Humid on the Strip

Working working on the rail road. All the live-long-day. Strange year. Fell off on my productivity a bit but I’m picking back up. Some decent gigs fell my way that I haven’t minded catching so I’m brimming with whatever people brim with on brimming day. It better be good.

I’ve seen some things with these brimmed eyes, young man. Things you wouldn’t believe. C-Beams glitter on the planes of Orion type things. You know what kind of edge I’m running. Fumes, fission, power mad, desperation, desperado, infantile.

My pre-kindergarten tyke tyro is rapping up a storm. He’s snaggle at the moment and he’s eating as much as me. He’s learned his interest in rhyme through the variety of people in his immediate surroundings… well, not including me. He doesn’t want to listen to my old thrashing as he fears that it might be whack. The boy likes his beatings, did I mention?

Despite only dropping a couple of primary teeth thus far, the little monster has a pretty decent vocabulary that rivals and occasionally surpasses his older “peers”. If there’s any fear, it’s that he might get stuck in the wave of environmental influence. I mean, hip hop is kids’ music. I’ve fought saying that for years. Actually, I’ve said it before many many many times but I’m actually a cranky old bastard now.

Mode shifts, key changes, time signature counterpoint, diminished chords? Zig zag, please. The pulse of the metronome has been fine all these years, why stop me now? I’m older. I’m crankier. I don’t want someone yelling in my ear about trite shit. I don’t want to see little skanks, 2 years removed from high school writhing around draped in stripper weave while pooting out blah-isms through the melodyne.

If you as an “artist” and you aren’t willing to artistically leap off of a cliff and smash your whole state of being up in an attempt to defy gravity, you are really a peddler. That’s fine. Sometimes on the corner, I want to buy a bag of socks. Who doesn’t like clean socks? But maybe I’ll buy someone else’s socks. After all, you’re just selling socks.

It’s not a dry heat. It’s mostly wet and uncomfortable. I grew up in an L.A. where the Summer months were high 90s to mid 100s. I’d play basketball for hours on the blacktop which is now readily evident by my periodic inability to walk without a limp. Also, the air was a dingy shade of brown. Bonus for people who liked frequent smog alerts.

Socks are not dangerous. People who fill socks with change to konk you on the head are dangerous. Just saying something is hot doesn’t kick the Jedi mind trick into full effect. All that shit is moist. It’s tepid. It’s germane. It’s as dangerous as baby talk. It’s as stirring as a great grandmother grinding on a stripped pole at the Barbary Coast. You are not hard. My 5 year old will shame you on the mic.

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