Buckley

Introduction: I intend to republish every single thing on my blog over about the next month or so. Nobody gives a fuck, but that’s okay. I’m doing it to entertain myself, remind myself that I kinda sorta used to know how to actually write, and because it’s a good exercise in discipline. I’m doing this in reverse chronological order.

How does this equate to discipline? Because I have the kind of personality that would like to just republish everything in one night or over two days. I can now teach myself to show up once a night, once every few days, or once a week to do a republish. This is an exercise in managing compulsion. Life isn’t something you achieve in one day, right?

Buckley is on the very bottom of my stack, apparently the oldest post, so we’ll start with that one.

This is cute – back in the days when I fancied myself a little music journalist. This blog started out nothing but music, before I knew what blogging on wordpress is actually about.

Not surprisingly, I didn’t get many followers under the “music” tag, and I’d be surprised if even one person out there is randomly scrolling under the music tag and sees this… much less tolerates this long-ass introduction before getting to the actual content. Besides, I was reading Thomas Wolfe and all this shit at the time, it’s probably overwrought writing. And since I am going reverse chrono, the first few will be like that. I’m not editing.

Ah, yes. I was in for a big lesson about how WP works. Music people don’t give a fuck about my blog. It wasn’t until I started journaling about my personal feelings and dramas that I began to get followers. So, I’m just republishing these things for my current small audience and for me.

BUCKLEY

“I want to be ripped apart by music. I want it to be something that feeds and replenishes, or that totally sucks the life out of you. I want to be dashed against the rocks.” – Jeff Buckley

He stands beneath a street lamp on the cracked pavement of life, electric guitar in hand, singing as the light fades into dusk. He watches birds fly across the pink sky above city power lines, his voice straining out broken cries of reality under immense skyscraper gloom. His voice glides up and down in ethereal passion; his eyes follow summer birds into dreams of rapture as they glide away into visions of spring’s promise and reunited love.

To enter the world of Jeff Buckley’s music is to step into a vortex where emotional pain collides with spiritual transcendence. Listening to his catalog is an exhausting and cathartic journey.  An intense and emotional singer, he was serious about the experience his music provided to both himself and his fans – in one interview he claimed that the act of singing changed the shape of the bones in his face.

Actor Brad Pitt attempted to make a movie about him. Popular musicians of the time revered him; they stood completely still, mouths open, envious of his otherworldly talent. I’ve followed many musicians, but Jeff Buckley is the only singer who I can honestly describe as holy or beatific.

“Asleep in the sand with the ocean washing over”

Jeff Buckley drowned in a Tennessee river in 1997. His tragic death is impossible to separate from his legacy; his death fuels his legend in part because his songs are peppered with potent images of water and drowning.  A singer who naturally harnessed mystery in his songs ultimately added to his own mystique by way of his death. Images of the ocean, falling rain, and references to drowning emerge within many of his songs.

His death wasn’t a suicide. The official story is that he and a roadie were heading to the studio to begin sessions on a new record when Buckley, spontaneously inspired, decided to go for a swim before the session. He instructed the driver to pull off to the side of the river, and the rest is history. He waded too far out into the river, against cautious pleadings from his companion, and disappeared. He was taken by the undertow of a passing tugboat.

Jeff Buckley’s debut album, Grace, is full of metaphysical imagery; waiting inside the fire of passion, rain, wind and storms, and the ocean. The sonic elements of the album, including Buckley’s magnificent voice, drive the lyrics forward with a force that adds emphasis to the stormy emotional themes.  It’s difficult to avoid connecting the album’s weather-associated themes and physical elements to the way in which Buckley passed away. In an interview, he reported that he experienced vivid dreams and suffered from occasional nightmares. One can’t help wondering if he predicted his own death in a dream.

“Mojo Pin” from Grace is the height of Buckley’s sweeping passion, one of the most powerful songs in his catalog. Listeners are pulled into the vision of a shimmering beach; a brilliant sun at high noon shining on water between flashes of cloud breaks, oysters in the sand, surf crashing, and sea creatures bowing and praying to the power of love.  An image of a beautiful woman with black hair is traced in the passing clouds.  The palpable, yearning heartbreak of this song will induce immediate chills in any listener.  The long and languid notes that Buckley sings in the introduction glide you through the sky, above the earth, and back down through snow drifts on a pond.

On the surface, Buckley was a Torch singer.  He viewed himself as a “male chanteuse”. It was a role he played well, as demonstrated on his excellent live album, Live at Sin-e.  But the power of Grace and his posthumous album, Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk, illustrate that Buckley was far more than just a male chanteuse.

The music on Grace and Sweetheart contain elements of pop, torch, soul, and touches of grunge rock. On Grace, these genres are blended seamlessly to create a sensual realm; a world that shifts between darkness and light. The album leans toward danger, but strains to find a balance in redemption.

Apart from being a technically proficient singer with a 4 octave range, Buckley was a highly skilled guitar player. Live at Sin-e is one of the most intimate albums that I have experienced, demonstrating his raw guitar and vocal skills. Buckley performed alone in a small coffee house in New York City. The album is so sonically rich, covers such a diverse range of material, and is so layered with emotional content that it’s easy to forget that this is just one man with a guitar.

Buckley’s cover of Van Morrison’s “Sweet Thing” from Live at Sin-e is a perfect example of his ability to take well-established classic songs and drive them into a completely new sonic world.

Van Morrison’s original song is a quaint portrait of jazz whimsy; cool hipster kids hanging out in the city’s dark night, rapping poetry. Buckley’s version takes you directly into the misty garden scene, right out to the dock, gazing at the ferries and the blue sky beyond.  You can feel the nostalgia as though his memory were yours. Buckley does that – he makes the song his life, and his life becomes your own.

A Jeff Buckley bio would not be complete without an honorable mention of his father, 1960’s folk singer Tim Buckley. Tim was equally talented in a different way. The two men have vastly different musical styles, yet what they share in common is an intimate approach to music, and a wild, god-like level of talent.

Tim Buckley

Tim’s background in folk music naturally meant that his style was earthier, less sweeping and physical than Jeff’s. Tim was more than just a simple folk singer, however. Like Jeff, his music spanned several genres and he never fit comfortably into one musical category. As with his son, hearing Tim’s music is a journey into the heart of the man, unhindered by any wall or defense.

Tim Buckley also died young, when Jeff was just a little boy. Tim was absent during most of Jeff’s childhood, a fact which Jeff often dismissed as irrelevant in interviews.  However, he references the pain of rejection related to his father’s absence in a few songs, most notably the song “What Will You Say?”

In the song, Jeff references his own future death and asks Tim, “Father, do you hear me?  Do you know me?  Do you even care?  What will you say when you see my face?” In one of Tim’s songs, he also conveys regret about his absence as a father.  It’s unspeakably sad to think that father and son talked to each other in songs, but never had the chance to speak face to face.

In a way, that unspeakable sadness – that loss that we all experience eventually in some way – is the key to the power in Jeff Buckley’s music. The music is a celebration of existence; an embrace of all the forces behind and within life, including the inevitability of lost love and the loss of life itself. The power of Buckley’s music can perhaps be summarized best by lyrics in the most popular and well-known song that he covered:

“And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah
It’s not a cry that you hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah”

-Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah

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Awww, Grace

Grace, I don’t like this illustrated book.

I fucking love it. Thank you. 💗. Love it so much I am doing a post about it. I can’t wait to bring this book over to my girlfriend’s house and show it to her. 

Yes, first of all Grace remembered my freaking birthday after I mentioned it once. This surprised me. How sweet and delightful.

I vaguely remember that Grace was a March baby. (I think!?) And I sent her a card. I live in the moment and have never been real thoughtful about remembering people’s birthday dates.

But.. to send me this beautiful book, I am happily speechless. I did not expect this. I mean she told me she was sending it and everything…but I missed the part about how it was so huge and beautiful. What did I expect? Not sure. But not this.

 I took some pictures.. but of course they are not going to get the magic across wholesale. The book has words and ALL of the words matter. It’s not worth explaining because it’s super loaded, plus I have to read it from start to finish a couple more times in order to fully absorb it myself. It’s about life.

I simply got excited and had to pull out the camera and gush.

That is just the tip of the iceberg. Some of her stuff reminds me of Ralph Gleason, the guy who illustrated for Hunter Thompson. Like, the soft feminine version of the same demented vibe. Love it.

Grace made me hungry when I was being stubborn about not eating because I didn’t want to deal with The Fear. Back when it was worse and I could go two days on nothing but Boost and not bat an eye. But. My anxiety was off the charts.

I remember the day I started reading Grace’s blog. Ashley Peterson of “Mental Health @ Home” was going on about Seinfeld in a post.

 Grace commented that Seinfeld was the worst show in history. She was all abrasive about it. In a way that you don’t often see on blogs. This woman has some serious voice.

I didn’t know she was a New York native or anything about her, so my first thought was “who is this asshole?” 😅🤣😂

I had to go check out this asshole’s blog. The first post I saw linked to a video explaining the different NYC borough accents. “Oh,” I said to myself, “that explains a lot.” Hahaa.

Then I saw this basic Italian recipe and I thought I was going to pass out from food lust. I love Italian food. Love, love, love. She was explaining the recipe.

I nearly got out of bed at 9 p.m. to go eat something that night. And I was terrified of food. I decided I liked her and started following her.

Grace blog isn’t for everyone, but I was hooked and I could see why Ashley liked her too, Ashley being a tough curmudgeon herself. 

 Then I started making rigatoni, when I could finally eat! And I called it spaghetti and whoa, look out. Grace schooled me that it is named by the NOODLE. I use rigatoni noodles, so that is what we call it.

I really think Grace gave me a little help in getting back to eating. Some of it was my own native stubborn ways, but seeing her blog helped. There was a few recipes.

I’d almost sacrifice a limb to eat an italian meal prepared by Grace. But seeing as she lives over there on the other side of the country, a lovely illustrated book, fittingly poetic and bittersweet, well, that will do.

Grace this post is my love letter to you 🙂 thank you once again.  

Underworld

Yesterday, I spent an hour going through the entire Underworld catalog trying to find other songs as good as the two below.

Fail.

These two are the major standouts. Now, there were a couple others that I like (one called “Dark Train” and another with “curry” in the title), but Amazon did that thing on both where you have to buy the full album to get the track, usually a very long track. Silly bullshit. I would rather pay more for a long track then be forced to buy whole albums of songs I don’t want.

The thing is, because I dislike the harsh sound of many other Underworld songs (the beats in many are abrasive where the two below are gentle), I will admit I was not giving most of these albums a proper chance. We all know that some tracks must be listened to a few times to properly “get it”.

On the other hand, I once owned “Oblivion with Bells” and I only liked two songs on it, once of which is below. So, maybe my initial impression of “wow most of these songs suck” based on snippets and fast forwarding was correct.

this is largely a matter of economy. If I found this collection in CD format at a garage sale for $5 or $10 to get all the albums, I would happily grab them up and give the albums a proper listen over time.

well, I am not going to sit around streaming music that I don’t own, tolerating ads, skipping over ads, whatever. Nope.

Are there people content to stream all the time without owning? Not me. When I hit up Pandora, I am actively looking for new music to buy. I don’t do this often because I am so picky. Anyway. My next mission is to go to pandora, look at all those 200+ songs I have given a “thumbs up” over the last several year, preview them on YouTube (the one venue where you can listen to anything on demand for free) and then decide which ones are worth owning. And then buy them.

Last night I bought “Dirty Epic” and “8Ball” by Underworld. That was it. Nothing more from all this exploration.

“Dirty Epic” is also a good song. This guy is a good lyricist. I read a bunch of lyrics from songs I don’t like the sound of. He’s almost a poet. “Dirty Epic” has both good lyrics and an enjoyable, soft-beat sound. LOVE their soft beats.

But let’s talk about the two masterpieces.

“Beautiful Burnout” is brilliant, because (like all good songs that I love), the imagery and potency of the moment is strong here.

It’s about riding a city train while the sun sets. When I say “imagery and potency” I mean that you can see the cold winter sun setting in the glass windows of the skyscrapers. You can feel the train turning. There are even beats here that emulate going over bumps, or perhaps the rattling of the cab as it speeds up and slows down to stop. Powerful stuff.

The lyrics support the music so well. “Sun goes down. Temperature drops”. This is as potent as any song by The Smashing Pumpkins that I love. And for the same reasons. Underworld are electronica, but unlike a lot of boring electronic fare, when they are at their best they tell a story and absolutely put you there just as well as any good classic rock band.

There are sound elements here supporting the imagery that I can feel but can’t explain. I like that. For me art is only potent when something inside of it is slightly unreachable. When it can’t be fully described, even as some writers and journalists may get close. That’s the key. I’m certain that every sound crafted here supports the train imagery in every way, but I can’t explain why.

I already talked about 8Ball a couple weeks ago. I thought it was called “8Ball on the Beach” for some reason. It might as well be called that!

I was in a deep depression, due to feeling trapped and the unending summer heatwaves of August. The point where I began to get some relief was when I remembered this song and started vaporizing weed during the day while listening to this. I would listen to it like 3 times in a row.

That magical guitar beginning at the 4:40(ish) timestamp does something for me. The frequency is one of hope. As much as I love the beach on a warm day, I actually like this song more somehow. Probably because it’s the sound of human emotion reacting to the beach.

There are some darker and playful elements. The sound is one thing, but listen to the lyrics. This song is about doing cocaine on the beach. Three druggies are hanging out. One is our coked up protaganist, absolutely having the time of his life. The second is some guy on who knows what “using an empty whisky flask as a walkie-talkie”, then a third character on some type of drug (I would like to think psychedelic) who runs up to the protagonist and throws his arms around him in a warm embrace.

These people might be fucked up, but it’s absolutely heartwarming. Seriously. I love this song so much.

I talked before about the guy in the comments who obviously knows nothing about drug slang. He is like “this is about buddism, yay!”. I guess at the end when he says “that white stuff makes me feel happy” this guy thinks he’s talking about beach sand.

The guitar recalls Smashing Pumpkins Gish-era guitar. Chiming, sunny, happy. It’s a frequency that does something spiritual for me. Which is probably why it began to pull me out of that very bad place such that I could function enough to actually go to the beach with B. Where I had a good time until I decided to get stupid toward the end.

Anyway. I really wish they had more songs this good. “Dark and Long/Dark Train” is also very good. Although very different from 8Ball. But I’m not linking it over because linking over YouTube is a pain in the ass. Two is enough.

-Z

Mystery Author – Episode 5

This is that game I play where I type up a chapter or two from a famous novel (or other source) and you don’t find out who it is until the end. I think some people are going to know who this one is from the very first paragraph. I just have a feeling.

*

“Not much has been written about the Ibogaine Effect as a serious factor in the presidential campaign, but toward the end of the Wisconsin primary race -about a week before the vote- word leaked out that some of Muskie’s top advisers had called in a Brazilian doctor who was said to be treating the candidate with “some kind of strange drug” that nobody in the press corps had ever heard of.

It had been common knowledge for many weeks that Humphrey was using an exotic brand of speed know as “Wallot”…and it had been long whispered that Muskie was into something very heavy, but it was hard to take the talk seriously until I heard about the appearance of a mysterious Brazilian doctor. That was the key.

I immediately recognized the Ibogaine Effect – from Muskie’s tearful breakdown on the flatbed truck in New Hampshire, the delusions and altered thinking that characterized his campaign in Florida; and finally, the condition of “total rage” that gripped him in Wisconsin.

There was no doubt about it: the Man from Maine had turned to massive doses of ibogaine as a last resort. The only remaining question was “when did he start?” But nobody could answer this one, and I was not able to press the candidate himself for an answer because I was permanently barred from the Muskie campaign after that incident on the Sunshine Special in Florida… and that scene makes far more sense now than it did at the time.

Muskie has always taken pride in his ability to deal with hecklers; he has often challenged them, calling them up to the stage in front of big crowds and then forcing the poor bastards to debate him in a blaze of TV lights.

But there was none of that in Florida.  When the Boohoo began grabbing at his legs and screaming for more gin, Big Ed went all to pieces… which gave rise to speculation, among reporters familiar with his campaign style in ’68 and ’70, that Muskie was not himself.

It was noticed, among other things, that he had developed a tendency to roll his eyes wildly during TV interviews, that his thought-patterns had become strangely fragmented, and that not even his closest advisors could predict when he might suddenly spiral off into babbling rages, or neo-comatose funks.  In retrospect, however, it is easy to see why Muskie fell apart on that caboose platform in the Miami train station. There he was – far gone in a bad ibogaine frenzy – suddenly shoved out in a rainstorm to face a sullen crowd and some kind of snarling lunatic going for his legs while he tried to explain why he was “the only Democrat who can beat Nixon”.

It is entirely conceivable – given the known effects of ibogaine – that Muskie’s brain was almost paralyzed by hallucinations at the time; that he looked out at that crowd and saw Gila monsters instead of people, and that his mind snapped completely when he felt something large and apparently vicious clawing at his legs.

We can only speculate on this, because those in a position to know have flatly refused to comment on rumors concerning the senator’s disastrous experiments with ibogaine.  I tried to find the Brazilian doctor on election night in Milwaukee, but by the time the polls closed he was long gone.  One of the hired bimbos in Muskie’s Holiday Inn headquarters said a man with fresh welts on his head had been dragged out the side door and put on a bus to Chicago, but we were never able to confirm this.

Humphrey’s addiction to Wallow has not stirred any controversy, so far. He has always campaigned like a rat in heat, and the only difference now is that he is able to do it eighteen hours a day instead of ten. The main change in his public style, since ’68, is that he no longer seems aware that his gibberish is not taken seriously by anyone except Labor Leaders and middle-class Blacks.  At least half the reporters assigned to the Humphrey campaign are convinced he’s senile.  When he ran for president four years ago, he was a hack and a fool, but at least he was consistent.

Now he talks like an eighty-year-old woman who just discovered speed. He will call a press conference to announce that if elected he will “have our boys out of Vietnam within ninety days”-then rush across town, weeping and jabbering the whole way, to appear on a network TV show and make a fist-shaking emotional appeal for every good American to stand behind the president and “applaud” his recent decision to resume heavy bombing in North Vietnam.

*

McGovern’s solid victory in Wisconsin was dismissed, by most of the press wizards, as further evidence that the Democratic Party has been taken over by “extremists”:  George McGovern on the Left and George Wallace on the Right, with a sudden dangerous vacuum in what is referred to on editorial pages as “the vital Center”.

The root of the problem, of course, is that most of the big-time Opinion Makers decided a long time ago – along with all those Democratic senators, congressmen, governors, mayors, and other party pros- that the candidate of the “vital Center” in ’72 would be none other than that fireball statesman from Maine, Ed Muskie. By the summer of ’71 the party bosses had convinced themselves that Ed Muskie was the “only Democrat with a chance of beating Nixon”.

This was bullshit, of course.  Sending Muskie against Nixon would have been like sending a three-toed sloth out to seize turf from a wolverine.  Big Ed was an adequate senator – or at least he’d seemed like one until he started trying to explain his “mistake” on the war in Vietnam- but it was stone madness from the start to ever think about exposing him to the kind of bloodthirsty thugs that Nixon and John Mitchell would sic on him.  They would have him screeching on his knees by sundown on Labor Day. 

If I were running a campaign against Muskie, I would arrange for some anonymous creep to buy time on national TV and announce that twenty-two years ago he and Ed spent a summer working as male prostitutes at a Peg House somewhere in the North Woods.  Nothing else would be necessary.

*

Total candor with the press – or anyone else, for that matter- is not one of the traits most presidential candidates find entirely desirable in their key staff people. Skilled professional liars are as much in demand in politics as they are in the advertising business…and the main function of any candidate’s press secretary is to make sure the press gets nothing but upbeat news. There is no point, after all, in calling a press conference to announce that nobody on the staff will be paid this month because three or four of your largest financial backers just called to say they are pulling out and abandoning all hope of victory. When something like this happens, you quickly lock all the doors and send your press secretary out to start whispering, off the record, that your opponent’s California campaign coordinator just called to ask for a job.

This kind of devious bullshit is standard procedure in most campaigns.  Everybody is presumed to understand it- even the reporters who can’t keep a straight face while they’re jotting it all down for page one of the early edition: “Sen. Mace Denies Pull Out Rumors; Predicts Total Victory in All States”

The best example of this kind of coverage has been the stuff coming out of the Muskie camp. In recent weeks the truth has been so painful that some journalists have gone out of their way to give the poor bastards a break and not flay them in print any more than absolutely necessary.

One of the only humorous moments in the Florida primary campaign, for instance, came when one of Muskie’s state campaign managers, Chris Hart, showed up at a meeting with representatives of the other candidates to explain why Big Ed was refusing to take part in a TV debate.  “My instructions,” he said, “are that the senator should never again be put in a situation where he has to think quickly.”

By nightfall of that day every journalist in Miami was laughing at Hart’s blunder, but nobody published it; and none of the TV reporters ever mentioned it on the air.  I didn’t even use it myself, for some reason, although I heard about it in Washington while I was packing to go back to Florida.

I remember thinking that I should call Hart and ask him if he actually said a thing like that, but when I got there, I didn’t feel up to it. Muskie was obviously in deep trouble, and Hart had been pretty decent to me when I’d showed up at headquarters to sign up for that awful trip on the Sunshine Special… So I figured what the hell?  Let it rest. Looking back on it, I think it must have been so obvious that the Muskie campaign was doomed that nobody felt mean enough to torment the survivors over something that no longer seemed important.

*

One of my clearest memories of the Nebraska primary is getting off the elevator on the wrong floor in the Omaha Hilton and hearing a sudden burst of song from a room down one of the hallways…. Twenty to thirty young voices in ragged harmony, kicking out the jams as they swing into the final, hair-raising chorus of “The Hound and The Whore.”  I had heard it before, in other hallways of other hotels along the campaign trail- but never this late at night, and never at this level of howling intensity:

O the Hound chased the Whore across

the mountains

Boom! Boom! Boom!

O the Hound chased the Whore into the sea….

Boom! Boom! Boom!

A very frightening song under any circumstances- but especially frightening if you happen to be a politician running or very high stakes and you know the people singing that song are not on your side.

I have never been in that situation myself, but I imagine it is something like camping out in the North Woods and suddenly coming awake in your tent around midnight to the horrible snarling and screaming sounds of a werewolf killing your guard dog somewhere out in the trees beyond the campfire.

*

-Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail.  

Big influence on me. Usually I say more but I’m feeling quiet today.

Reblog: Creative Flow — Thought Doula

After lamenting my difficulties in creating art in this space yesterday, the universe proved this was nothing more than a self-limiting belief. I had a lot of work to do, but I couldn’t shake the desire to draw. In the time before my journey… that other life which I am seeking a concise name for… […]

Creative Flow — Thought Doula

Da Witch Emerges

heh heh heh heh. I found another good republish for the Gizoogle.net filter. And this time it’s my work. I’m delighted at the result.

I’ll post the original at the bottom.

Da Witch Emerges

Da witch sat hunkered down in her hoopty up in a seedy Fred Meyer parkin lot in tha shittiest part of tha hood. Biatch was pissed. Thankfully, dat freaky biatch had a solution ta resolve her off tha hook irritation.

Tha witch decided it may be betta fo’ all concerned dat dis thugged-out biiiatch could only invoke one spell. Realistically – thangs could git skanky fast if dat biiiiatch was a all-powerful witch. Biatch knew dat shit.

Da witch was fond of her funky-ass 1960’s Ford Mustang. Biatch loved tha roomy interior, gigantic white steerin wheel, throbbin stereo grooves, n’ tha cherry red exterior dat brought her pleasure just lookin at it up in tha driveway at night.

But there was a problem wit takin dis hoopty on tha road: other drivers.

As tha witch entered tha Fred Meyer parkin lot on dis day, her big-ass booty steered her funky-ass hoopty slowly n’ methodically, takin care ta stop fo’ pedestrians n’ respect other drivers.

Yo, suddenly, dat biiiiatch witnessed another driver speedin all up in tha parkin lot at a rate straight-up wack fo’ a funky-ass busy parkin lot. Biatch was immediately incensed. Her nozzle opened up in rage.
Yo, she tried ta control her impulses – but dat shiznit was too late. All her senses prepared fo’ battle.

She kept a keen eye on dis driver n’ his crazy-ass modern yellow game car. Biatch looped round n’ followed his muthafuckin ass, kept her eyes fixed on his cold-ass tail lights. Biatch followed his ass until he approached a stop sign.

Yo, she waited until da thug was at a gangbangin’ full stop. She didn’t wanna hurt him, she just wanted ta seriously fuck wit his fuckin lil’ day.
It be necessary fo’ drivers ta be at a full n’ complete stop if a witch is straight-up determined ta pull dis evil shiznit on dem wild-ass muthafuckas. It’s too messed up otherwise. So tha witch followed her own lil protocol.

Dude slowed down n’ stopped.
Yo, she waited fo’ a moment n’ smiled.
Yo, she blinked her eyes three times up in rapid succession ta invoke tha spell.

BAM! <<<<
hissssssssssssssssssss

All four of his cold-ass tires blew up all up at tha same time biaatch!
She smiled n’ let up a cold-ass lil cackle. Biatch couldn’t peep his ass, but she knew exactly what tha fuck was goin’ down inside his car.

Dude was bobbin – overwhelmed by tha split-second adrenaline release. Dude looked round rapidly, sweatin n’ beatboxin expletives.
Fear
Pure, straight-up dope fear.
Dude didn’t KNOW what tha fuck had happened. Y’all KNOW dat shit! Not yet.
Has his thugged-out lil’ punk-ass been shot?! What was dat sound? That bang, biatch? Why was it so loud?

Finally, he leaped outta tha hoopty n’ quickly discovered tha blown tires. His grill chizzled. Now da thug was trippin n’ mad salty. Dude circled round tha back of tha car, eyes scannin tha asphalt as da perved-out muthafucka struggled ta locate tha source of tha blowout.
Dude placed his handz on tha top of his head n’ paced, eyes still wildly dartin round tha pavement. His grill contorted, n’ his thugged-out lil’ punk-ass started beatboxin tha fuck into tha air:

“Yo… what tha fuck tha FUCK did I run over, yo?!”

Dude screamed dis nuff muthafuckin times.
Da witch hunkered down n’ kept her distance, watchin tha scene wit amusement n’ pleasure.
She placed her sunglasses over her eyes wit a sigh. This is tha part where she knew she must enforce Witch Ethics.

Witches must maintain self-control. They’ve been given a gift; tha juice itself is tha reward. No gloatin be allowed. Y’all KNOW dat shit. But she’s only human. Afta all.

Her first instinct was ta roll up next ta him, while da thug was still sufferin dis dire stress, roll down her window n’ yell:
“HaaHAAA, oh peep dat son! LOOK at dat son! Yo ass betta call triple AAA, biiiatch!”

Da witch resisted dis straight-up phat impulse.

Yo, such behavior is beneath tha dignitizzle of a witch.

And tha witch considered her muthafuckin ass Highly Dignified.

It would also arouse suspicion. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. Dude wouldn’t know dat she’s a witch, mind you, but he’d quickly assume dat she’d somehow been involved.
An enraged mind don’t require facts or details ta arrive at rapid conclusions.

He’d sense dat dis sneerin lil biiiatch sportin a red pixie cut had somehow, up in some way, seriously fucked wit all four of his cold-ass tires at once.

And then tha cops would be on ta her, she figured.
They’d finally gotz a lead.

This wasn’t her first episode of tire destruction.
Tires had already blown up in stopped vehiclez all over town. Every time a asshole driver stumbled upon tha pimped out misfortune of Ms. Pumpkin – tha Mighty Tire Witch – blew up tires n’ mad drama followed. Everywhere.
Da hood already had a hell of a problem on they hands.
Da problem emerged over time, n’ hood officials was slow ta come ta grips wit tha strange shiznit up in they midst.

Eventually, word spread. Drivers fuckin started contactin insurizzle g-units, n’ tha insurizzle g-units called tha tire manufacturers. Companies fuckin started investigations. First, they suspected a problem wit tha actual tires.
They feared a freaky freaky design issue. They figured tha worst-case scenario facin motorists n’ tha automotizzle industry was likely pendin lawsuits n’ a massive recall on tires.
Yo, soon enough, they discovered it wasn’t just one brand of tires.
Every brand of tire up in existence was blowin out, n’ all 4 simultaneously up in every last muthafuckin incident of dis kind.

Now thangs gots Real.

Da five-o was contacted; it became apparent dat a cold-ass lil criminal was afoot. But how?!

All four tires at once , always at stop lights, stop signs or up in tha driveway of motorist home residences. Always when other drivers was a safe distizzle away.
They scratched they headz fo’ months. No evidence of bombs. No fingerprints, n’ you can put dat on yo’ toast. No meaningful witnizz statements.
There was witnizz statements all right, but all statements consisted of tha witnesses observin spontaneous tire combustion without a suspect nearby.
Zero evidence of foul play.

One day, they brought up a savvy investigator from outta town. Dude uncovered tha pattern n’ pinpointed tha motizzle yo, but maddeningly so, cuz it didn’t brang his ass any closer ta solvin tha case.
There was still a cold-ass lil complete absence of evidence n’ no suspects. Dude sat up in his crib readin five-o reports n’ sucka statements, leanin forward a lil wit rolled up sleeves n’ a gangbangin’ furrowed brow.

Yo, suddenly, he gasped n’ looked up.
“TOM!”, da perved-out muthafucka shouted, “Tom, git yo’ ass over here, I be thinkin I gots dat shiznit son!”
Tomothy circled tha corner wit a cold-ass lil cup of fruity-ass malt liquor up in his hand.
“What?!”
“I’ve found a…. commonality, I think fo’ realz. A trend among tha suckas.”
Da investigator stood up n’ paced back n’ forth, touchin his chin up in thought. Dude strutted over ta tha window, pulled down tha blindz n’ grabbed a marker from his fuckin lil’ desk yo. Dude paused fo’ a moment, then strutted over ta tha white board.
Dude fuckin started freestylin driver names on tha white board up in a neat column. Dude freestyled rollin infractions across from each name, separated by commas.
“HA!”, he yelled, “Do you see it?”

Tomothy squinted fo’ a moment, then his wild lil’ grill chillaxed. Dude slowly smiled.
“Yes muthafucka! Oh, hell fo’sho, why didn’t we peep dis before!, biatch? Speedin tickets, movin violations, noise infractions from dem god-awful subwoofers. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of these playas even parked up in a handicapped unit biaaatch! These drivers is all assholez! That’s tha key!”

“Right!”, tha detectizzle yelled, “and these is just tha ones dat we know bout son! Da remainin suckas is probably just assholez whoz ass drive wild-ass all over hood but manage ta fly under tha radar!”

Tomothy sipped his wild lil’ fruity-ass malt liquor n’ sighed.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Someone is targetin asshole drivers indiscriminately, all over town, n’ takin up all four tires at once on they hoopties…”

“Yeah,” tha investigator cut in, “and whoever it is, I mean, dis is unprecedented. This type’a shiznit happens all tha time. We’re dealin wit a straight-up professionizzle here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin’ thru fo’sho fo’ realz. A real sophisticate.”
Meanwhile, tha witch stood beside her funky-ass Mustang on top of a hill overlookin tha ocean, leanin against tha parked car.
She wore stylish sunglasses n’ a long-ass red shawl draped over her shoulders, gently blowin up in tha wind.

Witch work is exhaustin sometimes. Castin spells, even minor ones, can seriously tax her juice levels.
She decided dat shiznit was time fo’ a lil chillaxation. There’s not a damn thang like a cold-ass lil cup of black chronic n’ a phat book ta unwind up in moments like all dis bullshit.

Original:

Presenting: The Witch Emerges (Episode I)

Hahaaaa the part about how she’s mufuckin Highly Dignified is the best.

Thanks for reading.

A Worthy Republish

Last week I looked up this blog on Gizoogle.net. Not all posts were available, however, my feature about Grace was available to run through the Gizoogle filter. I was so pleased with the results that I decided to Republish some of it here. To see the original Grace feature, click below.

Introducing…Grace St. Clair

The original is awesome in it’s own right. But let’s read the Grace feature ran through the Gizoogle filter and converted into Snoop Dogg dialect. I did this copy job on a phone, and was forced to do the paste in small little chunks. Thus, I hope someone enjoys this as much as I do. I am damn tempted to do the same thing with Holly’s work.

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Grace Filtered by Gizoogle:

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Todizzle be all bout Grace.  

At times she’s reflectizzle (borderin on philosophical), other times she’s sarcastic n’ humorous.  Above all, Grace writes a shitload of tha dopest poetry I’ve seen. 

Below I’ve highlighted some passages from Blogger dat I enjoy:

“If you live any amount of time up in a place you pick up tha local lingo. I’ve lived a shitload of different places but certainly never lost mah natizzle lingo n’ have often found mah dirty ass tryin ta explain what tha fuck I’m tawkin’ about.

Our local mini-mart is owned by Hindu people, ghetto unknown, n’ when I looted mah lottery ticket tha other dizzle tha gentleman holla’d, “Don’t forget our asses when you win”. I holla’d, “From yo’ lips ta God’s ears” yo. Dude looked all up in mah grill funky.”

“It’s a odd feelin – phantom hair.
Fluffin afro dat isn’t there,
I have no vibe of despair.
It will return, I have no diggity.
Until it do, I’ll do without.”

“My fuckin ‘conversations’ wit tha cats:
Is you crazy?
Must you be everywhere I am?
What have you gots now?
Do you want tha cheese or not?
Move yo’ fat butt.
Leave her A-lone biaatch! Didn’t I just rap ta git down, biatch? Am I not bustin lyrics?
Git OFF!”

“When I say ridin – I mean lil playas would gather all up in tha candy store, take up all tha stools all up in tha counter, order a cold-ass lil coke n’ basically act like fools. Which teenagers do. Periodically there would be a funky-ass brou-ha-ha n’ all tha lil playas would git thrown up n’ possibly banned fo’ all dem days. In which case they would migrate ta tha other candy store – but dis was not always a phat solution cuz Jack n’ Ruby always knew which lil playas they had thrown up – so if you gots banned from Jack’s, Ruby would know n’ da thug wouldn’t let you in, up in which case yo’ hood game was screwed until you apologized.”

“I was struttin home from work dis afternoon n’ I was stopped dead up in mah tracks by tha graceful antics of two lil’ small-ass butterflies – they flew close ta tha ground – win ta wing; swoopin n’ gliding; then chasin each other wit tha smalla one gettin under tha wing of tha larger one so they looked as if they was one; they tumbled all up in tha air, tossin theyselves bout n’ then they parted n’ flew off up in opposite directions.
And I stood there wit a gangbangin’ foolish smile on mah grill while traffic rushed round mah crazy ass n’ and tha lunch time diners gave me strange looks as I stood stock still watchin dis incredible gift.”

“We piled outta tha theatre, hopped up, excited, straight-up jazzed. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! As we made our way down tha street, without forethought or planning, we fuckin started ta dance, snappin our fingers n’ rappin – “When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all tha way, From yo’ first blunt ta yo’ last dyin day”

Us playas jostled round n’ reformed ta rap – “Gee Officer Krupke, what tha fuck is we ta do, biatch? Gee, Officer Krupke, Krup You!”

We settled, n’ strutted n’ then one of mah thugs started ta rap – “Could be, Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck knows, biatch? There’s suttin’ due any dizzle I’ma know right away Soon as it shows…” 15 dope, dope teenage voices joined in. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. One of tha thugs ran ahead, leapt onto a light pole, ala Gene Kelly up in ‘Singin up in tha Rain”, one arm wrapped round tha pole, tha other flung up n’ up …and we busted – “It may come cannon-ballin’ down from tha sky, Gleam up in its eye, Bright as a rose. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck knows?”

“I hear noize up in mah head, dat no one else can hear.
Da disc jockey keeps a steady beat;
the turntablist throws a riff
While tha sax playa blows it long n’ low –
it finally hits mah Nikes.

A shuffle, then a funky-ass bump, a swing,
as hips go side ta side
And then tha trumpet sidlez up in n’ I begin ta glide.”

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heh heh. The bit featuring the teenage days is priceless.

The Aurora Lamp

The pictures did not adequately capture the amazing magic of this thing. Then I remembered all about YouTube… and videos and stuff.

I was also just talking about SP, and I have the lamp sitting next to the SP flag. Which makes it even cooler because the flag features the same color palette as the lamp.

Therefore, it made perfect sense to me that I should also include the weirdest SP song in their entire catalog. This is a folky little weird-ass number called “Meladori Magpie”.

I recommend making it full screen to see the full magic. We have come a long way since people put oil drops on slides in the 1960’s and people manually moved the slides.

Song of The Month – Eric Burdon doing House of the Rising Sun

I like to do Song of The Month features. It’s fun too… because I call them song of the month but sometimes it’s only twice a year. I just do them when I feel like it. 😁

Today features House of The Rising Sun by Eric Burdon and The Animals. I fuckin’ love Eric Burdon. Listen to that goddamn voice.

hot damn. I discovered one of his greatest hits albums in the early 2000’s around the same time that I discovered The Who and a bunch of other classic rock stuff that was new to me at the time. Burdon was yet another fantastic treasure I found during a period of ripe discovery.

I tended to discover a good classic rock song and either I would order a best hits comp, or the entire early catalog of each band. It was a joy to receive these discs in the mail and put them on right away…usually while taking a huge bong rip.. start listening and say to my girlfriend, “hot damn! EVERY song on this CD is amazing.”

Burdon’s compilation was like that. It featured “See See Rider”, “Montery”, “Sky Pilot” and all his 1967-1969 stuff, including an excellent version of “River Deep, Mountain High”. I never did check out the earlier era of The Animals because it seemed like it was just a bunch of covers. I may do that soon. Because honestly, rising sun is a cover and it’s possibly the most famous and skillfully executed cover song of all time.

I am learning this one and it’s trickier to play than it sounds due to the pick scrape action and the fact that it’s in 3/6 combined with the pick technique. But I am obsessive so I will get it.

Listen to that voice. Makes my nipples hard. Burdon is such a weird guy too. In the best way. Listen to him in the song “Winds of Change” and this weirdness becomes evident. He does this weird deadpan thing and I love it. Just a very unique and special voice in the Canon of rock legends.

he also looks a lot like me. Burdon could be my dad. I am adopted so it warms my heart to think maybe there’s some chance that I am actually the product of Burdon and some groupie. Heh.

heh heh. “Have you seen Tina Turner?” This one makes me want to dance or walk circles in my living room.

Version Battle – You Keep Me Hanging On

This post is inspired by Grace. I needed breakfast material, so she did me a favor. Grace is apparently not a fan of girl groups or the overproduction of Motown sound. Whereas, The Supremes doing this song makes my nipples hard, and it inspires a desire for me to walk in circles in my living room listening to it. For comparison, let’s hear 1 other version and then a jaw-dropping medley by Tim Buckley which features the song at the end. The way he segues into the song with his acoustic still gets me.

And since it’s V-day and Supremes annoy Grace 😆, I will feature another song that I love, the Symphony song. I LOVE this shit. Come on Grace, can’t you see the tall handsome black man with a thin mustache and a million dollar smile giving her flowers and does it not make you swoon a little inside? 😁 this song makes me want to wear a pink dress. In reality I am rather boyish, but this song makes my soul put on a pink dress. Ross’s mastery of the vocals here kills me. Utter perfection. The way she does a lispy and whispy thing on certain words to bring an extra little femininity…absolute mastery.

now if you’ll excuse me I must swoon to this last song a time or two and then I must return to my work station.