2003-03-26 - 3:55 p.m.
I've been taking good advantage of this semi-nice weather we've been having. That means leaving the apartment and even the neighborhood, and hitting the park more than once a week. Gotta drink in the sweet elixir of sunshine as much as possible. I've been pretty bored lately but that's probably my own damn fault. That's what Fr. Peppard always taught us Harlequeers, anyway. Have fun, and if you don't, it's your own damn fault.
Had fun seeing Miss Ann up in Astoria during her East Coast interview mini-tour of totally schmancy artgradskuls. She thought she could get away, but I rode the dub (W) to the end of the line to track her down so we could end up throwing sticks with Tim, Ted, Morgan & Co. in Astoria Park.
Did you know that you can simulate a pepper spray attack by simple cooking techniques? I'm not sure how it works but ask Tim for details. He had me coughing, sneezing, tearing. Oh yeah, good stuff.
You know, Dorothy's probably already chronicled all this but somehow I lost access to that particular Google-proof site.
The Streets show last week was cool, but it was live hip-hop, which is almost always disappointing. I haven't been to too many shows, but I've been lucky to see a few of the greats live: Mos Def and the Roots. Mighty Mos was at the Michigan League as part of MLK day a few years ago. He finally took the stage after this seemingly endless string of bad slam poetry (that's a totally redundant redundancy, by the way). As Neil can attest, anyone (especially me, miles from sober) can do Nuyorican-style poetry off the top of their heads as long as they adopt that ubiquitous scat-airhead bookworm voice and overpronounce words that end in -iety, -ism, -ation. Bonus points for referencing shit from back in the day and cunnilingus.
To wit, here's some typing in real time (excuse the typos):
But with your soul stretched out to the breaking point, all you got is that fat diamond rock and that new Jay-Z joint. words manifest from your lips, directed at my hips, are mere blip, blip, blips on this bird's radar SCREEEEN. five hundred years of that old "see this, see that, see bird, see cat" socialism have turned worms sour like lemons in my grandma's kitchen hour after hour. and with nothing but bullshit running that gold cup over, you put society's prism up to your mirror, catch the light refracted and re-flect-ed in those indian dreamcatchers sold by the side of the road in new mexico, with me blazing through the desert blastin that old soul II soul eating rold gold checkin my "eff-yall" expression in the best western transgression museum, known as the sin-in-here motel. swell? huh. i don't think so, not with your love jones addiction, and your fingers causin friction. listen, lickin' ain't nothin but the trench job your daddy did day after day, but you don't see nothin but pay, and work is an afterthought in your mind's mental ray.
Wait, what was I talking about?
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