Avocado ****

Driving around with the super son today we returned to professing our **** for Subway’s old avocado commercial. He’s also liking the Sony commercial where the two gamers profess their enjoyment of disposing of one another in binary fashion (perfect day). NatGeo’s Man v Cheetah left him excited and puzzled why he wanted to see it. The commercial’s graphics are deceptively slicker than they initially appear…and damn it, it’s big cats chasing football players. That’s quality loonieness.
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Cloudless sky

Nothing but the sky above today. No clouds. See the vastness of the blue sky clearly or suspect that you will soon die of thirst? This city has changed so much over the years but I still love the hell out of this sky whether shooting the basketball or getting chased by the mutants of commerce. Mega-son recently wanted me to relay my experiences in this city from when I was his age through a few years down the line.

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For one, the sky was brown most of the time. Secondly, kids were outside playing under that brown sky all summer. You could not go inside aside for lunch or evacuation (but more often, stay outside to water the tree). My cousins and I lived at the museums down near USC – but the bastards would never give us a key. My Northern friends from school were Guatemalan and Laotian and we would charge people to park their cars in abandoned lots so they could walk to the football games at the Coliseum. Woe be unto the mofo who thought they could stiff us because “it’s not your lot”. The fee was cheaper than the repercussions. (I didn’t tell him that part)

In a way, I had forgotten about all the little hustles that we all did. No lemonade stands. Now I have all this technology that remembers all the phone numbers for me, reminds me of birthdays of ingrates, and I’m certain that I saw an app dedicated to scratching my left testicle. The purity of the hustle has been broadsided by the superstructure of snark – riddled coneheads and the vacuous grasp of the technological programming. I’m cyborg now and fresh out of wd40.

All is not lost, pilgrim. The nano-bot small pox laden cell phone has not totally corrupted my vision. I do not reminisce for stage 3 smog alerts and police helicopters hovering over my roof for hours on end. I’m not a nostalgic cat so it takes external requests for me to sift through the archives. My original hustle just has to mind meld with the things I’ve learned over recent years. I admit I find it a bit of a struggle to relate to many of the newer faces that I’ve come across. Rather, they don’t seem to feel the need to relate to me. My job is to create on a level where people are moved one way or another. Germane output isn’t going to make an impact. With that,  the responsibility is all mine.

At the canon shop, Tim Tadder was talking about finding the thing that is unique to you and running with it. That’s how his hustle brought him the work it did.

I’ve driven 50 miles typing this between stops and now I’m being musically tortured.  So with the smoothness of broken glass, I’m cutting this post now.