Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Well hello there. Yes it is I. Or he. Or it, as it were. Heh. I just did a triple quadruple entendre. Ok, no I didn’t. and in fact, I’m not even sure what that or the other is or are. Ok, I kind of am. But kind of just doesn’t cut it in this day & age, now does it.

Now I could go into all the this that and the other thing that I’ve been up to in the last few days, and, admittedly, or, rather, anti-admittedly, it’s been quite a bit, most of it enjoyable, but, eh, fuck it, who gives a rat’s. I mean, you prolly do bout that more than this, ie, idle chatter is less than actual description of events, but, I dunno danielsan, in that aspect I have this sneaking suspicion, and I’m willing to bet my lack of a reputation on it, that you would be wrong.

Yup, so then there’s that. I will admit that I was able to view a live performance by one of the modern day rock groups and I was pleasantly impressed. I’d honestly thought that rock and roll post 1995 was completely and irrevocably dead in the sense of any type of quality. And not that I’d ever given this band more than a glance and a nod like, “hmmm, they might be ok,” but their live show was heavy on the energy, heavy on the rock, lotsa attitude, strong showing. So, contrary to reports, shit’s alive.

Now we gotta worry about rap, which it would appear is ruling the universe harder than the greatest fears of the dino-riders. But, shit, the way I see it, prop up the goddamm tombstone, cuz Pat Garrett or whoever is right on mofo’s tail, and almost has his head in a locked up sleeper hold, I mean, shit, when ludacris can cavort and pimp out the jams all over the world and keith has to slither through the underground, with admittedly solid cash and of his own accord, I dunno, I’m going nowhere with this, but I think you get my point. And it’s not that rap is dead, but it sure as fuck is hurtin’.

You know, now that I think about it, djxplicit has much more cogent shit to say on that topic than I do, and if he ain’t doing so today, dig through the files. Added bonus: the artist formerly known as Ronnie Ock is slanging his wares on the low over there on a here & there basis as well. Shit, what more can you ask for, except maybe an ice cream sundae and a baseball cap with a super brain scrambler with a range of 30 feet plus options for non retreaded tires to magically appear whut when your shit busts from so many miles traveled seeking out the so-called "truth" only to end up crying in a river of alligator tears upon realization that it’s nothing but a screed-infested myth.