“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.