Just listened to K-OS’ mixtape Anchorman. Very dope.
In case you don’t know who K-OS is, he’s a Canadian rapper/musician/youshouldjustlistentohimnow type of artist.
Most of you probably remember his song Sunday Morning featured in those early Microsoft Zune commercials. That was him at his worse.
No I’m not saying that was a bad song. I’m just saying he’s that damn good.
In all seriousness, I remember listening to K-OS’ second album Joyful Rebellion, right after I graduated from high school. It was a classic piece of musical crack I pull out for all the uppity kids that ride Pitchforks’ nutts, who think hip-hop lacks any real substence.
I pull out the Tech N9ne and early Triple Six Mafia—not that Lolli Pop that Body shite, but the these ninja’s might actually be devil worshipers stuff—for my fellow metal heads.
Trust me, if you dislike hip hop you’re just not listening to the right stuff. Ask me sometime and I can direct you.
K-OS kind of presented this image of what I had hoped hip-hop would become: a genre fully ready to take chances again. It did during its golden age because it was new. It had no choice. It had to take chances. I wanted this sort of alternative age, much akin to the 80’s and 90’s alternative rock scene. Whether it’s something new and fresh with the beat making, or vocal and lyrical approach.
And we’ve had that in a few instances I feel with artists like Kid Cudi, Saul Williams, Childish Gambino, the Cool Kids, P.O.S., Atmosphere, El-P, Cage, Kanye and even Drake….Ha Ha Ha Ha. Oh man. I almost was able to say Drake with a straight face. Just kidding on that one.
I guess the thought is that hip-hop has already become this global force, so let’s get to that age where we truly experiment on the mainstream level. Mainstream wise, it feels like hip-hop right now is still going through its hair metal phase. It’s in this bullshit cycle of party, women, drugs, money, cars etc, much like the Sunset Strip sluts before them.
Anything alternative comes in a few shots or still remains underground. In other words, hip-hop still hasn’t had its Nirvana.
So how does K-OS fit into all this?
Well, I fear that he may truly never receive the recongnition he deserves. Put it to you this way. When hip-hop does reach that alternative age I’m talking about, the kids who break on through to the mainstream will have been heavily influenced by K-OS. I garuntee it.
K-OS is gonna be someone’s Pixies.
Listen to the mixtape. Also, Ron Burgandy quotes FTMFW!
As much as I want to relive all the memories we had, I also want to prevent them from ever happening.
It’s not that I regret loving you, it’s just that I think it would be better if I never met you at all. Knowing that after everything that would happen… I still couldn’t keep you.
You are, and you will never be meant for me.
Weekend too short.
Thoughts too scattered.
Part of me still stuck in the past, haunted by thoughts of…Am I ever thought of by?
hoping knowing that everything will change. I just need one more major jump. One more major risk to set everything else in motion. Hate being held back by fear and security. In the mood to make some mistakes, and have fun while doing so.
It sucks being in limbo, being in this place between the past you want to forget and future you know you can have.
Future needs to come now. So tired of present. Come on, hurry the fuck on already.
I went through my last original tumblr post this morning. It’s the story of my trip. I hate that my skills in editing suck. There were several things I had to change, but I think it’s a smoother ride now. I don’t know why I care though, it’s not as if many will read it. And if they do, I won’t know.
Although I was told by someone close that the part about the ape ravaging me almost made them throw up. And that makes me proud. It’s hard to think of disgusting examples to points I’m trying to make. But I love to try anyway.
I was deaf by the time we left.
Ears hit with hypnotizing baselines and thumping drums syruped over some man or woman either bragging about their material possessions or what to do “on da flo.”
The nose was taking in the perfume of dance sweat, cigarette smoke, and other attempted resolutions at sexual tension relief. My mouth constantly played tag with a Jack and Coke or a Black & Mild, never really sure if it was the drinking or smoking I cared for more.
My eyes enjoyed the sight of the intoxicated wave; a drunken horny human sea rhythmically undulating its simulated orgy on the dance floor.
My senses had rode on a carousel of dangerous overindulgences that night, except of for of course the sense of touch. My bosom buddy, F.E., who I was visiting for that weekend, indulged his sense of touch to its brim as he awkwardly and stiffly (ha) dry humped his way through a remix Ludicrous’ “My Chick Bad.”
The object of his excited bumping and grinding was quite a sight.
A chocolate skinned mid-20’s lady, bespectacled with the type of librarian glasses a pornstar would wear. She wore shoulder length curly hair and a visible “I could care less” attitude on her face.
You’d want to call her out, tell her that she isn’t in fact what do the kids say?
“All that and a bag of chips?”
But you couldn’t. Well no, you could, as she was more of a thick chocolate shake. Her shape took more of a voluptuous form as you eyed her head from toe.
Visibly, she was there yet in another place.
Maybe thinking of an ex-boyfriend.
Or perhaps annoyed by the white torso attached to her ass.
F.E. didn’t care.
He was like a kid who discovered Skinemax for the first time.
Drunk on alcohol and hormones. You could see lust-fueled slobber in his eyes. The white guy finally getting his piece of chocolate for two minutes and 42 seconds, give or take.
If this was all he wanted, it would have made more sense to go to a strip club. You could at least pay for fake smiles and pleasantries with a side of skin. Of course, this trip to the nightclub was impromptu much like the entire trip.
Let me back up here.
Originally, I was to road trip to St. Louis to join F.E. in seeing the Flaming Lips. F.E. bought the tickets months ago, asking if I’d accompany him. I happily agreed. I’d heard myths of how legendary a Flaming Lips show could be. And even though I hadn’t listened to them really since “Yoshimi battles the Pink Robots,” my interest was piqued. It was also an escape.
Home lately had been this blur of work. It never failed. Whether it was working in the office, working out, working on my self esteem, working on my writing, or working on forgetting my failures and forging new successes, it was always work, work work.
Hell, even playing video games lately seemed like work, as I spent more time practicing on moves or leveling up.
The four-hour drive wasn’t too bad. Loud blaring music made time slip away.
We left for downtown St. Louis, just as quickly as I got to F.E.’s Air Force base. Unfamiliar with how to navigate my driving in that area, F.E. suggested we take a train. No problem to me. This meant no driving. And no driving meant instead of just having a few, I could get shit faced drunk.
The downtown area was clearly made for college students. I was surrounded by an army of restaurants, artsy boutiques and various clubs.
F.E. took me to a comic book shop and actual record store. I could have spent the rest of the night in those two places easily.
We grabbed a bite to eat at some Italian restaurant. We talked on the usual subjects of 20 something nerd males in between bites of our food and drinks of our dark beer (none of that piss people call light beer).
The subject of women of course came up.
“So what do you think of the sights?” F.E. said with a wink in his voice, clearly not meaning actual building sights.
“I’ve had to catch myself several times from staring,” I said. “Maybe it’s the weather, but your women here sure do love their short skirts and tank tops,” I responded. “Even the real women I love.”
I said this as my eyes made a beeline for one of the waitresses. She definitely had curves, a plump brunette with a gentle walk and an even gentler smile. It was her long legs though that had most of my attention. She looked like she was slightly taller than my 6’2” frame.
“Earth to Jonnhy!” “Hey let’s get ready for the show,” my friend said, snapping his fingers.
“Oh right. I’ve got the bill then. It’s my treat for paying for the tickets,” I said. Foolish me. Always prepared to pay with money I don’t have.
We walked to the venue, my eyes taking in the full variety of sights and sights, enjoying the drunken buzz from my earlier beers.
I expected a full long line at the venue. Instead there was no one. Sure it was an hour and a half before show time, but still there should have been someone there.
We entered into a bar, taking in a few more beers. I was fascinated by this book of matches while F.E. talked to the bartender, a scruffy white male with a goatee and two sleeves of tattoos. He looked like the roadie for Brett Michaels.
“Excuse me but what time is the Flaming Lips concert tonight?” he asked.
“The Flaming Lips? That was last night dude,” our scruffy beer slinger replied.
Words are powerful.
You can do a lot with just a sentence.
Like bring down a suicide jumper with “I don’t care if you fucked a sheep, I care about you.”
Or ruin the hedonistic and selfish dreams of a man with simply “I’m pregnant.”
Or in this case, bring a man, who failed to double check the tickets for the concert date, down to his knees with “That was last night dude.”
F.E. stood there, punched in the face with disbelief, his mouth gapping like a freshly caught bass fish.
Our bartender tried to console our misfortune, in his own way.
“If you drive out now, you can catch them at Columbia,” our scruffy consoler said. “It’s at least an hour drive, but it’d be worth it.”
Too drunk to drive. Very little gas money. A sold out show.
And this is what this sloppy groupie seconds having motherfucker offers?!
Well at least he gets an A for effort.
Meanwhile F.E.’s hands searched his pockets for the tickets, maybe to prove to himself that surely, our bartender was just fucking with us. Having a good laugh on a couple of naïve fools.
Any thoughts of that quickly demolished when F.E.’s eyes met with the tickets.
“Oh shit, yesterday was the 17th not the 18th,” he said. “Arrgh”
His eyes met mine.
“Dude I’m so sorry,” he began.
I took a swig of my beer and slowly shook my head to communicate, “Oh you.”
I half expected a lazy trombone to follow with a “Wah wah waaaaaaah.”
“It’s okay dude,” I said. “I really came here just get out of Memphis and hang out.”
“I promise I’ll make this up to you man. I owe you big time for this,” he said.
“Dude, no worries,” I said back.
We sat for a bit, nursing a few more beers. Surrounded only by a sparsely filled bar, F.E.’s fingers tapped his phone, searching for Plan B to our night. More beer touched my lips while my eyes looked outside the window.
It was the same story really.
Nothing ever goes according to plan with me. Never has even with the beginning of my birth.
I was supposed to be born in February, but my birthday is January 2. My original name was suppose to be Steven Anthony, but when the nurse asked my mother if it was okay to name me after my father, I got his name instead. Couldn’t blame mom if she was too out of it to give me my intended name. She just gave birth.
Asking a woman for anything directly after giving birth is like asking a woman to make you a sandwich after you manipulated her into giving you head…in a church…while being filmed by Sister Marie.
Haven’t you asked for enough?
And since life loves to mess up my plans, I’ve learned to just roll with the punches and make the best of it.
For example, sure, you could plan to marry and spend the rest of your life with the girl of your dreams in three months. Instead, six months later, you might find yourself dumped and being banged by an escaped Gorilla from the Memphis Zoo.
Don’t ask me where the ape came from. Just go with it.
Oh sure, you could reflect on the horrors of being heartbroken at same time as your anal cherry being taken away.
Or you could turn your head, look that ape right in the eyes and say “That’s right Mr. Ape! You ram that banana into that fruit tree. Good show sir! Good show!” And reflect on the fact, well at least Mr. Ape likes me. That is if you haven’t passed out from all the pain or horrible rectum bleeding.
You make the best of a situation. And that’s what F.E. and I attempted to do as we followed up on an invitation to attend a nightclub.
To be continued….