wife that loves me and I adore her. I have a family that I'm incredibly proud of. I have a job that I still have zeal for and I have my health.

I've discovered, though, that as the years go by, the ages between 30-40 is really just intended to throw your dreams and ambitions off course. It's like that weird middle ground. You just took your dose of reality, but you still have those fantasies that kinda dance around in your head when you're not thinking of anything else. You know you're too old to be "The Real World", but you still have that dream of standing up there at the podium shaking that Oscar in the air for the screenplay you wrote for the greatest zombie movie ever. You sit there asking yourself, is it okay if I listen to Mobb Deep? Is it okay if I still watch C.O.P.S.? Is it okay if I wear my sideburns thick and wooly? Is it okay if I still dream of playing harmonica in a blues band? Yes, it's okay. It's totally okay. It'll be the only thing when your hair completely disappears and you can't sing anything but the bass parts that'll keep you young.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not scared of growing old. I just never want to be told, "You can't do that anymore." Not that I want or need to do all the things I used to every hour, everyday. I just don't want to be told I can't. It's a stubbornness I'm learning to live with. When my grandfater died this last year, he died with the dream of one day owning some property in a remote area of Colorado where he'd build a cabin next to a stream and surround himself with old pianos. He'd fish and play piano all day while growing all of his foods in a garden down by the creek. That vision, I'm convinced, probably kept him going for a good five years as his health declined.

Never stop.

This year, I dealt with losing my first childhood friend to natural causes...if you consider cancer "natural." That's rough. We're passing away now. I suppose that when you realize that you can die from natural causes, it restructures a bit of your existence here on this earth. There's enough you can die from unnaturally that, to now worry about natural death, complicates things. Greatly. I don't dwell on it, but it does put things in perspective.

I know I'll get old, but I'm working on making it tolerable. Here's how I plan on doing it. Listen to your Funkadelic, your Sly and Family Stone and your De La Soul. Jog. Jogging is the rawest form of cardio and there's something fantastically contemplative that happens on jogs. Keep riding a bike. You don't have to do it daily, but always know how to do it. You'll be teaching a kid how to one day and, you never know, if there's a zombie infestation, it might mean your life. Let the grey hair come on in. There's nothing you can really do about it except give some company your hard-earned cash for a quick fix that only bandaids the true emotional turmoil with going grey. Deal with it. It's much easier. While there's no fountain of youth, never stop laughing. It keeps the blood flowing. Frisbee. Substitute honey for anything that you would add sugar to normally. Only three cups of coffee a day, but make them dark cups. If it doesn't slightly induce the unloading of your colon, it's not dark enough. Stop frowning. Start writing. If you already write, keep it up. It's what will be left behind when you're gone. Stop drinking light beers. Drink pale ales, but no your limits. You ain't in college anymore. Act like it. Never stop learning. Find your source for learning and latch onto it. Watch thunderstorms from the edge of town. Public Enemy's first three records. Sauerkraut. Mow the lawn shirtless. Play a pickup game of basketball. Walk the dogs. Keeping them young will keep you young. Heckle players at a professional baseball game. Just watch your language. Act as a model for kids and know they're always watching. Led Zeppelin. Jump off of something taller than you. Watch a zombie movie. Work your tail off. Eat less chocolate more slowly. If it's within six hours, drive it. Screw the flight. Respect your elders. Listen to them. Like it or not, if you do everything right you'll make be there one day. Vitamin C and plenty of water. Get outside. There's no replacement for fresh air. Who's Next. You're never too old to rock a ballcap, but don't wear it just to cover your balding head. Wear your bald head proudly. Wear your ballcap to prevent burning. Stop buying into the fear the networks sell you. That goes for Oprah too. Hip hoppa'ya don't stop! Take a brisk jog in the winter in wind shorts. Sing loudly. Always know your strongest b-boy pose. Paint, sketch or screen. Do all if you feel compelled. Always get enough sun to tan, but not to burn. There are bad rays. Eat bacon occassionally. Dance like James Brown. And don't fake the funk.

Happy birthday to me.

TUCKER ACCESSORIZES

You know, you give this kid a little bit of mesh and he's gonna rock it like no other beagle. Over the last couple of weeks, I'll be the first to point out that my boy's put on a little weight. Three to five pounds to be exact. It comes from limited access to the yard, a number of sleep-inducing antibiotics and a relatively unchanged diet (dude's gotta eat, y'know).

I seriously feel, though, where he's put on the pounds and lost his beautiful figure (don't worry, he's soon to be on the way back in a big way), he's more than made up for it in his fashion sense. It's really all he has to fall back on at this point. To keep him from irritating his gash, the doc gave him a body sleeve to rock. I tell you what, dude just holds it down.

Here, Tux models it as "Tucker the Tank." It's basically a muscle shirt. His stocky frame looks fantastic in it, I must say. This form-fitting mesh serves two purposes where it protects his laceration, but also excentuates his muscular frame. Again, he's more a retired Jose Canseco right now with a little bit of fatty steak and alcohol weight, but we'll get him back. So this is one look.

Then, when Tucker is feeling a little sexy and wants to get a little freaky, he shakes the mesh down around his cleavage (yeah, you better believe it, dude is col' packing right now) and shows off his "who-taught-you-to-dress-like-that?" side. He's an artist in that way. We liken it to Jennifer Beals in Flashdance.Stitches set to come out sometime this weekend. Who knows? He's gotta stop picking at it before we can do anything.

GONE SKIING

I will have no access to voicemail or email during my time away. I will be returning to the office on Tuesday, March 3rd. Should there be any emergencies, Jackson can assist you with Tucker still healing the large gash in his side. Jackson's extension is 05640. I love you because you're special to me.

THE OFFICIAL ROOT DOWN SXSW 2009 GUIDE

The Bronx

WEDNESDAY THE 18TH

Doomtree @ Back Alley Social (8:00)

Dan Auerbach (of the Black Keys) @ The Parish (10:45)

The Bronx @ The Red 7 Patio (1:00)

The Lions @ The Scoot Inn (1:00)

*Doomtree from Rhymesayers camp kicking off the festival followed by a late dinner and then Dan of the Black Keys (a Dale favorite) followed by personal favorite screamers The Bronx and depending on how close, you gotta check out The Lions in their hometown on opening night.

THURSDAY THE 19TH

SuperstarDJs @ Back Alley Social (8:00)

Eyedea and Abilities @ Habana Bar Backyard (10:30)

Pacific Division @ Back Alley Social (11:50)

Brother Ali @ Habana Bar Backyard (12:00)

Myka 9 @ Back Alley Social (12:30)

The Bar Kays @ Dirty Dog Bar (1:00)

Camp Lo @ The Karma Lounge (1:00)

Reflection Eternal @ Scoot Inn (1:00)

*Something old, something new. Start off the night with Austin's very own Superstar DJs spinning that vintage hip hop and probably some new hot ish. If you see Rodney, give him a pound for me. Again, Rhymesayers representing with Brother Ali, Eyedea and Abilities, newcomers Pacific Division and then finish out the night enjoying one of the three 1:00 options, Reflection Eternal, Camp Lo (!) or Stax legends The Bar Kays (!!). I'd just leave Thursday night, really, because it's all downhill from there.

FRIDAY THE 20TH

Cage @ Club de Ville (10:00)

HISD @ Scoot Inn (10:00)

Mr. Lif @ Pangaea (12:00)

Busdriver @ Back Alley Social (1:15)

*Get your walking shoes on because you'll have to hit four different spots on Friday. Catch former labelmates Cage and Mr. Lif split by Houston's HISD and finish 'er up with the lyrical assault of Busdriver from LA.

SATURDAY THE 21ST

Reef the Lost Cauze @ Barcelona (9:15)

2Mex @ Scoot Inn (9:50)

A-Alikes @ Back Alley Social (10:00)

Buck 65 @ Scoot Inn (11:00)

Janelle Monae @ Vice (12:00)

Sleep @ Scoot Inn (12:20)

Sage Francis @ Scoot Inn (1:00)

*If you're Dale, just go to the Scoot Inn, find a stool and an attentive bartender. You'll get to enjoy the dopeness of 2Mex and Sleep with Buck65 sprinkled in and finishing up with always nice Sage Francis. Janelle Monae is helladope if you enjoy that funk ish (think Morris Day and the Time meets, uh, Barberella meets early James Brown). Also, if you want to see turntables get completely obliterated, check out the A-Alikes set.

You can thank me later. The Root Down shirts are still available for purchase before you venture out. $5 hand-to-hand, $7 parcel.

PART III SHOWING AT THE NAT BOOKSTORE IN 3-D

Date not yet finalized.

HOW TO SLICE A BEAGLE

As the sun rose yesterday, it was pretty apparent what did the damage to Tucker's body. If not for the jagged edge of metal and the tip that was as sharp as a syringe, the dead giveaway was the brown hair that was still hung up in the opening.

We inherited this metal washtub years ago and we were using it as a planter in the backyard. The top ring of the metal tub had broken loose and was sticking outward just waiting for a Danger Tucker to run past it at full speed while leaning his body into it.

The tub has been emptied and thrown in the dumpster out back. Threat ended. For now.

Keeping him still is becoming an issue. Anyone that asks you to restrict the movement of a two year old beagle has unreasonable expectations. We're doing our best, though. We'll be checking with the vet in a few days to see when we can first take him for a short and easy walk. I'm afraid dude's gonna get cabin fever and go off.

BITCHES AND STITCHES

When "buying a car" ends up being the second biggest news from your day, you know you had a big Saturday. When I awoke yesterday, it was like any other Saturday really. My lovely wife was talking about how much she wanted the CRV with leather, I was hungry for my weekly burrito, got up and jogged to the gym, took the dogs to the dog park. It's Saturday. You remember Tucker (above), the dog that I rescued from the storm drain not a day after we got him home. Tucker has always had a dangerous lean. I've started calling him varying nicknames like "Danger" or "Thunder." I've often called him "Nails" though because of his tolerance for pain. He's like a freaking stunt dog sometimes. They called him a purebred when we picked him up, but I swear his mother mated with Howie Long. The dude could take a stomping from an elephant and bounce up like, "where's the ball?"

What started as just an innocent trip to the Honda lot ended up in a trade up into the top-of-the-line CRV for just pennies more a month. Good move for us. When we get home, I walk into the kitchen where the dogs are. I'm greeted, as usual, by Tux and then Jax just behind him. Both are wagging their tails as I kneel down on the ground. I give Tucker a firm pat on his side and my hand lands right in the middle of a wet mess of hair. I pull my hand away to see it covered in blood. I grab him by the collar and gently pull him into the light and inspect his side. A ghastly sight.

There's about a five inch laceration down his side starting at his shoulder and the skin is hanging open. It's the deepest gash I've ever seen in my life on an animal or mammal that was actually living. We're not talking about a scratch. Tucker's body is literally opened up. It doesn't appear to have bled much at all as his coat was still relatively clean, but the seriousness of this incision needed immediate attention. Tucker, all the while, is carrying on like he has no clue. Maybe not full speed. There was some apparent shock settling in. He was shivering slightly. With no time to inspect the cause, we covered him in an official The Root Down lowrider tee and took him to the emergency clinic. For those interested, a picture of the open wound is available upon request. It was a little much for even The Root Down.

We arrive at the emergency clinic. It's one of those 24-hour jobs. They bring us right in and I'm hoping his wound pushes him up the priority list. I thought about how much it would suck if a white lion walked in with a near-fatal headwound. Tucker might have to wait. Lucky for us, there was no white lion and the young doc named Seth was quick to meet us. He walked in and looked not a hair older than 18 years old. "Hey, ya'll," he said with his hand extended. He squatted down by Tucker and inspected him exclaiming, "A beagle!"

My lovely wife and I smiled half-heartedly.

He looks up at us and says, "In college, my roommate had this bitch..."

(blank looks from my lovely wife and I)


































...and a stud beagle and he basically paid for his books through college with those litters." Right! "Bitch" as in female dog. Not the Jerry Springer variety. Seth immediately puts us at ease as he quickly assesses the wound. He explains that the best thing is that, as deep as it is, it's not near anything vital. And, just looking at it, you could see it was nothing but fat tissue really. A little muscle. They put together an estimate. I signed on the line and, the worst part, we were asked to leave him behind and they'd call us when they were done. Now, this is at about 8:30 at this point. I'm thinking that I really don't even care how long it takes, we're not leaving him. Dude has acute seperation anxiety anyway. Leaving him could make it worse. We let the nurses know that he could get horsey without us there and is probably going to become quite vocal. She assured us that he'd be fine.

We leave. That was a long drive home.

When we got home, we put in "Planet Earth" and watched polar bears for a few minutes and consoled Jackson who was freaked out a little. Unable to really relax, we made a few phone calls and brought everyone up to speed on our day and then, before dinner was even done cooking, we get a call from the clinic saying Tucker's ready. We split.

When we arrive, I'm expecting to hear him from the waiting room, but I don't hear Tucker at all. Usually, you can hear him the second you roll into the parking lot with the windows up. They bring him up to the front and, as they're opening the door, they explain that he's having a little bit of a "drooling problem" because of the anesthetic and slight sedation that was required for the operation. "Problem" didn't really do it justice. It wasn't even excessive. This was more explosive. Check out sedated Tucker just after getting back to the pad.


At the end of it, they had to shave his poor penguin suit back to staple him shut. They did internal stitching that will disolve and then they had to staple up the exterior. It's a pretty gnarly scar. No one's gonna mess with this kid now. That's a battle wound that'll make rotts whimper.

Overall, the kid has 21 visible staples and is sleeping peacefully this morning as I type this. The painkillers are starting to wear off and he's doing a little bit of moaning and readjusting, but he'll be fine. The hallucinations seem to have subsided. We all had a slumber party last night in the living room as we all crashed around where he laid when he got home--not wanting to move him or leave him there alone.
The hair will grow back and his spirit will recover before too long. This morning, as the sun shines on the yard, I'm going to find the culprit. Can't imagine would could've done that kind of damage. You kinda feel like a bad pet owner when this stuff happens. The most you can do is act quick and put faith in those qualified to make the decisions/incisions.

Trying to think of a new nickname for ol' boy.

RIVALRIES ARE AWESOME

When you're on the heels of yet another baseball season, it's time to remember how awesome rivalries are. Many teams don't get to enjoy rivalries like, say, West Texas A&M, the Seattle Mariners, the Toronto Raptors. Then other rivalries go deep. Cardinals and Cubs, Giants and Dodgers, Michigan and Ohio State...but none greater, deeper and more furious than Yankees and Red Sox.

And while I don't necessarily condone tossing Don Zimmer around like a sandbag (a lumpy and ugly sandbag), those images are burned into the rivalry like notches on a walking stick. It's the time of year I reflect on some of the more friendly Yankee fans I've known...Mayhem, Chris, Rory, Dolan, Eric, Charlie, Thomas, Steven...and how we would size up the two teams for the upcoming year.

I'm not, for one moment, going to say that this year's Sox team is championship caliber. Possible? Sure. Probable? Not likely. The Yankees basically stocked it deep this offseason. If you're one of those guys buying into the "no chemistry" argument against the Yankees winning the division and possible championship, I get it, but it doesn't hold much ale. I think the addition of Sabathia and Texieria might help overcome any chemistry issues. If a Steinbrenner wants a championship team, he'll buy one. That's for sure.

This Sox team is a different one than those we've seen in recent years. Firstly, no Manny from the get-go. Some new faces on the pitching staff. We got Rocco. We got a "healthy" wrist on Papi. We got two shortstops--one that's a bargain and one that's a money pit. All that youthful core: Youkilis, Paplebon, Ellsbury, Lester, Masterson, Smoltz and Wakefield.
I was in line at the supermarket the other day and this girl in front of me, wearing a Yankee hat, got asked by the checker if she was a football fan and she just unloads. "No, I like the Yankees. I've been to Yankee Stadium three times. I don't watch alot of football, but I hate the Patriots. I hate the Red Sox. I hate Boston. I love the Yankees. I went to a Yankee and Red Sox game one time and the Yankees killed them. I've loved the Yankees my whole life. Since I was a little girl. Derek Jeter is awesome." Just fun to sit back and watch a woman who presumed there wasn't any opposition nearby just spewing her Yankee vomit. I really loved too how she denounced the Patriots because they're from Boston. That's like me hating the Knicks and the Jets too. That makes no sense. Especially if you don't even watch the sport. Hate the rivals. It doesn't mean you have to hate the entire city or state.

I wanted to pat her on the head and say, "Another moron Yankee fan." I resisted the urge. Of course, a rivalry kinda needs morons like that. Morons like me. Those who grew up nowhere near the rivalry and live it from the headlines, the replays, the fandom. I'll be the first to say that you feel like the world's biggest Sox fan until you go to Fenway. Thems is some Sox fans. I enjoyed the Sox as they rose to greatness. Hung true as the bandwagon got a little crowded and, now, the Manny-less Sox can now win with a little more anonymity. This last offseason reset the AL East the way it should be. Yankees on top with their new stadium, their all star lineup, their steroids and their money. The Sox below that as the reluctant underdog as their payroll shows a little relief and they slide to fifth or sixth in the league in team payroll. But this ain't about money is it? The Rays went to the Series last year on the second-smallest payroll in the league. Of course, they didn't win. Thanks for reppin' the East hardcore.

All that said and done, spring ball's in full swing now. The first game is only four days away. Let's embark on this 2009 Championship March. Go Sox. Go Cubbies.

Ever wonder what it's like to walk through the outfield bleachers in Yankee Stadium with a Red Sox jersey on?

And, how about serving chowder outside Yankee Stadium with a Sox jersey on. Some awesome Yankee fans in this one.

FEELIN' PRETTY

It's Friday, but you could've fooled me. I need a vacation so bad. End of fiscal year brings so much insanity. Add to it that I'm just getting over the sniffles...again. I've never gotten sick twice in one year. I hardly get sick twice in one decade. My lovely wife reminded me that stress can often mean decreased effectiveness of one's immune system. Also, seems that my bruxism is making a triumphant return. Bruxism is when one grinds their teeth in their sleep. Also a sign of stress.

Just a week from now, I'll be heading to the mountains with Danny, Dale and Sarah in tow. The trip will be much appreciated as I'll be leaving just hours after facing the Board of Directors up at work. They're gonna need some fresh snow before I hit it. Currently packed powder and 95" at the Hunziker Stake. Probably 80" at the base. At least put a little fresh stuff on it. Nothing in the forecast as of today, but meteorologists are uneducated. Good to go before all the Spring Breakin' morons hit the mountain and kill all the snow. Can't believe Taos even has any snow with as spring-like as it's been in the panhandle. Gotta high ankle sprain that I must rehab this next week before I tear into that mountain. Not the first time I'll have skied with an injury though.

Ugly Mug Coffee needs to get their prices down. It's Dunkin' Donuts until they do. I don't buy $9 bags of coffee.

I continue to be shook by this chimp attack story. The chimp was "ripping her face off" as the owner screamed over the 911 call. That's some 28 Days Later ish right there.

And now it's coming out that ol' lady used to bathe with the monkey and the chimp would comb her hair. Dude, starts to move from horrific to downright creepy.

"Gangland" is the best show on television. Disputing will end you up in the hospital. Be cafeful.

Not sure about this Facebook thing. It seems that I'm about 40%/60% of people I want to hear from to people I don't. That's why I like flying on The Root Down as j3. I don't have to worry about the girl who soiled her britches during marching band in high school tracking me down and wanting to be my friend again. If I accepted you as a friend, though, trust it's because I wanted to. I reject at will those I don't want to be friends with. Does it send a message when you don't accept like, "I'm sorry j3 has rejected you as a friend. His address is 5514 Halford Avenue." I think I just heard a knock at the door, hold on.

Slumdog Millionaire was dope. My lovely wife cried for the last ten minutes of the movie. Does that mean it was a good date?

I don't know what Twitter is and probably won't before it's dead and gone.

After vowing to take some time off from the mixes, I'm starting to eye a few projects. Firstly, there's the Savior mix. It'll bring together some of the finest gospel funk and religious material from, uh, about the last forty years. Also features YZ, Arrested Development, KRS-One, Billy Preston, John Coltrane, JC Davis and more. It'll be dope. Also, I'm starting to compile material for a Halloween mix and it'll be guaranteed insanity--Masta Ace, House of Pain, Parliament, Gravediggaz, Blue Oyster Cult, the Bar-Kays, the Doors, the Geto Boys and more. And, because I missed the chance on a Valentine's mix, I'm working on one for next year and it'll feature songs of lust, adoration, heartbreak, revenge and infidelity. Not that I encourage those last two, but not everyone has happy Valentine's Days. I choose not to celebrate it anymore because I'm married and I celebrate an anniversary instead. Valentine's feels very Hallmark when you're married. Also, I'm collecting tracks for another Christmas mix. There's the Drug mix which compiles music dealing with drug use, drug hustling and drug culture. Of course, there's the third installment in the De La series--the Buhloone Mindstate unmixed. Yeah, I'm taking tons of time off.

This Boston/New York trip's gonna be hella dope. We're going to spend a Sunday afternoon travelling up the eastern seaboard checking out New England...New Hampshire, Vermont and Maine. We'll probably cruise all the way up to Portland for the day.

I'm gonna jog the Brooklyn Bridge...four times. Also, I'm gonna jog Central Park.

Kevin Garnett hurt his knee last night in Utah. Seems like nothing good ever happens in Utah. Geez. Oh yeah, there's no jazz in Utah. There's no basement in the Alamo and there's no jazz in Utah.

You're right, I don't believe A-Rod. Not at all.

I can't wait for baseball to start. It'll be an interesting year, no doubt. The Sox will take on their first full year without Manny in the lineup. That's a huge hole in the lineup, but they've put together a decent team that doesn't include Texieria. The AL East will, again, prove supremacy over the entire league. It's gonna be drama. You have the Yankees and their doped hitters, their overpaid pitchers, Mark Texieria, an aging bullpen, a new stadium and the most hated family of owners in baseball. And, then you you have the Rays who will be challenged to live up to their hype from last year and prove they're no flash in the pan. And then there's my beloved Sox who lost out on some big moves, made some low-risk/high-reward acquisitions in the pitching staff and bring back a new workhorse mentality. Will Papi once again rise? We'll see. Can't wait.

No fantasy sports this year. I'm done. Stick a fork in me. And I'm not gonna miss it at all.

It's 6:00. I'm tired. But alive for the weekend.

Holla.

LOUIS BELLSON DIED...SUCKS...

When people talk drummers, you might hear a few jazz cats. Mostly, you'll hear Bonham, Moon, Pert (because, believe it or not, some people actually like Rush). You might hear some people mention Max Roach, Buddy Rich, Art Blakey. Rarely you'll hear someone mention this cat, but dude was doper than almost anyone out there: Louis Bellson. I first heard Louis when the recording Matterhorn ended up on my desk about five years ago.

Any time I see something proceeded by the word "explosion," I'm drawn to it. In fact, I have to do everything I can to not be totally consumed by it. It's "explosion" and "experience." As in the "Rockafire Explosion" or the "Jimi Hendrix Experience." I tossed it in and, for probably the first time in my life, I was actually blown away by a drummer. Dude wasn't even really a drummer. To me, he was so much more. I've always had issues with drummers. My grandfather was really hard on drummers. I don't think my father likes drummers to much. One of them was a band leaders and the other a director. I am neither. I just don't like drummers. It's probably in my blood. Everyone wants to play like either Meg White or Lars. No one has any sense of balance and finesse. Any drummer I've ever known likes to play loud, fast and uses entirely too many fills in their performance. So, I see "explosion" on the cover and I'm thinking, "Any cat that names the band after himself and then uses the word 'explosion' to describe their act is worth listening to." It'd be like me referring to myself as the "the Awesome Explosion" or "the j3 Experience." Upon listening, I was floored.

Dude was so fast, so exact. So sick. He took the jazz drum solo to places it had never yet been and, as a band leader, his tyrannous abilities stirred the bandstand like a tornado and propelled them to some of the meanest big band sounds ever heard. I liken him to a perfect blend of Art Blakey and Animal.

In case you need reminding, it's Monday, folks. For those of you who celebrate Presidents' Day, yousa sucka. Except for my lovely wife.

WORDS FOR A YOUNG MUSICIAN/ASPIRING RAPPER

Everything's on time and on point. Show up on time, go on stage on time and end on time. And if you're on time, you're late. Whoever is giving you money for your services, consider them your boss. This is not a boss-less industry.

Every show is your last show.

Treat covers like someone's daughter. Treat them nice, show respect, have a good time and take them back to where you picked them up. They don't belong to you. You can't make them your own. If you want to make it, you'll have to write your own material.

No matter how great you think you are, there's one of you per everything 100,000 people. That means there's approximately 3,500 of you in this country alone. If you're not that good, you're odds are even worse. And at the end of the day, the greatest artists don't always make it. Sometimes Andy Warhol and his screens take all the cheese.

Radio means nothing. It's all about live performance.

Industry rule #4080. Do the knowledge.

Rappers are a dying breed. If you're just beginning, you're late. If you're still trying, you're done.

The world needs more great harmonica players.

No one owes you anything. Be humbled by applause. Show gratitude and carry yourself with tact and gracefulness.

Stay healthy. You'll spend enough time dodging leeches and vampires that the last thing you need are poisons in your system.

Never forget those who got you there.

Merchandise is the key to revenue. Ask Gene Simmons and Insane Clown Posse.

Always study. Always practice. Always push forward. Someone is always trying to knock you off. Average recording careers last .3 albums. It's more likely that your career will be over before you even record an album.

Get off your high horse and do your damn thing.

Roll with criticism. Hear it. Learn from it. You are not perfect.

They'll go easy on you at first. Know that the praise will soon rotten.

Don't swear on stage unless it's in the lyrics. In fact, don't speak on stage unless it's in the lyrics.

Focus on your art first and always. Everything else will fall into place.

No one hands out respect. It has to be earned. As a musician, there are absolutely no exceptions to this rule. And, remember, respect doesn't come from being a good musician.

THE ROOT DOWN'S TOP FIVE MAD ANNOYING DRIVING HABITS

As many of you know, I've really have given up, for the most part, on conventional transport. I'm a walker or a rider. I started doing it, geez, almost three years ago, I suspect and just kept doing it. There's a lot I've learned since I've begun and I would say that the msot prominent learning is how much I hate drivers.



People are just morons. Even cool people do stupid stuff behind the wheel of an automobile. Even my close friends do them. And it's time for me to air it out. I can't take it anymore. I read somewhere the other day that "loud bass music" is someone's annoying driving habit. "Loud bass music" is not a driving annoyance, it's a cultural annoyance. Likely this person was a racist. This person also mentioned "people talking on their cell while driving." I would agree that it can lead to annoying driving habits, but it, in itself, is not an annoying driving habit. What I have for you are The Root Down's Top 5 Mad Annoying Driving Habits. They are truly driving habits or unfortunate mislearnings. Getcha head right.



THE TURN LANE IS NOT A MERGE LANE
I don't know when this started taking off, but it was almost overnight. I remember the day I first saw a dude pull this one and almost kill me as I was pulling into the turn lane and found myself staring at his headlights coming directly toward me. Here's the failure in this: all traffic in the turn lane is to be turning as you exit traffic which requires, at the very core of it, decceleration. When an automobile is attempting to merge out of this lane, they are accelerating in the opposite direction. Here's the fix: you don't attempt to turn left across traffic until you, without fail or using the center lane as a waiting room, can make it all the way across the roadway. I gotta take the power back. It ain't a merge lane, broham. A merge lane is more commonly known as an "on-ramp." Check yo'self.



SITTING ON RED, RIGHTING ON LIGHT
It's like drivers just go blank sometimes. Like they didn't remember that they were driving. Like the pull up to the street light and then just start thinking about winged Twinkies or talking dogs. Maybe both. You're in the far right lane behind an automobile wanting to turn right at a light. The light is red. In most states (not all, mind you), it's legal to turn right on red after a complete stop. You're sitting with your blinker on awaiting your turn at the intersection except that the car in front of you has no intention of turning. You do not get the benefit of the "right on red." Light turns green and the car in front of you turns right even though he/she had ample opportunity to take advantage of "right on red." Stay awake, alert and ready to go right on red.


BLOCKING THE PASSING LANE
The "passing lane" is also known as the "left lane." If, on the highway, you're in the left lane, you should always be traveling faster than the traffic to your right. In the case that you are not moving faster than the traffic to your right, you are required to get over. The left lane is for faster traffic. It is not a lane to enforce your own vigilante speed trap and block faster traffic. It is not the lane you can travel in because the right lane is a little too bumpy. It is for faster traffic and faster traffic only. I don't care if that faster traffic is a Ford Escort carrying 900 pounds of cocaine and going 100 miles an hour while being pursued by fifteen cruisers. Not even sure if an Escort can get up to 100. If they're going faster than you, you must get over to the right. Here's the reason: faster traffic must be on the left because the right is most commonly the lane of highway entrance and exit so there's commonly slower traffic--either accelerating or deccelerating. Attempting to pass on the right is usually a highly dangerous operation because you're having to accelerate far pass the traffic entering or exiting the highway and it has the making of a horrible collision. If you're going 75 and passing a car going 60 in the right lane and I'm going 80, you must get over. Slower traffic keep right, broham. I don't care if you agree with me going 80 or not, that's not your judgment to make. Get out of my way. Take notice of congestion on the open highway. I would say close to 90% of the time, it's because some nincompoop is blocking the left lane.


EXHIBITIONIST DRIVING
Okay, I'm going back on my "cultural annoyance vs. driving habit" position. I make the rules here. You don't like it, get your own blog. I'll put it this way, I'm getting too freaking old to put up with moron drivers mad dogging me or peeling out to prove some sort of roadway supremacy. The Yellow's streets are jammed with tools in their bigass trucks or loud little Mustangs, Hondas with glasspacks or, my favorite, the neon Neon. Everyone wants to go zero to sixty out of every street light and hang out their window meanmugging every one in traffic. And me, because I drive a black Honda Civic, am thought to be a member of their Ghostrider click. Dude, I'm thirty plus, married and have steady work outside of the food industry. You ain't me and I ain't you. I don't want to race you. I don't want hang out and talk about Vin Diesel. I don't think you're cool. I don't like your music. I don't want to park my car in my lawn at an angle like it's a showroom. I don't own catalogs of car accessories. Everything my car is factory installed and my brain is larger than a lima bean. Leave me alone. I'm going to get a decal that has Calvin pissing on Vin Diesel with the words "I ain't yo friend" underneath it.

BRAKING WHEN ENTERING HIGHWAY
When entering a highway, it is important to blend with traffic. To achieve this, your speed while entering the roadway must be at or accelerating near the average speed of the vehicles occupying the highway. To do safely, it's also important to be aware of the highway traffic by looking over your shoulder. Want to throw a wrench into all of this? Brake while entering the highway. Because cars often enter the highway in multiples, they file in a line and begin to all accelerate in unison. All of them looking over their left shoulder (or sometimes right), you can imagine the damage of being the first guy in that line and braking even if for just a moment. If you don't have the fortitude to enter the highway, that's what the access road is for. I'll put it this way, if drastic and sudden acceleration feels dangerous when entering the highway, braking on the entrance ramp is ten times as dangerous.

MONDAY MORNING CATCH-UP

First off, I had nothing to do with this sign. Someone hacked into the roadway signs' systems, though and geniusly loaded this message into high-profile thoroughfares in, I think, five or six different states. Genius. But I didn't do it.

Grammys sucked. I'm done with this show, I think. I just don't think anyone really cares. The show doesn't really project itself anymore like the authoritative foundation of the industry. Everything's forced and contrived. Everything's a push for ratings. And the fact that TV on the Radio won almost every critical year-end award for Dear Science yet weren't nominated for any awards proves that there are serious holes in the selection process. Serious holes. I don't know what I propose. If you leave it up to the fans, only the most popular would receive nominations. If you leave it up to the labels, only major-label artists would get Grammys. I met someone who was a member of the Grammy organization one time and she was the most out-of-touch embicile I've ever met. She was a total nincompoop. Maybe it's just that the decision-making core of the Grammys are just old folks with no ear for pertinent and timely music. I do have to say, though, I ain't go no problem with Robert Plant taking home armfuls of Grammys. Man, he went from sexy young woman to creepy old bearded man. What a career that man's had. Paul McCartney sucked (thud). U2 sucked (thud). Coldplay, eh, decent. Every time some country folk jumped on stage, they stunk it up. People should just stop inviting country folk. I saw Trace Adkins in the audience and thought, "No, I'm sorry, this show is only for musicians." Radiohead killed it. Every rap performance sucked horribly. Adele took it. Girl was dope. Kanye's hair killed it. I kept fantasizing about Stevie standing up during the performance with the Jonas Brothers, taking off his glasses, walking up to one Nick and just knocking him out cold with one punch to the forehead and then just walking off stage shaking his head in frustration. The night we found out that Stevie wasn't blind, just eccentric.

Chris Brown apparently smacked Rihanna. Sounds like Bobby and Whitney all over again.

Celtics can't win the big games. We lost to Lakers and then the Spurs in the last three games. Both at home. Ugh. Rapist and Laker, Kobe Bryant then, with a flu, beat LeBron at home for the first time since the 2008 season proving that Kobe would do anything to be Michael Jordan. He wasn't sick, folks. I hate to tell you. That was all fake.

A-Rod apparently tested positive for steroids back in 2003 with the Texas Rangers. So let's name a Yankee that hasn't tested positive? This dude's had a great offseason. Madonna called him a "poet" and now steroid allegations. Yeah, he's gonna have some awesome trips to Fenway this year. What's even more sad is that despite using steroids and putting up record numbers, the Rangers still ended up in last place. That's how bad this team sucks. I mean, look at their mascot.

I hate to tell you, but my nephew's better than yours. The kid's just a ladies' man. He won my lovely wife's heart over and just about every other woman in Midland. And he's sharper than a tack. Brains and beauty? Good genes.
We're still trying to figure out, though, how to swing a baseball bat. Some would tell me that I might wanna wait until he's two years old. Maybe so. I'm just hopeful that he'll be playing in the league at the Dominican eighteen (14 years old).
Nah, he's got too much brains to become a professional athlete. The dude was mixing the sounds of two different toys right in front of us. He's also been seen playing pots and pans with drumsticks. I think we have a musical genius on our hands. Keep an eye on him. His name's Parker Jeffrey.

Tux got his.

And I got mine. Lubbock is clearly a superior metro because they have a Krispy Kreme and the Yellow doesn't. While we were passing through, we grabbed a dozen Krispys, a mug of their fantastic coffee and a hat to remember it by. I went right for the devil's food cake. So freaking good. I distinctly remember hearing a ringing in my ear for nearly twenty minutes after consuming two Krispy Kremes. I tell myself that it's a healthy ringing.

I can't even recall how many of those Krispys I crammed down, but it was enough. And it was well worth it. Must get back on my running regiment. Gotta get my legs in shape for Taos the end of the month. Yep, the Roundhouse Skiing & Boarding Expedition departs on February 27th.

HERE IT IS...THE PAUL'S BOUTIQUE MIX

About 20 hours later, it's complete. It damn near killed me. Seriously. You know, when you first listen to the album, it's hard to really get a feel for how crafty the Dust Brothers were until you start peeling apart individual samples and you hear there's two beats and three bass lines playing simultaneously. They just don't make 'em like they used to. Paul's Boutique is so sick that they'll listen to it a century from now and just shake their head at how ill it is. Not many records and pull off the backflips that Paul's can. In fact, the challenge in mixing it down is so much more not how you use the samples, but of the 100 samples that make up the record, which ones do you use? You can't use them all or else it'd be unlistenable. I guess that's essentially why I like this record so much. What other record can use Johnny Cash, James Brown, Sweet, the shower scene from Psycho, Alice Cooper, Funky 4+1, Malcolm McLaren and Kool and the Gang in one record and sound perfect? And that's only a small sampling of the artists featured within the 53 minutes that comprised the original album released back in July of 1989.

Some of those records I sometimes fear will go completely forgotten and the appreciation for the accomplishment that is Paul's will somehow become diluted or overshadowed as music progresses (or regresses) into the future. Like, somehow, records are completely omitted from the encyclopedias. Some freakish glitch in the database or wrinkle in time. Then I hear that it's getting the "anniversary" treatment from Capitol. Like even if this entire music industry completely fizzles away, some dude in a dark corner in the Capitol offices says, "Wait, we gotta finally remaster Paul's," and then, somehow, I'm relieved to know that some cats out there still car. I heard the new release and, well, I'm not impressed. The record's dope as it is. What will remastering accomplish? Yeah, I know, it's quiet but that's what the volume knob is for, dummy. Stop tripping.

I guess I chose to celebrate Paul's contributions to hip hop by giving it The Root Down treatment. Full of breaks, B-sides and that good ol' Beastie sound, this mix clocks in at just under two hours. Put it on, cool out and enjoy the sounds of the Beasties. And, yes, the mix's cover art is the street corner that once featured a small clothing store called Paul's Boutique in NYC as featured on the original cover art.

Ya'll ain't even ready. I swear it. You ain't ready. But if you think you are...

CLICK THIS RIGHT HERE

This is one of those mixes that almost puts you in retirement. My lovely wife isn't talking to me. My dogs threatened suicide. I contemplated a crack habit. But I'm back. And, after listening to the album for the last three weeks as I worked on the mix, I can finally get back to my regularly scheduled program. What that is, I'm not sure, but there is one. Once this gets out there, I think I'm gonna take a couple of months off and get to some of the other items on the list. Maybe I'll do the sauerkraut next.

So here's your tracklist. Yes, they're all in there. And it lasts still under two hours. And if you think that's impressive, remember that it's only about half of what was originally used to make the album. Now give up on your stupid little career as the "next Dr. Dre." Get a day job sacking groceries, you pupil.

IDRIS MOHAMMED "LOREN'S DANCE"
BEASTIE BOYS "PAUL REVERE (INSTRUMENTAL)"
ROSE ROYCE "6 O'CLOCK DJ (LET'S ROCK)"
ALPHONSE MOUZON "FUNKY SNAKEFOOT"
BEASTIE BOYS "33% GOD"
FUNKY 4+1 "IT'S THE JOINT"
ROSE ROYCE & NORMAN WHITFIELD "YO YO"
BEASTIE BOYS "SHAKE YOUR RUMP"
BROTHERS JOHNSON "GET THE FUNK OUT MA FACE"
RONNIE LAWS "TELL ME SOMETHING GOOD"
PAUL MCCARTNEY "MOMMA MISS AMERICA"
DONNY HATHAWAY "MAGNIFICENT SANCTUARY BAND"
BEASTIE BOYS "JOHNNY RYALL"
DAVID BROMBERG "SHARON"
CURTIS MAYFIELD "SUPERFLY"
BEASTIE BOYS "EGG MAN"
LIGHTNING ROD "SPORT"
BERNARD HERMANN "A SUITE FOR STRINGS"
EAGLES "THOSE SHOES"
BEASTIE BOYS "HIGH PLAINS DRIFTER"
FATBACK BAND "PUT YOUR LOVE (IN MY TENDER CARE)"
BEATLES "WHEN I'M SIXTY FOUR"
BEASTIE BOYS "SOUNDS OF SCIENCE"
BEATLES "THE END"
DILLINGER "COCAINE IN MY BRAIN"
SLY AND FAMILY STONE "THE BRAVE AND THE STRONG"
BEASTIE BOYS "3 MINUTE RULE"
FANCY "FEEL GOOD"
KURTIS BLOW "PARTY TIME"
BEASTIE BOYS "DIS YOURSELF IN 89 (JUST DO IT)"
BAR-KAYS "HOLY GHOST"
BEASTIE BOYS "HEY LADIES"
CAMEO "SHAKE YOUR PANTS"
ZAPP AND ROGER "SO RUFF, SO TUFF"
INCREDIBLE BONGO BAND "LAST BONGO IN BELGIUM"
BEASTIE BOYS "LOOKING DOWN THE BARREL OF A GUN"
TROUBLE FUNK "DROP THE BOMB"
BEASTIE BOYS "CAR THIEF"
FUNK FACTORY "RIEN NE VA PLUS"
JACKSON FIVE "I'LL BET YOU"
GENE HARRIS "PUT ON TRAIN"
SLY AND FAMILY STONE "LOOSE BOOTY"
BEASTIE BOYS "AND WHAT YOU GIVE IS WHAT YOU GET"
ROSE ROYCE "DO YOUR DANCE"
BEASTIE BOYS "SHADRACH"
BLACK OAK ARKANSAS "HOT AND NASTY"
JIMI HENDRIX EXPERIENCE "ARE YOU EXPERIENCED?"
BEASTIE BOYS "59 CHRISTIE STREET"
BURUNDI BLACK "BURUNDI BLACK"
BEASTIE BOYS "GET ON THE MIC"
SOUTHSIDE MOVEMENT "SAVE THE WORLD"
BEASTIE BOYS "CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF A 3 WAY MIX"
BEASTIE BOYS "STOP THAT TRAIN"
SCOTTY "DRAW YOUR BRAKES"
ISLEY BROTHERS "THAT LADY"
BEASTIE BOYS "YEAR AND A DAY"
TOWER OF POWER "EBONY JAM"
BEASTIE BOYS "HELLO BROOKLYN"
BEASTIE BOYS "DROPPIN' NAMES"
CRUSADERS "WELL'S GONE DRY"
KOOL AND THE GANG "LET THE MUSIC TAKE YOUR MIND"
BEASTIE BOYS "LAY IT ON ME"
BEASTIE BOYS "MIKE ON THE MIC"
BEASTIE BOYS "A.W.O.L."

Now leave me alone. I'm going into hiding. Still have a few shirts left...$5 for hand delivery, $7 for those I have to ship. Yep, that's cheap because I watch the news and that's what they say works these days.

COOKIES...

So, after a month with only natural sugars, Saturday night at midnight, I ate two reasonably sized cookies, chocolate chip to be exact. They went down fine, but then at about four in the morning, I cramped up. My body was curled up in a tight ball as sleeplessness set in. It felt like I had downed an entire bottle of tequila. It was the worst that I've felt in quite sometime. For someone who rarely has stomach issues, it was severe. Says George, "See what that crap does to your body?" Still alive, though. I've been taking small steps back into it. A little here and a little there. Had a peanut butter (non-salmonella variety) and jelly sandwich and it was like the greatest thing I've ever eaten. Yummy.

Paul's mix is near completion. I'm trying to beat that reissue to the streets. My due date is 2/9. Seems achievable at this point.

Holla.