Tuesday, June 03, 2003

"got my chrome to the side of his white sox hat…” hey, yo, dr. dre said it, not me, I ain’t trying to plagiarize perjure myself slash playa hate. I guess I’m dubbing it hip-hop week here at ultrabs. Whether that is still in effect later today tomorrow or Friday noontime shall depend wholely and entirely on the thoughts in my head and their heretofore unknown effect on the keyboard situated oh so conveniently in front of me.

Actually fuk hip hop week. The thought of some type of thematic topic by which I may or may not be constrained by fills me with fear & loathing (thanks Hunter) and that just cannot happen, not in this day and age my, um, whatever you people are.

I remember I thought it was such a big deal when ice cube left NWA. I was, like, aghast. The two biggest groups influentualistically via hip hop on my noggin in my early nascent descent into the realms of rap music were oh most definitely Public Enemy and the aforementioned nincompoops with attitude. It was like two sides of two-faces coin, depending on his mood, hardcore gangsta street triction (futh? Nah) and here we have the underground politics, spat from the decibel bashing orifice of chuck D’s mizouth spliced in with flava’s random yet biting rants. Throw in some professor griff anti-semitism and it was too good to resist. (joking, joking, jesus Christ, easy there people). and I mean, what with terminator x stuck in the valley of the jeep beats, it was like, um, buttah?

All these leads to my overall idea in this hardhitting and influential piece of literature that I love hip hop. YET. (yet) I also listen to Morissey. Is my name bitchey mcfackelstein? I tell you no. there is room for tom petty on the same mix tape with the geto boys. Rodney O & Joe Cooley, I am hearteltly convinced can get along and in fact make beautiful music, with Def Leppard, if given the proper forum and/or incentive. Like a 9 to the muthafuckin dome.

So pretty damn soon I’ll be in Europe. Paris, London, Zurich, yup chuuuuch masters, it’s a world tour but not with muhammuad my man, and I won’t have a mic in my hand, I’ll have a handheld sony digital voice recorder, and I’ll be dropping knowledge which shall be known only unto myself, Mrs. P, and our pet rhesus monkey Samson. Well, pet is kind of a derogatory word, I guess, I mean, he does have the intellect of gorilla grodd, but for customs and border crossing purposes, especially if we don’t want him quarantined by scientists who would dissect his super power brain, he must be referred to as such. I mean, Tony Blair just wouldn’t understand Samson the way Linda Lingle does. Let’s just say the governor and I have an, ahem, agreement. Samson makes her his patented green tea mixed with herbal blessings, she hands over the reins on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and well, somehow we’ve dug maybe half way out of the mess left us by the crooks thieves and vagabonds led by a certain ben cayetano.

Ok not halfway. Not even a quarter. But it was a deep deep hole, and the battle has just begun, plus she’s got to keep up with her banana bread recipe collection. I mean, seriously, she’s not some al gore slash Barbara boxer stepchild beating alice cooper fan, she’s got guts, feelings, and/or emotions, and she ain’t scared to break a few eggs to make an omelette, especially if it involves manual labor and dexterity. And our new guv’s got bridge club on Wednesdays, so c’mon, rome wasn’t built in a day, ya know, you gotta keep the contingent happy in the midst of the phoenix ashes rising dillio, or else, what was it all for, na mean? Of course you do.