“Forever in debt to your priceless advice…”

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I’m smoking on the balcony in the chill, Oklahoma night.

 

See, smoking is banned in my building.

 

But sub-woofers aren’t.

 

Lucky me.

 

1600+ miles and hip-hop bullshit follows. ¹

 

 

 

My downstairs neighbor practices for his rap-yodeling career as his lack of consideration coupled with my dearth of blood-borne nicotine has me contemplating painting his walls an intriguing shade of brain with a tire-iron.

 

I continue to like the place but it reminds me that I’m still stuck in “the land of the ‘me’; home of the slaves”. ²

 

Where everyone seems to fuck everyone else but nobody really orgasms.

 

Where we’re all just left with that stupid, fake grin on our faces; muttering “Yeah, it was good for me, too”, when we really mean:

 

“G☼ddamn, what have done with my day life?”

 

 

 

No wonder I fell – head first – into the ‘sphere.

 

I mean, damn, we’re all freaks, weirdos, malcontents and outlaws.

 

But at least we stop for a second, if only once in a while, to ask:

 

“Is this really how things should be?”

 

 

 

We’re the ones that, during the two-minute hate, just hold what we’re supposed to be throwing at the boogeyman-of-the-day, stare at it dumbly – like a dog whose master brought a new baby into the house – and wonder why no one else is wondering.

 

Regardless, flawed as we all are:

 

I’ll take us over the frothing masses any day.

 

 

 

 

Ω

 

 

 

¹ = I’ve already been accused of being racist for hating rap/hip-hop, so save such moronic nonsense. Besides, I can name more black musicians than you can, if you try to call me out; Delta bluesmen taught me everything about guitar-playing. Thus, if anything, defame me for “co-opting black culture”.

 

 

² = Is it wrong to quote my own work?

 

My slow-going, in-production memoir? 

 

Fuck it; I’ll spray what I like on my own digital wall.

 

 

PS – This post’s title and song were chosen very, very intentionally.

“I know, John. I do know.”

Watch the following video. 

 

All of it. 

 

No cheating.

 

 

 

 

Sexual conquests are fine distractions.

 

But they amount to little, if anything, in the end.

 

Jobs will come and (in the world, this age) go without supplying meaning in any measurable quantity.

 

And popularity, like the bright, warm season it is, shall pass.

 

What matters is a man’s mission. 

 

 

 

It is paramount.

 

It is the flag around which allies gather.

 

The beacon that guides love to oneself in the darkness.

 

An inspiration and focal point for loyalty.

 

It is purpose, goal and legacy all in one.

 

 

 

Looks will fade.

 

Muscles will weaken and atrophy.

 

The mind will slowly unravel until, like a clockwork spring, reaching the end of its efficacy.

 

Ironically, in an era when life-extension is more possible than ever, decay is even more present.

 

 

 

Yet mission accomplishments, and the opposite side of its coin – legacy, are as close a man can come to immortality.

 

From a certain perspective, it may even be the best way.

 

As it allows both the memory and soul to endure.

 

Find a new home.

 

And, perhaps, a new objective.

 

 

 

 

Ω

“This will never end ’cause I want more.”

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For all of the talk of “strong, independent women”- 

 

I’ve seen none.

 

 

 

A generation of females told they can – and should be – tough, ass-kicking, take-no-prisoners, trash-talking tank-grrrls.

 

Yet they are so fragile as to get PTSD from internet comments.

 

Wilt beneath the most basic intellectual criticism. 

 

Demand police (male) protection from even slight disagreements, let alone raised voices.

 

 

 

It’s akin to pulling teeth to get a woman to communicate through anything but a digital wall.

 

Phone (voice) chat?

 

No.

 

In person?

 

Madness.

 

Text or email only.

 

 

 

They cannot be dragged from the electronic womb.

 

Soft, soothing, familiar sounds only.

 

All others need not apply.

 

 

 

Where are the True women?

 

I don’t mean “strong”.

 

Women have no need to be strong.

 

Strength is for the warrior (men).

 

 

 

Women, as the support structure they are, must be resilient.

 

Not a berserker, but a shield-maiden.

 

They must exhibit resilience in the face of penury.

 

Resilience in the face of disease.

 

Resilience in the face of ostracism.

 

Resilience in exile.

 

 

 

Resilience is the courage to stand by her man – more accurately, his mission – in the face of adversity.

 

The power to help him to his feet when he falls.

 

The wisdom to heal him when he is ill.

 

The bravery to realize that she is – above all else—

 

The last line of defense for an army that serves a greater purpose.

 

Her family. 

 

 

 

 

 

Ω