Moving Right Along 24 February 2006

If this thing is working properly, it should entertain you until I come up with something good to write about.

Feel free to dig around in the older posts. Drop a comment. Click on stuff. Drop a comment. There’s a gang of goodness hither and tither…don’t sleep on the blogroll. Have you checked out the blogroll? You haven’t? Well what are you waiting for?

This isn’t Sesame Street.

Go. Click on stuff. Read all of it. Everything.

There’s a quiz. Monday!?

The Weed nowadays, is too strong 17 February 2006

Dude… (L.O.L.)

Seriously though. I live a peaceful life, the peace pipe is no stranger to me. I had my first real toke at the very old age (for most Ganja smokers) 24/25. I’ll never forget it…I felt like I had a summer breeze blowing up the skirt of my soul. My friend (whaddup Lucas?) popped in a VHS full of bootleg Led Zeppelin performances from 1969.,*mindboggling*.
My girlfriend at the time (whaddup Big Head) managed to follow my directions to my friends house…and bring the requested chili cheese frito’s. I remember thinking then…IF ONLY I HAD THIS SCHITT IN HIGHSCHOOL/COLLEGE!!!!! Man was I stoned, and boy was it fun macking on that big headed woman in her car. I felt like I was watching myself on television.

As a matter of fact, I had a new favorite television show…ME, baked.

I went from vowing to never buy my own pot…to always having some herb on me. From making a big deal out of that first time, to emphatically wondering why this plant was/is outlawed. That time span was roughly 2 years.

By 27, my social circle was seriously on some “puff,puff,pass” activity. This was Texas. Most of the Ganja I saw down there was still in the curved shape of the inside of a muffler. Schitty dirt weed, no doubt. But in the social setting I was in…you could maintain the same level of buzzedness smoking for hours straight. Only a few times did I luck across some ganja that made me feel like I had magically transformed into Sly Stone’s lower lip, who knows what was going on with that stuff.

At roughly 28/29, another friend(whaddup Don-Don) and I swore to only partake in kind buds. This was the equivalent to only driving foreign cars, my favorite show had just gotten an exotic sidekick. Around this time I heard of Amsterdam, and dreamed of going there and huffing down all of the genetically engineered super strains I could lay my eyes on. That never happened though.

At this time I visited California. I’d never seen ganja like Calibuds, dense, sticky,loaded with crystals, and STINKY AS A SKUNKS ASS.

I’d never heard of medical marijauna providers either. Seeing/smelling shops along the block that I lived on was surreal. “You mean…I can get a doctor’s note, go to one of these places and buy…some herb?” Yes.

I haven’t gotten the doctor’s note…no need. For you see, even the medical marijuan providers have to get their herb from somewhere.

Wait… land ahoy, matey, this is San Francisco, CA…part of the illustrious Gold Coast. Not far from the infamous Humboldt County, part of the Golden Triangle (whaddup Mendocino, whaddup Trinity County). Yes, indeed California’s number one cash crop is not grapes, or apples…it’s ganja.

*does inzone dance*

But wait…there’s just one thing….

The weed nowadays…is TOO STRONG. It’s the herbal equivalent to Jägermeister (www.jagermeister.com/welcome/welcome.com.aspx)…(make sure you click enter…too, that’s what I’m talking about) (look at this one too…www.jaegermeister.de/welcome/welcome.de.aspx).

Yeah…it’s medicine all right, and I seriously believe that. But it’s also the model airplane…and model airplane glue of scientific stoners. What I mean by that is…it’s not enough to just have some killer-diller, no, now you have to have the newest latest killa most dilla (whaddup to Jay Dee…I’ll only smoke in your memory, son. R.I.P.). Various strains, with fancy names have been coming down the pike and into the pipe for years, but now…it’s reached designer blue jeans levels of insanity.

You’ve got the purples (mmmm, taste like grape Now-a-laters), blueberry (mmm, blueberry syrup), trainwreck (did I just move? I didn’t think so), white widow (hey, let’s do some calculus after we finish up this physics), jedi (????), chocolate thai (no lie…taste like a chocolate pop tart), Northern Lights (dude…watch me walk through this wall again).

I mean the list just goes on and on…and the growers are getting more competitive (I’m waiting for SaTivo©, myself…I imagine it’ll allow you to watch anything you’ve ever seen on television again…IN YOUR MIND).

But honestly, the stuff lays me on my ass faster than a burrito from El Farolito. It’s strong. I mean there’s no concievable way I could partake at say my 28 yr old intake level…no fucking way,man. …Dude… I tried. I’m more partial to a nice brownie or two. I like a good body buzz,y’know? I’ve never tried the vaporizer, but I’ve heard stories…it just seems to technically involved…I made a commitment with the bong…a vaporizer seems sort of odd to me, like a wino having an a mechanical wine bottle or something.

So yeah…I’m not quitting, who really quits weed? I don’t believe you Dave Chappelle…not for a minute negro (I picked up a distinct stoned vibe, when I shook his hand in November 2005…but that could of been me…whaddup Alex, Shawn, Chris G., Het)

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

This blog is too much fun. There’s only one thing left to do now.

No, I’m not gonna smoke out. I have a cold, and the sudafed is already got me stuck.

I’m gonna have a snack, just typing about weed this much has given me the munchies.

Enjoy.

Come back to California

JAY DEE R.I.P. 12 Feb. 06

James (Jay Dee/J Dilla) Yancey

1974-2006
The Greatest Beatmaker of All Time

Me and my cousin (Hynes Rizzo), in the late ’80’s early ’90’s,used to turn Detroit upside down in search of the flavor. Our newfagled independence (18 pushing 21) was fresh and exciting, we seemingly did it all ,and seriously stayed 100% trouble free.

Somehow, we ran across these roving parties, called “The Rhythm Kitchen”, here (usually after hours in a New Center area Chinese restaurant) we discovered in a social aspect…a club setting…the fundamental elements of Hip-Hop. These parties were the cream of the crop of Detroit’s rapidly expanding HIP-HOP underground (Shout out to Maurice Malone and Jessica Care Moore). Here we first experienced the infinite skills of an individual by the name of Jay Dee. At this time Jay was a local d.j., his crates, his style, his mixing, his skill, his ear…even then(’91/’92) were phenomenal. I’ll never forget staring at cats breaking to the instrumental of what I didn’t even know at the time was A Tribe Called Quest’s “Scenario-remix”. I just knew it was the illest schitt I’d seen or heard at that point…in a Chinese restaurant.

Come to find out it was thee guy who would put Detroit Hip Hop on the map in ways Eminem couldn’t.

Jay Dee was the architect of a sound of his own. His rhythms stutter-stepped, were bass heavy with nimble bass lines, were odd yet easy to freestyle too, dance to, nod yr head to or simply zone out to. Jay’s skills…on the mic and as a beatmaker were infectious and sheer genius (see “Fuck the Police”), considering that his main instrument were vinyl/an MPC/& tons of imagination. The man made the funkiest/simplest collages out of the strangest vinyl selection…a background vocal here, a horn line there. He was the audio equivalent of Romare Bearden.
His sound can be heard on records with various artists (Slum Village, A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul,Madlib, O.D.B., Spacek,Janet Jackson, Common, The Roots, and Erykah Badu and many more.

I’m proud of Jay’s accomplishments as an artist from Detroit, and as a visionary for Hip-Hop.

Do yourself a favor and get acquainted with Jay’s work. I can’t imagine you wouldn’t like it even a little bit.

Jay left the planet 10 February 2006, he was 32 years old (as of 7 February). Lupus has been named as the cause of death.

Thank you for all of the work you put in in your amazing career.

You will be remembered always and missed greatly.

Sly Stone…Do the Math 9 February 06

At this point, we’re in a post-Michael Jackson world. I mean Mike is a white woman now…so…he emphatically ain’t funky no more (yet Madonna still ain’t got schitt on Mike).

Truth be told I only rode with Mike up until “Off the Wall” (ask my sister).

You see, I come from a world that got the official memo every saturday afternoon,in the form of a seriously jam packed with juju el grande hour of Soul Train.

Soul Train, was seriously the town hall meeting for Black america. Of course I’m not talking about latter day Soul Train…I’ll go so far as to say Soul Train up until ummmm….’78/’80…let’s just say 1981.

1981 as those in the know know…is the year Black america seemed to do a jackknife into a half empty swimming pool full of old soggy platform boots.

Let’s see, you had the beginnings of Reagan, Crack , A.I.D.S., did I say Reagan?

By all accounts, in retrospect it seems the only Black celebrity not freebasing coke at this time was Muhammad Ali. But we didn’t know what the hell freebasing was. Schitt, folks like/love to get high, whether it’s sipping on some Martell, or hidin’/having a serious PCP habit for decades (…shout out to the Godfather of Soul, J.B.).

What I’m saying with the aid of gross exaggeration is that the ’80’s was definately not the Black is Beautiful ’70’s. My man, Sylvester Stewart was the “Pres-O-dent” , with Stevie Wonder as a strong V.P. in my earliest memories, Don Cornelius was more important that Walter Cronkite in my house. The vibrations coming from these guys when they were working wasn’t deeper than Angela Davis’ afro…they weren’t heavy and dramatic like Bono from U2. These cats were lighter than air, well informed,spiritual & political dudes that made me and my friends understand that the art of the boogie came from the inside to the outside…like a funky holy ghost. You got the message before you even got the message. You sang it to yourself unconciously while doing all the math with your body (the boogie).

I really don’t want to talk about today’s black music/culture. That’s another whole topic. So I’ll try to stay the course with this little essay, but let me quickly inject this: R.Kelly is a C.I.A. agent!!!

Now in these ’70’s I’m talking about remember KING is gone, X is gone, the Black Panthers are on their way into chaos. Sly,Stevie & Marvin, attempted to carry the house…but the red sea didn’t part for two of them…and one of them was blind enough to leave the freebase alone. Add disco to the mix and the funk/math became integrated the rhythms more accessible. By the time the drum machine made it to the scene (1981) the heartbeat of Black america had become automated…much like the assembly lines that provided work for that black contingent that migrated to the north from the south.

I saw my musical hero…a survivor of chaos…perform on the Grammy’s© last night. In his physical 60’s (800 or something in c-head/freebase years). Returning to an industry that isn’t about music, a country that isn’t about the people, an audience that loves you more for who you loving and how much you got…it was an odd fit. Sly still radiates the mathematics. He may look like a funkadelic yoda, but when didn’t Sly look like he felt?

I saw a free man. And as quickly as he reappeared from a couple of decades missing in action, he disappeared, from a chaos that can’t possibly be survived with your soul intact…center stage…beneath the spotlight.

Sly Stone is dead…long live Sylvester Stewart.

(“the Super Black World of…”© recommends you put Loose Booty on repeat and dance in your drawz til’ you feel high)

Building the BETTER brand 8 Februrary 06

Hot off the heels of a missed oppurtunity of GINORMOUS proportions, I’ve

a.)shot smoke out of my ears

b.)cussed out “someones” kitten

c.)flipped off at least 15,000 people on my way home from “said” snafu.

d.)realized I could do nothing really but become even more dangerous, i.e., BETTER.

No, I’m not taking any classes yet, but I am looking into taking this place into more of a creative place.

All those ideas I was talking about earlier would/will be even better when they’re paying for my parents to go to college, or a nice house in the suburbs or a Hummer. Y’know, I’ve got “American Dreams” too.

So starting in March, I’ll be offering webcam shows of the life of a real black man, trying to get the rest of the world to accept the fact that

a.)not all black people smoke menthols.

b.)watermelon is out of season

c.)my breasts are real

d.)I’m not obsessed with what “white” people think of me

d.) I really don’t have a television…really. Imagine that.

With that said, I’m noticing that the amount of readers is steadily increasing…yet I’m low on the comments. Don’t be afraid to agree or disagree around here. Speak up, just like in real life your words/perspectives also need to be heard.

So let’s look forward to bigger and better ideas, more interaction and an endless sea of products that you can pay me for.

O.K.?

Cool

S.F.: Bop City/Marcus Books 5 February 2006

So this past Saturday, I’m having one of my “if the cast of Seinfeld were negroes” days, me and my lady roll down to “Jay’s Pots o’ Soul” (on Octavia)…it’s a beautiful day…mind you. Once we got a table…I called my dear friend and lower Haight superstar, B. Love to join us. We enjoy our meal and make further plans.

To make a long story shorter…B. and I end up rolling as a duo (as “the lady” has a smidge of errands/work to do, and will meet up with us later). We visit a friends upcoming restaurant in it’s remodeling phase, and casually chat about the future HQ of melinated S.F. . It’s a beautiful location and we all hope it will become the much needed haven for folks like us.

From there we skate on over to Marcus Books (1712 Fillmore, S.F. CA). One of Marcus Books claims to fame is that it’s the headquarters of ,”books by and about black people everywhere”. Me, a lifelong fan of the “Shrine of the Black Madonna” bookstores back home in Detroit, loves Marcus Books. But Marcus Books has many other claims to fame.

For one, the physical structure was once a jazz club, “Bop City”, in the 1940’s and 50’s. The photograph up above (from l to r: John Handy, Charlie Parker, John Coltrane, Frank Fisher) was taken inside Bop City/Marcus Books. In the 1940s and 1950s, San Francisco’s Fillmore district was once a thriving African American community,but also the place to be culturally on the west coast, boasting two dozen active nightclubs and music joints within its one square mile. Marcus Books sits one block away from the legendary Fillmore Auditorium. With the exception of Marcus Books, the area now (on the surface) hardly feels like the “legendary” Harlem of the West. Yet, it is easy to see how this area could be a destination of creative giants then and now.

We (“my lady” rejoins the crew) ended up chatting with Karen, the proprietor of the store for at least 2 hours and got a good dose of the warm fuzzy’s. Growing up around a family business myself, I can assure you there is no corporate ideal on this earth that can compete with a with a solid family owned operation in regards to the warmth of energy.

We talked music,history,literature,metaphysics,James Jamerson,politics,blackness and then some…Karen even whipped out 3 handfuls of loose change and walked each of us through an impromptu I Ching divination. Barnes and Noble ain’t got schitt on Marcus Books, nah’mean? This visit was no regular visit…it was a ritual/excercise in divine rhythm. A pow wow of positive melinated energy. As George Clinton says, “WE were on the ONE“.

At this point I can only imagine what San Francisco felt like before the class war came to define the current era. Just a few miles north of Marcus Books is City Lights bookstore…a landmark for lovers of all things beatnik, home to the spirits of Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg and Kerouac. In the independant bookstore world, City Lights is Goliath to Marcus Books-David. In “the Super Black World of…”©, City Lights Goliath is a Goliath of pretension. The humble, steadfast Marcus Books with it’s tangible yet supressed history and spirit make a suitable David for it’s patrons…right down to their motto: “books by and about black people everywhere”.

If you haven’t been to Marcus Books, mark February 25th on your calendars. Karen, the proprietor tells me that on this day Marcus Books will be transformed back into Bop City once again, for a day of live music and living history in celebration of all of it’s rich history. Be there or be square…and dress like it’s 1946 (i.e., pull your pants up hip-hoppers).

P.S.A.: HEY STINKY 3 February 06

I’ve got friends and family that smoke (all damn day), so do all of us,right?

Some of them smell like a gotdamn ashtray, others never smell really funky.

I used to work in an office with this very unhealthy pregnant woman (yes, she was a Texas Hillbilly) who would chug 2 packs of Marlboros and two 2 liters of Diet Pepsi© a day. I’m not the picture of health by any stretch of the imagination…BUT, I wonder if she’s dead yet? She had another kid that was 7 years old, and I schitt you not…his speech pattern was spot on for “Gleek”, the Wonder Twins pet monkey. Damn shame.

I won’t sit here and act like a saint…in all honesty, a drag of tobacco gets me lightheaded for a good minute. WAAAAAAAY more trippy, than ganja…but much shorter than a ganja buzz. I usually feel like my upper torso is made of cement the day after being around heavy smokers/having a puff off of a cigarette.

If you’re gonna put your respiratory system in the hands of BIG TOBACCO, get yourself some American Spirits and something with a filter,o.k.?
Either smoke ganja or stop smoking.

No…I can’t tell you to smoke ganja. That’s wrong.

I’ll just suggest it. Not a lot now just a lil’ bit…and go get that new J.Dilla while you at it (he’s dope too).

Dear Popeye’s… 1 February 06

We met in the early 80’s through my family. I was a young boy…free and open to new things. You were the new kid on the block…a rising star to everyone in the know.

I have an Aunt and Uncle that love you to this day (how y’all Roy & ‘Letta?).

But I’m writing this to say something I’ve known for quite a while now…

Popeye’s…we can’t see each other any more.

Though nobody does spicy or crunchy like you…and your biscuits are heavenly, you’re bad for me Popeye’s. I’vetried to scale back the time we spend together (once a month), but it’s always the same results. You leave me with whyle bowels & da borderline muddbutt (Dave Chappelle©). It’s worse than a hangover in my opinion. Having to devote up to 5…6 hours of time being prepared for the inevitable. Scared to leave the house, or move too much or too fast. Look at what you’ve done to me.

Popeye’s you’re so good, but you’re so bad for me.

I’ll remember you always. And now I retire you to the rafters…on this the first day of “so-called” Black History month (mind you the shortest damn month of the year), February 1, in the year of our lord Richard Pryor 2006 a.d.

I’m gonna miss you,kid. Bye.

p.s., for more funstatic comedy at the expense of well loved African-American cuisine, please check out 3030media.net (located to the right on my trusty web log roll), There you will find an episode of “The Boondocks” entitled “The Itis”