JUST HOW STRONG IS THAT COFFEE: SATURDAY MORNING, 4:42AM.

Awesome. It's like I jinxed myself. Sleeping in on Saturday morning?! Ha. Who am I kidding? I fell asleep on the couch last night trying to watch Stephen King's The Mist. Fell asleep again in a bed properly like most people do. Woke up a few seconds ago panicking because I was short of breath. Then noticed it was Tux sitting on my chest. Dude just got heavy overnight or something. Probably will walk him before the sun rises. So starts my Memorial Day weekend. You know, some people really plan for this weekend. I mean, they plan like months in advance. Honestly, you have to tell me when Memorial Day is because I'll always forget. I usually think it's sometime in August. Sometimes I feel sorry for people who look forward to Memorial Day because I think, "Man, they must really hate their job to look forward to three day weekends like that." Does that mean I'm insensitive to the meaning of Memorial Day? I don't think it should. I'm respectful about what it means...I just never remember when it is. It's like most people's birthday.

When I'm awake like this, my lovely wife has advised me from staying away from any activities that provide a stimulus so that I can go back to sleep. My problem is that I'm stimulated by mostly anything. The other night, I awoke and thought about how many types of "white trash" there are. I came up with four. Why in the hell am I thinking about that at 3 o'clock in the morning?!

The four classes of white trash could also be broken apart by economic class. It's more like "how ignorant white people act in four different economic situations." Just for your information, the four are as follows.

GOOD OL' BOY
The Good Ol' Boy is like Bo and Luke Duke. They idolize David Allan Coe, go to church, respect their mother, failed algebra until the teachers figured they'll never hold a job so what does it matter. On the surface, they're pretty harmless, but underneath boils a frightening patroitism that often borders on the boldest of racism. This is probably the most common form of white trash. Your kids grow up with them. You were in a frat with them. They often shapeshift and can blend in with others in society quite well. They brush their teeth, use deodarant and even cologne. They're not so far gone that they don't care about attracting the opposite sex. In fact, sex is sometimes all they care about. That and Nascar. They think the Eagles are the truth. They've worn jeans to both a funeral and a wedding. Most of them have had some sort of run in with the law and say things like, "Dat's what I'm talkin' 'bout!" There's probably very little in the kingdom that awaits them except for a job in sales--perhaps at your local convenience store. Hell, maybe they'll land a management job there. Some will actually manage to graduate from college (provided they have the means to pay for it) and find better jobs. Those become our second class. One last fact about this group, they don't particularly like minorities, but they love Snoop Dogg.

SUBURBAN WHITE TRASH
Unfortunately for deserving cool folk, the thought of the suburb is fairly attractive to white trash. It's like living with all of the modern conveniences of a urban community, but without all of the pesky stuff that comes with living in the city--like crime, terrorist attacks, diversity, cultural exchanges and fear. They'll have good schools for their kids, a fire department, elected officials, sturdy fencing and maybe even tornado shelters. This is like graduation for most white trash. They're allowed to (or more accurately: required to) shake or, at least, turn down many of the characteristics of their trashiness. They do so to fit in thus giving them a full sense of belonging that they never had yet yearned so dearly for. They like Tom Petty, uphold the "American dream" (whatever that is), have Nascar tendencies, but more prefer the football because it, again, helps them fit in. They have to try their hardest to not park in the lawn or leave the house without a shirt on. Intellectually, they're present, but still have difficulty escalating the conversation to things other than sports, war and cars. This is their downfall is the confusion experienced in their attempt to reach comfort. By compromising themselves, they're never really happy and always hang onto a little bit of residual aggression from their dissent. Overall, they're pretty harmless because they want so badly to be accepted that they won't dare show their true colors. Some hold white collar jobs, hell, some of them actually might be in office in your communities.

YOUR AVERAGE TRAILER PARK TRASH
They have an electric stove, perhaps a microwave, running water and they don't read by candlelight, but who are we kidding, they don't read anyway. The trailer park is much like any community whose people are beaten down or struggling. Getting out of the trailer park is their only ambition, but the likelihood that it'll one day happen is fairly slim. It's like the Swamp of Sadness in The Neverending Story, if you give in, it'll eat you whole and will also consume future generations. Optimism and intellect are seldom experienced and, because of this, the park breeds a cancerous hate and jealousy that usually rears its ugly head through battery, burgularly and perhaps the occassional grave robbing. They listen to whatever cassettes are available and normally don't deal with the same racial issues as their counterparts because, well, they might share communities with other races so they've adopted healthier race perspectives to help them cope with their socio-ecomonic status. Some enjoy Nascar, but their really at the mercy of what is broadcasted because they're not cable-equipped. While they're the easiest to pick on, they're probably the most socially equipped of all the white trash because they're status and location has put them in a position where reality is not something that is chosen, but is rather put upon them and they are asked to deal with it. And they do. It's not always pretty. It's not always lawful, but they work with what they have. Intellectually abandoned, their "survivor" mentality keeps them moving.

THE BANJO BOY
Yep, you guessed it, the Deliverance white trash. The backwoods, no-income, teeth-optional, inbred, dirty, filthy, moonshinin', gut-pigs-by-candelight white trash. Stripped of (or forfeiting) all the modern conveniences of civil life, this trash is so far removed from reality that they are more primitive alien beings asked to living in frightening electronic world. Rather than adapting modern practices, they revert to frontier living like crapping in a can and eating varmint. Sports? Nah. You'll find none of it here. It's a little unfair to classify these individuals as white trash because they're more "trash that happens to be white" because they only breed with their own. Minorities are viewed more as a paranormal occurance. Understanding music other than the sound of a banjo and a foot tapping on a wooden porch is incomprehensible. All animals are kept as pets until its dinner time and ignorance isn't bliss, it's a way of life.

I'm not saying it's the only classifications of white trash. I'm not even saying their accurate depictions, but that's what I came up with at three in the morning.

It's now seven...some time has passed because I got sidetracked by listening to Funkadelic. These dudes were insane. No, I mean, insane like in the head. But they made some crazy music.

The Roundhouse is going to the tournament next weekend. That's right. This last week's win put us over into the tourney. I believe such a performance is deemed "clutch" meaning when it counts, we kill it. Still taking orders for the new jersey which will roll out at the start of next season. The last thing I want to do is bring them out for the tournament, get hung on the wall and then have someone utter, "Must've been these new jerseys." Holla atcha boy.

I MADE THE STRONGEST COFFEE EVER THIS MORNING...

...and it wasn't entirely on purpose. More like accident. I'm needing it though. I'm so freaking tired. So glad it's Friday. Thinking about maybe sleeping on Saturday which, if you know me, is something I absolutely never do.

Listening to DJ Quik this morning. Dude, this cat started out so hard and ended up so corny. It's funny because as I load Da Pocket Prophet, I wonder if I am, in fact, writing its eulogy. I looked at the hip hop charts yesterday and the top title didn't even crack 15,000 units nationwide. Yeah, I suppose someone could say that most of the "scans" aren't charted, but when you're genre leading artist can't even crap out 20,000 in a week, is the genre still viable? Geez, electronic music's top title can hit 7,500 units with almost nothing going. Maybe hip hop is dead. It's hard to believe, but it's hit such a stagnant point. Maybe this Lil Wayne record coming out in June will put it back on track. Maybe it's just a dry spell.

I can't really say I'd be bummed if it was the end of hip hop (gasp!). Maybe I need the coffee to kick in. But if hip hop ended today, don't I have enough material to last me for the rest of my life. Can't I find consolation in old Nice and Smooth records? Why can't I still discover groups like the Dream Warriors? Is it okay to not look forward to a new De La Soul project but rather enjoy what they've already contributed? Is it really worth keeping hip hop alive if we have to tolerate Soulja Boy? Wouldn't it be better to die a respectable death? I should stop there. I'll probably get kicked out of the club.

Celtics lost at home. If you're counting at home, that means they have to win on the road--something they've failed to do yet after two rounds in the playoffs. Geez. I'll be watching Game 5 from Philadelphia. Hoping that won't be the last we see of the C's this year. Still hoping for a Celtics/Lakers championship.

This is gonna sound really weird, but I had a dream about David Lee Roth last night. It was David Lee Roth in his prime not hairless, old-lady David Lee. There really wasn't much to it except that we were close friends. It's like take Danny and replace him with David Lee Roth (sorry Danny). We're just walking through my old neighborhood and he's dressed in his traditional Roth cloth. He was talking to me but going in and out of the "Just a Gigalo" scat talk. It was really bizarre, but made me miss David Lee Roth. So here, let's just throw a photo montage up in honor of David Lee.
Really, how can you like Sammy Hagar? Hagar ain't bustin' no high kicks. I mean, I don't even consider Hagar's Halen as Van Halen. It's just not Van Halen. It's would be like calling Audioslave "Rage Against the Machine." Look, the singers are so dynamically different, they're not even the same band in my mind. I'll call them Van Montrose or something. Maybe there's nothing wrong with Hagar except that he's not David Lee Roth.
And David Lee put up with some shit. I mean, people hated on this cat hardcore. I don't get it. He absolutely resembled the very best of rock. Powerful vocals, stage presence, sexuality. Saying you think Hagar was better than David Lee Roth is like saying, "Robert Plant who?! Nah, David Coverdale." Y'playin yaself.
It's like every morning, the predictions about gas costs get worse and worse. This morning, they're saying that gas could rise to $7.00 a gallon. Maybe that'll take care of all the SUV's on the road. Look, I don't want $7.00 gas, but at the same time, I've been doing everything I can over the last few years to be less reliant on fuel altogether. I walk everywhere. And if I'm not walking, I'm riding. I'll take up flying like a bird if I have to. I ain't paying no $7.00 a gallon. Americans are stupid by nature though. Someone would pay it. Yeah, there's some cat in an Expedition or Executioner that will still roll around solo blasting his music so people will look at him for $7.00 a turn. It's a hard lesson for us as Americans. I'm not saying we deserve it, necessarily, but maybe these hardships will teach us something in the way the Great Depression crafted an entire generation out of our grandparents. I don't know. Maybe we're too stupid to learn anything.

Well, the Roundhouse won its last game of the season beating the Aztecas 8-3. It was the Roundhouse at the very best. It was a full-on assault of defense, offense, Newman dropping his shoulder on the catcher and getting ejected. It was disputed, but whatever, I shouldn't have sent him from third. Of course, I say that, but if you know Newman, it's not like he was going to stop anyway. That catcher made a helluva play anyway. Short field, hard winds blowing in and fast outfielders. Yeah, nothing's getting passed us.

The old Roundhouse design will get one more wear during our tournament next week and then it'll be retired for the new style.I love the old design alot. I always will, but it's time for a refresh. Every design needs a refresh. It's like when they changed the adidas logo. Or switched from the old Looney Tunes oriole to the actual bird (although I like the old logo). It's time for a change. So, I officially present to you (again), the new style.
Believe it or not, I'm still working on getting them pressed, but it'll get done hell or high water. I am taking orders. I got an order from all the way up in Yankeeland. Kris is in for one. Don't know if my Austin peeps would like one (or two). I would estimate the cost at about $15-17. Bro Bro? Just reply to the post with quantity and size. I'll give you the weekend to put in your requests. Kris, please post your size below. Don't be shy about wearing a medium. It's alright.

BARTOLO ARRIVES AND WINS...DAVID WINS THEN DEPARTS...OUT OF MY LIFE.

The Sox finally got a chance to see Bartolo Colon (spelled like your sh*tsack, but pronounced like "cologne") in action. Homie came in from Pawtucket last night and pitched a beauty against the Royals. Yeah, I know it's the Royals, but we're taking baby steps with Bartolo. It's his first start. Probably doesn't mean much in the grand scheme of things, but at least he won. It would've been a lot different if he lasted only two innings and walked off the field crying. Dude looks really heavy. I really shouldn't talk, but I mean, homie put on even more weight since I last saw him. Whatever. Bart can't kick the donuts. I love donuts, too. I did notice a Bartolo's striking resemblance to another sports superstar last night.

David Cook won "American Idol" last night. Thank God I can finally see him walk out of my life (and, more importantly, my lovely wife's life--before we celebrate our sixth anniversary). Dude started crying and all. My lovely wife was like, "Aw, look...he's so sensitive." I'm sensitive too. But I don't cry. I punch through walls. Snap necks. Yeah, good for him. I hope it ruins his career. That's probably why he was crying. "I tried to lose, but you all still gave me the title?! Are you trying to kill me?! I wanted to be Daughtry! There goes my career!"

I'm sure he's a nice guy, but I don't appreciate dukes encroaching on my marriage. I just want him to disappear.

On another note, I can't stand watching "American Idol" anymore. It's just a two-hour Ford and Coke commercial. I don't have a problem admitting that I used to enjoy it. Probably less for the performances, but more for the peripheral cultural discoveries about how catty and fickle the American public can be. The constant battle of love and hate, popularity and rejection, boos and cheers, going from the "new sweetheart" to "get the hell outta here." You gotta give it to my lovely wife, at least she's loyal.

I'm just glad that pipsqueak "Little" David didn't win. Dude was mad annoying. I like how they called him "Little David" and Cook "Big David." Ha. Like he doesn't have a complex already.

Why am I talking about "American Idol"? Gotta go to work.

IT'S A FAMILY BUSINESS...

My aunt located this gem. Yeah, some of us have a little Nascar, "hang-it-on-the-wall" in us. It's a rare breed that mack the multi-color hat. Here's a young Wyrick tending to the booth at a county hunting show.You know, I'm not much for shooting things. It's not that I don't like guns, it's...well, actually, I think that it's that I don't like guns. I don't even think I have much of problem putting an animal down. I just don't like the mechanics of guns. I don't like the sound. I get shaky when they're in the area. Actually, now that I think about it, I guess I do have a problem killing an animal. I don't think it's wrong. I just think it's not for me. I think the animals of the kingdom talk to me. There, I said it. A stray dog on my ride home yesterday warned me that, "Tux gets it if you tell anyone I was here."




And, while I'm not a fan of hunting or guns because I'm a new-wave, young buck who didn't grow up on a farm shooting beer cans and varmint, waiting for the next funny car race, I like hunting when it gives us well-hung caribou like this. Imagine this thing in my front yard. Maybe then, my neighbor will concede and put up his stupid fake deer.


I'd just put it right on the edge of my yard. Nah, I ain't related to these dudes, but sometimes I fantasize that there are some dark corners of my family where dudes make money stuffing animals and glazing fish with a hardening glop that freezes them in a position like their swiping at nearby bait.




Speaking of family, I just noticed that I missed my sister-in-law's birthday because I'm an all-star. Yeah, no excuse for that. Sarah, I'm calling you today and, for your birthday, you'll get to listen to me apologize a day later about how much of a moron I am. Yeah, that's your gift. Love you, Sarah.



Bro Bro watched his Cubbies lose to the Astros live in Houston. At least he got to see an Aramis homer. Unfortunately, it also came with a Houston grand slam. 'Stros win 4-2. I'm confirmed for two games in June at Minute Maid in Houston...Sox versus the Astros. Yeah, it'll be a bloodbath. Thanks, David.



Listening to Prince Rakeem "Ooh, We Love You Rakeem" from 1991. Man, this is some classic material here. Prince Rakeem would only release a 12" and then would disappear into one of 36 chambers only to resurface later as the leader of one of the most feared groups in hip hop's history. Well worth the listen. Check it out. It's corny, but he rocks it.

This dude is an imposter: Check this. He is not me. I don't know him. I'm younger, better looking, a better writer and don't take stupid pictures of myself.

Holla atcha boy--it's humpday.

1991: NO YEAR GREATER

Turned over another year on Da Pocket Prophet. Yep, we're up to 1991. Geez, I've reached the Promised Land. My head's about to explode. Sad to think that we're now 17 years past now. Maybe that explains the grey in my sideburns. Check out just a sampling of the list I added to Da Prophet this weekend:

Ice Cube Death Certificate
KMD Mr. Hood
3rd Bass Derelicts of Dialect
Public Enemy Apocalypse
De La Soul De La Soul is Dead
A Tribe Called Quest The Low End Theory
Cypress Hill Cypress Hill
Geto Boys We Can't Be Stopped
Scarface Mr. Scarface is Back
Nice and Smooth Ain't a Damn Thing Changed
Naughty By Nature Naughty By Nature
Organized Konfusion Organized Konfusion
Black Sheep A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing
Main Source Breaking Atoms
2Pac 2Pacalypse Now
Del tha Funkee Homosapien I Wish My Brother George Was Here
Leaders of the New School Future Without a Past

Listening again to Naughty By Nature, I'm impressed by Treach's skills as an emcee. Dude was dope as hell.

Crap, gotta get ready to go work. Guess I won't need the gold thong this morning as the Celtics are going to the Conference Finals and the Sox swept the Brewers.

CELTS MOVE ON...A LEBRON JAMES TEAM IS NEVER DESPERATE.

I agree, Lebron, they never really looked that desperate.

Wally, Delonte, good to see you both again. Good luck on your off-season ventures. Wally, missed you at Game 7.

Make no mistake, this is Paul's team. He's one of only three Celtics from the last time they made the playoffs back in 2005. Homie killed it. Now, we still gotta win one on the road.

SATURDAY MORNING COFFEE: MANDRILL, THE HUGE WATER-BOURNE BEAST THAT FLATTENED MANHATTAN AND THE CELTICS SUCK

(puts on Dr. Dre's The Chronic)



Who are you?

I'm the enchanting wizard of rhythm.

Why did you come here?

I came here to tell you about the rhythms of the universe.

Will you please tell me about them?

When rhythms fall through cosmic farce, they explode into colorful raindrops of time. And like tiny butterflies, they flap their wings and embrace rhythms of hope. Hoping that all or even wishing that all will be made free. Free like rhythms of water bathing within rhythms of light. And eventually evolving into a rainbow of life with colors of orange, yellow and green they reflect all rhythms of dreams and start simple rhythms of truth and make babies cry. And rhythms of sound blend with rhythms of space to create rhythms of joy and rhythms of sorrow that become one in your year of tomorrow. Tomorrow is when rhythms are voices singing freedom as if borrowing from universe all the rhythms of being...
The above excerpt is taken from Mandrill's "Universal Rhythms" from Mandrill Is. I gotta be real with you. Mandrill is quickly becoming my favorite band. These dudes were just beasts of funk. I first heard them when collecting material for the Da Pocket Prophet. I happened along "Fencewalk" which I had heard a few times before, but never delved into the origin of the song. Once I did, I was hooked. Recently, while in San Francisco, I purchased two Mandrill albums to bring my collection to a humble four Mandrill records, but I'm absolutely hooked. These dudes were so amazingly sick, not only by funk standards, but as a mark of overall musicianship that they're quickly rising to the top of my musical preferences--I think they just topped the Stones and Radiohead. In fact, I'm sure they have. They're at least in the top ten at this point as far as full repertoire enjoyment. Check out the band introductions. Everyone has "percussion and vocals" in their contributions. Yeah, they bad ass.

Check out this "Soul Train" insanity. I swear it's such a manic state that someone's head is going to explode at any moment. Incredible. Buy Mandrill. You'll thank me a million times over. I'll go ahead and commit to being your kid's godfather. Sure. Check this.

Dude, the Celtics are horrible right now. They got their asses absolutely handed to them gift-wrapped last night. They didn't even break 70 points. This series has been the most painful thing ever to watch in my history of Celtics fandom. Never has this team looked so flat and it's no help that the officials are calling every instance of contact on the Celtics. I saw Rondo drive last night and three dudes collapsed on him under the rim with hands extended and they all got ball. I'm thinking that it's pretty hard for six hands to all fit on a basketball, but I guess it's possible.

I have found the Lebron worship to be quite interesting. I mean, Cleveland fans treat this cat like he's the Messiah. And he certainly doesn't downplay it either. Prior to game 6, facing elimination, he says, "A Lebron James team is never desperate." He then continues to boast through a series of I's, my's and mine's. It doesn't seem to bother his teammates at all either. I'd be pissed. And the Nike campaign is probably the most exhaustive claiming that "we are all witnesses" to his greatness. Cat hasn't won shit yet except for a few playoff games. Of course, last night, I guess we were witness to something. I love my boys, but c'mon, Lebron killed us last night.

Sunday afternoon they'll meet in Boston for Game 7. It's do or die. Again. Every team sucks right now. The Sox are dragging along and impressing no one. The Roundhouse lost again to Golden Light in a muddy affair. Something's gotta give. It's gotta turn around. Maybe I'll play Baseball Simulator 1.000 to give me the satisfaction of winning because I'm a loser in real life. At least, with the Sox, it's not like the Yankees are winning either--they're in last place. Usually, when we're losing, it comes with the Yankees are winning. But the Rays are in first place and, it's weird, I'm left with a subtle feeling of satisfaction because of it.

My wife's outta town this weekend and decided to chase down a Celtics loss with Cloverfield. I won't tell you much about it because it's supposed to unravel as you watch it, but there's a huge monster that descends upon Manhattan and kills everyone and the movie ends with a huge explosion as military forces blow up New York City. You're just gonna have to watch it to see what happens. Nah, it was dope, I guess. I get it. It's like Blair Witch and Godzilla. The CG works though and doesn't really come across as corny as I thought it would.

This morning, I was watching crappy television and I happened along E! and they were doing one of those "list" programs called, "Going Postal: 15 Shocking Acts of Violence." I just kept thinking the entire program was insensitive in a number of ways. Firstly, I don't know if I would consider Virginia Tech and Columbine "postal" as much as, perhaps, psychotic. And I don't know if a countdown list of atrocities is really what we want to put out to the masses. I mean, what does that communicate? Think about the families, "I'm sorry, ma'am. While the loss of your son is indeed tragic, it didn't top our list." And I gotta think that postal employees take serious objection to the use of the term anyway and, given the context of how it's used here, it's even more offensive. I swear that network is run by teenagers. They even had witnesses on there discussing the event. Sometimes you wish people wouldn't give into such bullshit.

Maybe I'm becoming more sensitive in my age. I don't know. That or I'm just more observant. I'm observant of one thing: Don't Look Back is a lot better than the Bob Dylan biopic (badass word) I'm Not There. Why couldn't someone just do a Walk the Line about Bob Dylan? I was telling people at work that I'm okay with Dylan dying. Only because it would be good for sales. I guess I'm the insensitive prick now. You know, I like Dylan, but I hate folk. Is that alright?

I've been on a Geto Boys kick lately. Mainly because I just turned over into 1991 on Da Pocket Prophet and added We Can't Be Stopped and realized again what a monster that record is. Mandrill and the Geto Boys. That's a pairing that is usually outlawed, but still can be found on the baddest Zune this side of the Mississippi.

Cubemate David secured tickets to two Astros vs. Red Sox games in June at Minute Maid in Houston. There was an overage of prepositions in that sentence. Right behind the home dugout on Friday and Saturday night. Incredible. I heard Jim Rome say that it's wrong for adults to bring a glove when you're sitting in foul ball territory because you should be able to man up and barehand it. Jim Rome's a prick.

About to head off to the gym and hit the stairs and the boat. All this travel has put the pounds on.

THE LAST IRON MIC POST

I promise. Just help me in celebrating the greatness of Chamblee's own, Eli Porter.

Dude's tight.

MEETING PUPPIES IS EASY...

Tux tongue-kisses all of our guests. Here, he greets Lila (Mayhem's boxer/horse). He's not afraid to "touch 'em all" either to put it in baseball terms just moments after meeting someone. Yes, he has no standards or principles.

MORE "IRON MIC" HILARITY...

Everybody wants to rap. It's the American dream. To grab that mic and spit the illest style. They all want a piece of that glory. And Chamblee High School in Atlanta is making that dream come true with the student run battle show, "Iron Mic." Now, these dudes are the sickest emcees ever and their just in high school. The first matchup pairs a dude named Alphabet Soup up with some dinosaur dude who raps in different languages. Kinda unfair when no one else in the room speaks those languages. Like, "Dude, I totally served you in Latin!" Alright, I guess we'll have to take your word for it.

And I don't battle at all, but I'm sure somewhere in the rules is a provision about no written rhymes. I mean, sticking with the "freestyle" theme and all. That being said, these are some of the blazin'-est rhymes I've ever heard. I mean, how do you recover from this heat? I like how the second dude is looking for the camera before he starts. Homie, you're supposed to face your opponent, not camera #1.

Truth is, both of these dudes are teachers. Yeah, the first dude does say, "Bitch, shut your mouth or I'll wreck it." Priceless. I'm glad their up to such good work at Chamblee. Yep, children are the future. How is that Marv-O is still in high school? He's gotta be tipping 30 years old.

Danny, don't worry, I tracked down some nice Eli footage for you because I knew you were hoping to get another glimpse of his greatness. In time, my young reader, in time.

SO, WHERE WERE WE? OH YEAH...SAN FRANCISCO.

Don't get your hopes up for an entertaining account of my travels to the West Coast. There wasn't really much to it. It was a convention. What NARM means in exciting travel is usually quite overstated. I spent 85% of my waking hours in conference rooms or suites. The remaining 15% was spent between the lobby, bathrooms, restaurants or walking to the restaurants. We did, however, manage to get down to Haight Ashbury, the epicenter of the hippie movement some forty years ago. I wanted to hit the Amoeba Records down there and blow some cash. This was Haight back in the day. You know, think Grateful Dead, Big Brother and the Holding Company ("you wanna feel like a man..."), Quicksilver Messenger Service, Jefferson Airplane (long before "We Built This City"). These dudes built this city on hallucinogenics and five-hour drum circles. This is Haight Ashbury now.
We made it to Amoeba Records after leaping over bums and addicts like hurdles and I planted myself in the hip hop section for about thirty minutes rummaging through the racks of vinyl in a panicked state. It's much like searching for someone with asthma searching for their lost inhaler. By the time I snapped out of it, I had about twelve records in my arms, a couple of CDs and I was about to pass out. I had to pulled away because we had a meeting in about an hour and David and I had yet to eat. This is Amoeba on Haight.
When it was all said and done, I had purchased the following:

Eric Dolphy Out to Lunch vinyl

Mandrill Mandrill vinyl

Mandrill Mandrill is vinyl

Cymande Cymande vinyl

Beatnuts Stone Crazy vinyl

Madlib The Remixes Vol. 2 vinyl

Funkdoobiest Which Doobie U B? vinyl

EPMD Business As Usual vinyl

Company Flow/Cannibal Ox EP vinyl

Donald Byrd Blackbyrd vinyl

Blackalicious Blazing Arrow vinyl

Percee P Perseverance Remixed CD

J-Rocc Live at the Sex Machine CD

J-Rocc James Brown and Friends CD

I would've spent another $100 or so had I not been stopped. Keep me away from this store.

We start heading back to the hotel, but first we needed to hail a cab. We begin walking up Haight through crowds of junkies and sleeping bums just sprawled out on the sidewalk. I don't mean to make a big deal out of the locale except that I'm usually quite agitated by bums. I realize it was probably a series of bad decisions that put them there. I can be fair and agree to that, but it ain't my fault. So don't take it out on me and call me an "asshole" because I'm unsympathetic to your situation. But I digress.

We're walking down the sidewalk and I look ahead of me to see a somewhat familiar face. Now, I probably only know a handful of people in California and I can't recall anyone I know from San Francisco. But I watch a lot of TV. And I watch alot of Real World. I have for ages. I can't stop. It dawned on me who I was looking at. It was Pam from Real World: San Francisco.

She was looking back behind me and I whirl around to see Judd--her husband and comic book writer. I'm such a loser. I had to do everything in my power to be get starstruck. I need to get out more.
Two other notable locals. While David and I were walking up the sidewalk, I look down to see a woman molesting a dog. Yeah, I'll let your imagination take it from there. Whatever you think up is probably pretty close to what I saw. Also, there was a man pushing along a crate that had about five records in it and he sees our bags from Amoeba and he says, "Hey, man. Y'wanna buy some records?" I politely decline and proceed to walk past him. He says, "How about you just give me some money so I can go smoke more drugs in the park?"

Once we got back to the hotel, I didn't leave that city block for the next three days (except for, of course, dining in the evening which we managed to make it near a half a mile a way). That's my San Francisco experience.

Dude, why can't the Celtics win a playoff game on the road?

Atmosphere are now the sweethearts of MTV, I see. They're getting some pretty heavy bumper rotation. It's about time. Those dude's hussled their asses off for a long time. Speaking of, my brother-in-law Jacko snapped some shots over two nights in Austin where Atmosphere did a two-show stint. Here's just a sampling of some of my favorite shots.Good jerb, Jacko. The rest of his photos can be found here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jra128/sets/72157604905259246/

Before I go, check out the trailer for The Strangers. Looks dope. Who knows? Appears to be my kinda flick. Masked murderers, isolation, typical hunt-and-kill setup. Go love ya moms.

THESE CHANGING YEARS, THEY ADD TO YOUR CONFUSION...

I know you couldn't wait for me to get home so you could hear about the freaks on Haight Ashbury. You will soon find out, but until then, enjoy Level 42's dopeness and have splendid Friday. You know, I have no freaking clue what's going on in this video. I try to concentrate and get to the bottom of it, but I just can't for the life of me.

Celtics won tonight to go up 2-0 on Cleveland, but we know what happened last time we went up 2-0. Glad to be home. So tired.

A FREESTYLE BATTLE FOR EVERYONE...

A little gem to leave you with while I'm out of town for the next few days. Yeah, this is how real battle MCs get down. Hawdcore!

You'll thank me for this.

"Like Rosie O'Donnell at a bisexual bridal shower." Wh-what!?

Stay in school.

IT'S NATIONAL ROUNDHOUSE DAY...NOW SALUTE!

After dropping two last week, we need a win tonight like a crackhead needs a hit. Everyone needs a win these days. The Celtics needed a win last night--got it relatively easy. Now they need one on the road. The Sox needed a win to take back first place. Got it thanks to, again, a ninth-inning winning run. Orioles are second, Yanks are second to last and the Sox are in first. All is right again. For now. David Cook needs a win if my lovely wife wants to watch him to lust her with his wild eyes anymore on "American Idol." Obama needs a win coming up if the Dems are gonna stand any kinda chance in the general election. We all need a win. We're a country that fuels off of victory...desperate for validation through success over another.

The Roundhouse jersey was pretty well received although some feared that it was a little "over the top" while Kool Aid just mentioned it was too busy and you can't read the name. As a fix, we removed the "CN" from the hat (because it would just require explanation anyway) and then brought the ROUNDHOUSE out with blood red. The original concept included a mushroom cloud, a Ford Festiva, a Yugo and an AK-47. I think this is pretty tame comparitively.The more I look at it, I like how the femur (as in the original design) takes the place of a bat and the skulls look like stacked softballs. Oh, and only a few people got the Warriors reference. Let me help you out. No, it's not Paul Stanley. No, those aren't Yankee pinstripes. Although elements of the character's outfits are said to be influenced by both the Yankee uniforms and KISS, those are the Baseball Furies--one of the most feared gangs in cinematic history. I mean, I'll take the Furies over Clockwork's droogs. These dudes were gangsta! gangsta!

I don't mind the Yankee influence. Whatever. That design is badass so the pinstripes stay. I mean, the Cubbies, Mets, Phillies, Marlins, Astros and Rockies all wear pinstripes so I ain't hearing you. Oh, that's right, it's a Yankee Universe. Or whatever Baby Hank was talking about. I should've tried putting Jeter and his cologne at the top with 23 daisies underneath him. Who has time for losing playoff games when there's a new cologne I gotta hock?

Tuesday, the new Roots and Portishead came out. They both hit relatively quietly which was surprising, but sales have been encouraging--especially on the Portishead record. I mean, when you take nearly ten years off, you're probably lucky to chart. The record itself is pretty meaty. We knew they couldn't really pull off the "trip hop" sound anymore because, well, the genre that they created (no debate necessary) over ten years back doesn't really exist anymore, but it's somber (just as one would expect), creepy (just as one would expect) and delightfully complex (just as one would expect). I like. To hell with all of these cats who are slinging garbage on this record. Go listen to your iPod. The Roots record, Rising Down, I'll be giving another listen today. Can't comment yet.

Going to San Francisco on Sunday for NARM. I'll make sure to wear flowers in my hair.

Stop frontin'.

CELTICS IN TROUBLE...#1 SEED KNOCKED OFF?

The above picture is the root of my concern right now. In the loss to the Atlanta Hawks (which took the series to 2-2...really doe, the Atlanta Hawks?) KG got heated in a physical battle down low and ended up elbowing an official. What the? Whether purposefully or not, he did it. Now, he's facing possible suspension for what will be a pivotal Game 5. Lucky for the Celtics, we're going back to Boston, but missing those buckets and that defense against a fiesty (and terribly underrated Atlanta team) will make it challenging. This team is having this much trouble in the first round has got to leave Celtics fans (myself included) sleepless. It's possible that our dreams of returning to our championship form and establishing dominance over the NBA could be shorted. I mean, if we can't even make it past the first round as a #1 seed, do we really deserve it anyway?

Whatever. It's frustrating. But at least the Roundhouse jersey's getting positive reviews. We're close to production, but just need to lock down a few more players.

Found a new toy at the gym. The rowing machine. I thought I could do 20 minutes on that thing. Turns out I could only manage five minutes before by body locked down on me. Yeah, I'll need to condition myself up to 20 minutes. It ain't gon' happen overnight.

Zack, I didn't know you were DJing now. Do you have some samples?

YOU'RE NOT READY FOR THE NEW ROUNDHOUSE DESIGN, BUT BECAUSE I'M A JERK, I'M-A SHOW IT TO YOU ANYWAY

Look, this last week in Roundhouse's storied history was probably the weakest ever. We first come in limp against a Golden Light team that we severely underrated and we got our asses handed to us and then we go against the Aztecas, the number one team in the league, for our chance for redemption and we blow it too. We lost two games before we could even wipe our brow and I think we all know that Chuck wouldn't stand for it. I mean, I feared last night that I'd hear a knock at the door and it would be Chuck Norris asking me for both of my thumbs and one of my dogs and after I surrender both, he beats me with a 29-ounce Easton sitting in the garage only breaking for booze and business calls every 45 minutes.

For that reason (and because I never sleep unless there's a movie on), I woke up early this morning to work on the new look for the uniforms. I think you'll agree, this design represents the very finest in city league softball jerseys. I mean, I anytime you can get a Warriors reference, two femurs and 23 skulls on a softball jersey, you're heading in the right direction. You'll recognize the familiar Roundhouse font that has been tied to murders in seven different states, Chuck's initials on the Fury's ball cap and the immortal words from "Joseph's Coat" by Big Brother and the Holding Company across the bottom: "If you wanna feel like a man, act like a man."

Those words incite riots. So does this logo. Enjoy. Merchandise coming once I get the approval from the team to move forward. This is still a democracy...a democracy of terror.

Yeah, I get up at 5:00 on a Saturday morning. How late did you sleep in this morning, you lazy indolent animal? The days get shorter and the list gets longer. It's 6:15 and I'd mow the lawn if I could only see it.

HAPPY FRIDAY, HOMEGROWN...

Here's a little treat to brighten up yer morning...


Mow your lawn and bring those fake deer in. It's creeping out the neighborhood. Go listen to more De La Soul and know the ledge.

Roundhouse blew both games tonight and fall to 5-3. Dude, we lost to Golden Light. Say it unison, "Dude, we lost to Golden Light."

MY WIFE'S CHEATING ON ME AND A DISCUSSION OF EARTH DAY

Instead of celebrating Earth Day this year as I have in the past with crapping in a plastic bag, dousing it in gasoline and lighting it on fire, I did nothing. Yep, I did absolutely nothing. My lovely wife was bragging about these canvas shopping bags that she bought at the market that will keep her from using plastic and paper bags every time she goes to the store. I guess I did nothing because I participate in an "Earth Day initiative" everyday. I ride. I walk. And despite some occassional gas, I come with pretty low emissions.

Let's get it straight, though. I don't ride to save the Earth. I ride to save money. The fact that it's also good for the environment is just a bi-product. I suppose I also ride for my well-being. I mean, when I started walking back 2005 partially for my well-being. But I don't ride for Mother Earth and, let's get something else straight, I don't ride because I love doing it. I'm not this guy.

When I started riding this thing, I stripped ever decal and sticker off of the bike because I didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to myself. And up at work, I was getting people looking at me like I was coming out of some sort of social closet. Comments like, "Ah, you ride?" If you mean like, "I rode this to work today," then, yes, I ride. Believe it or not (and I know this is going to sound crazy), I actually ride for strictly transportation purposes. I ride because it's faster than walking. If riding a giraffe to work was faster, I'd probably do that instead. I don't ooze with love for my bike like many do.

While on my way to work the other day, I happened along another person riding a bike. I wouldn't go so far as to call them anything other than that, but some might have recognized him as a "cyclist." I catch up with him at a light and, wanting so desperately to be left alone, I hide about eight feet behind him and, damn it, he hears me pull up and whips around to see me.

"What a great morning to ride, huh?"

I sit there wondering what he means. I mean, it's morning. A great morning to ride? Just to be polite, I reply, "Yeah."

But that "yeah," was really a "yeah?" Like, "Yeah? I wouldn't know because I don't ride, I only mount this thing and turn the pedals for about a mile and a half to my day job. And then I ride home. Is this a morning? Yeah. Is it greater than any other morning? I don't know. Would I ever be able to recognize this as a great morning to ride? Probably not. Better question: do you really know it as a great morning to ride? Or is that just simply small-talk between cyclist and you fooled me for one?"

Instead, I just replied with, "Yeah."

I don't ride because I love it. I don't ride for the Earth. I don't ride for political reasons. I don't ride for comradery or a belonging. I ride because it gets me from Point A to Point B four times as fast as walking. And, for the record, I find walking to be much more therapeutic. Even with the chance run-ins with bums or people screaming "Asshole!" from passing automobiles.

Speaking of dudes my lovely wife is cheating on me with, there's this cat named David Cook on "American Idol" (or "Idol" as I think they're calling it these days). He's trying to ruin my marriage and I want it to stop. Last night, my lovely wife was sitting on the couch destressed because she thought she missed David sing. It was Andrew Lloyd Webber night (I thought that dude died some thirty years ago from natural causes at the age of 150--turns out he's still alive and probably only 60 years old. What the?!). Turns out that the show slotted David for last on the show because, well, we all know that he's the real draw. I mean, I realize this kid's a threat to my marriage ever since I saw him sing "Billie Jean." He's good. He's too good, actually. He plays a guitar, he walks around the stage making love to the crowd, he does all these cool rock poses. He's after my wife. When he looks into the camera, I swear he's attempting to broadcast his adultering love signals to my lovely wife. I've even found myself screaming at the screen, "Stay away from my wife, you prick! I'm not going to let you ruin my marriage!"

He sang "Music of the Night" last night. Crap. I'll never get her back from him. I mean, "Music of the Night" is that song that just gets the women to weep, flee from their marriage and forget about everything. I haven't felt this kinda heat since Chris Daughtry was on the show. I mean, it's like when Curly Justin was on the show.

More later. But here's a picture of David just in case he comes up missing in a few weeks. My lovely wife told me this wasn't a good picture to use for The Root Down. What the?! Here he is. And, yes, I think he's gay. Actually, I'm just hoping he's gay. It's the only way I'll win my lovely wife back.That new Atmosphere record came out yesterday, When Life Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold. A different record indeed. Most of the record finds Slug and Ant incorporating more live instrumentation. And, while I was becoming the biggest fan of Ant's production and was hoping to hear more of his beatmaking, the record is a beast. Slug is in prime form and, after two intense listens, it appears that Slug and Ant have finally made that record that will establish them as the best in hip hop. Of course, I'm a sucka and, even if it was a crap record, I'd swear it's best piece of music ever recorded so don't listen to me. Just pick it up yourself. Also, if you get your hands on the deluxe packaging, it's well worth it. It comes beautifully packaged with bonus DVD of live performances, a 36-page lyric/storybook and comes bound and spined like a book--all for $15.99 at your local Hastings. Bargain! Guess all those lies that distribution companies feed us about premium packages being so expensive to manufacture is just a bunch of garbage because Rhymesayers did it and did it for cheap. Heaping portions of kudos to Rhymesayers for, once again, leading the pack.

Sox are rolling with six straight wins. Guess those "Baltimore leading the East" comments were short-lived as the Sox have posted the best record in the league. Down to Texas on Saturday 2-3 and won 5-3. Sunday, we were down 0-5 and won 6-5. Tuesday, we were down to the Angels 1-5 and won 7-6. Pedroia's hitting .364, Youkilis is hitting .354, Ellsbury (Johnny Damon replacement) is batting .308, Ramirez is at .342 and Papi's climbing out of the cellar with a .181 average.

And, I'm not saying anything, but the Cubbies are looking pretty good too. They've won five in a row and are 14-5 overall. Bro Bro, since there's no way you can jinx or curse the Cubs and Sox, I'm going to call a Cubs/Sox series right now. Let's do it.

Go buy that Atmosphere record, sucka. Yep, that means you, Danny.

ROUNDHOUSE GIVETH, ROUNDHOUSE TAKETH AWAY: WE'RE 5-1, BABY.

You know, we some ballas.

42 degrees, wet with a 15-20 MPH northern wind gust and two games to play.

Roundhouse traveled to Martin Road last night to take on Big Stix in the first of a doubleheader. With an 8:30 game time, we knew our discomfort would only worsen. Big Stix proved to be anything but out of the gate while we jumped to a pretty healthy lead.

Scary moment early in the game when, when fielding a ball at third base, I came up firing to first where Steve who is a pretty big dude. The ball pulled him across the front of the bag and this kid who was running down the line at full speed (and was about a quarter the size of Steve) smacks right into Steve. Their heads collided with the runners's jaw hitting the top of Steve's head and this kid's glasses col' get crushed. Steve's a gamer. We still had our healthy lead.

But, c'mon, this is city league softball.

As the visiting team, we managed to take the game to a comfortable lead at 16-8 when time expired. All we had to do is make sure they didn't score 8 runs. Pretty easy task, yes.

But we couldn't do it.

They scored 8 runs to tie up the ball game. It's a pretty classic Roundhouse move. So it's 16-16 and time has expired. We'll go extra innings until it's settled and, in extra, you only get one pitch. If it's bad, watch it and walk. If it's good (or anywhere near good), lock in and let 'er fly. In an epic clash, we took that game to nine full innings before we'd hang up seven runs and drive the score up to 23-16 and would end up securing the win by locking them down in the bottom of the inning. Roundhouse giveth. Roundhouse taketh away.

And that was just our first game.

We duck behind the dugout and shotgun a beer and then take the field for our second game versus New Breed II (I suppose the "II" suggests that there were improvements made to the first model). Now, New Breed had forfeited our first contest by a failure to draw one person to the ball field so we were kinda hoping the same would happen in this game so we could go home and call it a night. But they showed up--all nine of them. Now, rules state that if you don't field a team of ten players, the ten-hole in the lineup is an automatic out. Crucial to know that.

New Breed (or New Beer'd) apparently made good use of our extra innings in the first game because the whole left side of the infield were half in the bag by the time the game started and this Jason Bateman-lookin' muddah had a hard time keeping his pipe closed. Also, crucial to know.

Overall, these dudes were a pretty decent team, but too bad they couldn't keep their drinking in check because they're pupils. As home team, we would have last at-bat which usually provides you with pretty good comfort going into the game because we play to win.

We'd go back and forth in the opening and then, in the top of the third inning, they hit two homeruns and, in a league that restricts teams to only hitting one homerun a game, the second was an automatic out and, everytime that kid came up to bat, he was out. So, if you're counting at home, they have two automatic outs in their lineup. We knew it'd be hard for them to mount any sort of comeback given the fact that our defense had been locking it down all night and they had two automatic outs in their lineup. I guess this didn't fit well with them because then it descended into a dark and embarrassing display of drunkeness and dirty play. It started when Kool Aid, who can't stop running, came trucking into third base and got tangled up with the third baseman and then shoulders and elbows started swinging.

The dugout almost emptied out onto the field. But we vets of this muddah. We built this league and we ain't going out like that. So we just kept running. The umps clearly warned against foul language. Not a problem for me, but always a problem for Angry Tim and the word "shit".

We took a pretty nice lead and, from there, the game just began to descend into an embarrassing and uncomfortable growl of poor sportsmanship and drunkeness (not at all on our part, mind you). Of course, realizing an opportunity when we saw it, we just kept hitting line shots to the drunk shortstop until he would just give up. We kept up with our automatic outs and just kept hitting and running because, at this point, these dudes weren't taking this seriously at all and it was miserable out there.

Turns out that, being home team, all we had to do is run the time out by stalling out one minute with one out on the board. Basically, step out of the batter's box after every pitch and make him pitch perfect pitches. Chances are, with only one out, he'll be lucky to get ten good pitches over the plate in that time. Just pitch the bat on your shoulder and make that pitcher work. We had a runner on first and, whaddya know, we just can't stop swinging and on the second pitch, David takes a hack and sends a fly ball into left field along the line. It hugs the line and the third baseman, in foul territory, makes an attempt at the fly ball and it drops in fair territory. He rifles it into second base for a force out on the runner at first and then they continue to throw it to first where there's only a first baseman waiting on the throw and David's making his way back to the batter's box. Double play?

Well, technically, no. Since it was touched in foul territory and then, off of his glove, went fair, it's a foul ball in the same way that if you touch a ball in fair territory and then it goes foul, it's fair. At this point, the game has ended (and I continue to wonder why in the hell we can't just cooly run the time out in those circumstances). Their entire team comes alive with a fury of obscenities and hollered comments at the field umps wondering why the don't get credit for the double play and, in turn, don't get to go another inning in hopes to mount an 8-run comeback with two automatic outs in their lineup. These dudes had to all be drunk to think they could do so on The Roundhouse. Dude, this ain't a game to us.

Jason Bateman made a comment on his way back to the bar he crawled out of like, "No offense, guys, I just know the rules and those umps don't." Nah, bro, you're the only one that doesn't know the rules and you should stick to something your good at like losing and public intoxication. Dude must have thought this was intramural league.

Anyhow, we were victorious and move to 5-1. For those who don't follow sports at all that would mean we have five wins and one loss.

A photo surfaced this last week that had Mayhem, Angry Tim and I a little shocked and puzzled. I mean, we knew Harley was a bit of a punk-ass, but we really had no clue it was this bad back in the day. Harley was a straight up Slim Shady cat--flipping the bird, sagging the drawers, posing in front of red vehicles. Yeah, Harley, yous'a sucka, but we still love ya, homie. Eat some food--you look like you're starvin'.

AND NOW I PROUDLY PRESENT UNCLE DONOVAN

Yeah, some dudes are just so good at what they do that they make you want to quit trying--forever. Donovan's a beast on the bass. I'm not sure where this performance is from, but it was sent over from my darling Grandma. Check it out. Donovan's a virtuoso, he is. Glad he's family.

Know the ledge, kiddo.