Spread the Love Like Mustard

There's nothing wrong with spreading a little love, right? And if the red flags of sarcasm are being waved unintentionally, I suppose I'm flattered. So thank you, Prince.

I mean. . . "fuckin' queer. Boy, nothin I hate more in this world than a queer. Cept maybe a nigger. Babydoll! Bring Daddy a beer!"

But my dilemma is, Prince invited me to be his friend on Myspace. That's wonderful. I feel like a princess (makes the sound of vomiting) that the social elite of California would consider me "five minutes in a broom closet" worthy, but if I allow him to see all of my pictures where I look somewhat less than "ass-tap-able" then maybe the love will stop. And that must not happen.

Gee, what's a heterosexual, married NC resident male have to do to keep a homosexual CA playwright interested in a nonsexual relationship? Aw shucks! (kicks at a rock and pulls up overalls) I cain't never get me sum man love!

*The man in the picture is totally me. Oh, and Prince, If I was gay, single and living in Cali we'd definitely have a fags night out. You're the cats meow!

Get Yo' Hustle On

"Time to get paid. Blow up like the World Trade".

-Biggie Smalls 1994

Spread Love

Fuck Prince Gomolvilas

I read his shit on the d(aily), comment like crazy but he still won't respond like the pedestal he's on is too shaky. I spread a little love, so spread some love back. I was nice at first, but fuck that. If you're too important to deal with lower life forms-then this little peon is about to get cold like Freon, leave you tied up in the trunk of a Dodge Neon. your blogs seem withered like the flowers i breathe on and smells worse then the basket of laundry my cat peed on.

Fuck California and fuck Pork Chop. and fuck asian men who go to playwright workshops.

love always,
micky v.

Bruce Lee or Hulk Hogan

Who would win in a fight? The answer is simple, right? Many years ago I had it out with my sister over this very question. Apparently Mr. Hogan's bleached handlebar moustache would incite so much fear that small Asian men everywhere would just run screaming (including big daddy Bruce). I'm not saying professional wrestling is fake, heaven forbid. All I'm getting at is that just maybe Bruce Lee would win in hand to hand combat. . . if the sun were in Hogan's eyes, of course. . . or if Bruce Lee kicked him in the testies.

But what's all the hype around Chuck Norris about? Yeah, get over it. Bruce Lee already kicked Chuck's ass when he was filming Way of the Dragon. You see, Chuck wasn't even suppose to be in that movie. They were filming in Rome and Chuck Norris just comes walking down the street all pissed off and looking for a fight. So Bruce Lee screamed like a cat a couple times and then broke homeboy's neck. That scene wasn't scripted or anything. Few people know that Chuck Norris died back in 1972. Seriously.

It could happen, too. So if you're ever walking alone in the Coliseum, beware. As long as their are nice, decent people in this world their will be assholes like Chuck Norris.

On the Shape of a Woman (that's where I'd like to be, knowutmmmsayin?)

"Ladies, if you need that pink thong with the little lacy thingies coming off it to feel beautiful, then go ahead and feel beautiful. But if you're hungry for a drumstick, well that's alright, too".

-Mike Valentino

*Yeah, I'm just that cool.

Old Dirty Feline

Blacky is my 20+ year old cat. I've had him since I was five. My dad found him fully grown wandering the streets of Sullivan's Island after Hurricane Hugo back in 1989. I don't know how he made it considering the whole island was covered in water, but he did and he has been nothing but the best friend ever since. I told Bekki before we got hitched that if she marries me she marries Blacky as well.

I took him to get his nails done today. He was in desperate need of a manicure. He also got some calorie concentrated pet food that you can only get at the vet. Hopefully that will put some weight back on him. It feels weird to call him Blacky. Even though it is the name that five year old Mikey gave him, we've called him Dirt or Dirty Dirt for the past five years (a respectful homage to Old Dirty Bastard). I've also named the neighbors cat GZA. For those of you familiar with the Wu, it's funny.

*The pic is from our apartment in Charleston. I have some Mountain pics with him in the yard, but, alas, I could not find them. Trust me, there will be more pics to come.

WTF???

This is some of the best stuff I've ever read. That includes Whitman, Carroll, Yeats, ect. I don't know where this chick's been hiding, but if you like this poem just read the rest at her blog. Is something cooking, because I smell Robert Frost?

Mobile, Alabama: 1960s

He casts the line down toward the green-gray chops of bay,
lets it waft along by the cement pillars of the causeway,
few enough station wagons and Chevys passing
that he can tip a slow straw hat nod at each one
before resuming his watch of the steel sky,
the States sky, so unlike the sky
on the other side of the world--
when something roars through here
it's a passenger flight.
He leans against the sun-fired guard rail,
looks down at the lapping currents
where they slap the pillars from all sides,
unsure where they're going.
He slides open his ice chest and waits
for the tautening of the swaying line.

In the tired sunset heat,
Angie and Charlotte let the screen door clatter behind them,
feet rushing through the soft cold grass
to where the Silverado crunches to a halt,
and he lifts the bucket from the cab. He grins
when they peer in at the wide eyes
and some silver sides still heaving,
knowing this is all they'll ever know,
as close as they'll ever come.
Just as quick the moment spirals off
and they straddle pink bikes one more time before supper.
He clunks the bucket onto the table he hammered together in the back yard
and unpockets the knife that saw Korea,
straw hatbrim casting shadows across his work:
slicing each ragged tendon, all the flesh so precisely
that even as a teenager, Angie will claim her daddy
catches the fish that have no bones.
Hands slick he works them out,
separating deft piles
of wanted and unwanted
in the drowsy, steel heat of Mobile.

By Haley

Dixie

A few months back my adorable wife talked me into purchasing an almost equally adorable little puppy. We named her Dixie. I figured every southern boy ought to own at least one animal named after that most noblest of contradictions, and if I was gonna have to walk a half-chihuahua, half-dauschund up and down Southern Street, I was gonna make damn sure she had street cred.

Little did I know that she would live up to her name by raising Hell at every given instance (I think the spiked collar might fluff her ego a bit, too). The list of casualties range from $120 restaurant shoes to tables and chairs. Not to mention the numerous blankets that have met an untimely fate thru her jagged little shark teeth. We actually bought this welded playpen to keep her in while Bekki and I are off being used for slave labor. At first we tried putting her in the back room and puppy-proofing everything. All we left down for her was some chew toys and blankets and doggy beds. She ended up pulling the blankets off a beanbag chair and disembowling the poor beanbag. We came home to find the room filled with beanbag stuffing (fresh from the beanbag AND logs that had traveled thru her digestive track).

She's contained for now.
I hope.

On Women

"In Sicily, women are more dangerous than shotguns".
-From the Godfather by Mario Puzo

* The characters are in Sicily when this line is spoken, but you can insert wherever you're from into the quote to sound more hardcore.

Juicy

I wrote a blog a few years back about chil'ren labeling themselves with their clothing. My friend Steve thought it was hilarious and upon seeing a re-flux in these offenses, I thought it would be wise to revisit this issue. So here it goes:

Why is it that girls with the biggest, sloppiest asses wear those tiny little shorts with the words on the back? They're always making some half-truth or blatant lie concerning the shape and/or attractiveness of said ass. Juicy? Not when the backfat's rolling up and out the top of your Daisy Duke's to form a mushroom cloud.

And what about when the ass IS actually Juicy? Are the shorts really necessary? Do you really need to broadcast it, ladies? Trust me, men were sizing you up and categorizing you in their heads based on mere physical attractiveness long before you stenciled your low self-esteem on the back of your britches.

Sunday Morning Vol. III

"And no, I didn't get shot up a whole bunch of times/ or make up shit in a whole bunch of lines/ and I ain't animated like, say, a Busta Rhymes/ But the real shit you get when you bust down my lines/ add that to the fact I went platinum a buncha times/ times that by my influence on pop culture/ i suppose to be number one on everybody's list/ let's see what happens when i no longer exist. . . fuck this"

Art should not be made for monetary gains. Art is not a competition to be held or a race to be won. Artists are not competitors whose financial status equals either victory or defeat. But if they were. . . Jay-Z is totally swiggin' some Crystal in the winners circle after this one. The Black Album, S. Carter's 6th and final record (at least during its release), is a swan song unlike any that have come before it.

He openly boasts "pound for pound I'm the best to ever come around here" and indeed, rhyme for rhyme this is one of the most complex and entertaining hip hop albums to come out of the last 30 years. Hova's public persona is so much a part of his music that discussion of the man is integral to the discussion of this album. For those unfamiliar with his tales of rags to riches, this album lays out the artists history from his formative years with "December 4th" to the climactic closer "My 1st Song" which paints Jay at the height of his professional career.

Aside from an all-star cast of producers that include Just Blaze, Rick Rubin, Eminem, Kanye West and the Neptunes, this album boasts a lyrical backbone that can stand on it's own regardless of the muscle and tissue that surround it. In fact, the "good folks at Roc-a-fella Records" thought just that. The a cappella version was marketed as a blank slate for curious djs to work with some of the best rhymes of Jay's career. Two of the most famous of these collaborations include The Grey Album (Danger Mouse's fusion with the Beatles White Album) and Collision Course (Mike Shinoda's Linkin Park remix).

The lyrics are typical for Jay-Z: money, hustling, being the greatest and money (lots of it). Coincidentally, the only thing lacking here is a sense of braggadocio. He tells his tales in past tense as the album itself looks back on his life. You don't get the feeling that he's trying to impress anyone with false tales of drug running and music videos filled with rented Bentley's, because, you know, when you have as much money and clout as Jay-Z it's sort of hard to exaggerate. With that being said, it's also refreshing to feel the absence of male sexist posturing, but then again what does HOV have to prove? He already states he's got "the hottest chick in the game wearin' my chain". The beats (or music for those not familiar with Sucka Free Sundays) are some of the best in the biz but if you're looking for dance hits about "fuckin' bitches" and "smackin' niggas" (or is it the other way around?) then please look elsewhere. At its heart, the Black Album is a lyricists record.

I was thinking of categorizing the Black Album as the "hip-hop equivalent of Highway 61", but was afraid that hip-hop purists would start throwing out names like Common, Mos Def or Public Enemy, so instead I'll call it the "hip-hop equivalent of Blood on the Tracks", because both showcase an artist at the peak of his creative powers with no near equals to speak of. For years to come, MC's will walk in the shadow that the Black Album casts and stumble in the footsteps of a giant.

". . . I might even have me a cappuccino. . . fuck it, I'm going somewhere nice with no mosquitoes. . ."

On Individuality

"Be exactly who you want to be. Do what you want to do.
I am he and she is she, but you're the only you".

-Crass

On Determination

Before giving a speech in Wisconsin, Theodore Roosevelt was shot in the chest. He dismissed suggestions that he go to the hospital and instead delivered his 90 minute speech with this opening line:

"I don't know whether you fully understand that I have just been shot; but it takes more than that to kill a Bull Moose".

I think Steve-O might be back on the nose candy

On Hardship

Work has got me swamped lately so I figured I'd start a daily quote routine to keep my blog from rusting. Enjoy!


"I wish to preach, not the doctrine of ignoble ease, but the doctrine of the strenuous life, the life of toil and effort, of labor and strife; to preach that highest form of success which comes, not to the man who desires mere easy peace, but to the man who does not shrink from danger, from hardship, or from bitter toil, and who out of these wins the splendid ultimate triumph".

-Theodore Roosevelt

Police are Horrible People

So I went to see the fireworks in Columbus. It was nice. Bekki and I enjoyed ourselves immensely. What stood out more than the $5 lemonade or the sheer volume of pregnant teens happened near the end of our outing. We're sitting on some street corner waiting for the fireworks to start. There are children everywhere. Families are everywhere. The place is packed. Then this cop car pulls up like he's going to do a drive-by on us and parks at the mouth of this blockaded street. He steps out of his patrol car looking like some slimy villain from Kindergarten Cop with this big cigar dangling from his fat bottom lip. And what does he do with it? He throws it on the street. He throws a lit cigar on the street. I guess abiding by the law only applies to those without guns on their hips.

Bush Knocked Down the Towers! oh, and Happy 4th of July!

(controlled demolition takes weeks to set up)

Now, I'm just a weekend warrior when it comes to conspiracy theories. I don't do near the grunt work and investigating that your average joe crazy does to uncover government lies. But I almost choked on a freedom fry when I read some of this stuff. If you think this is bullshit, ask yourself one question: "How many towers fell in New York on September 11th, 2001?"

Wrong! It was three. Most Americans have no knowledge of Building 7 that completely imploded although it was never hit by either plane. Secondly, the World Trade Center buildings were the first and last steel structure buildings to ever collapse at free-fall speed due to fire. I was unaware that steel was prone to melting after less than an hour. Maybe Superman should change his nickname to 'Man of Wood or Some Other Building Material That Has Structural Strength Superior To That Of Steel'. Not to mention the fact that the man who leased the buildings, Larry Silverstein, took out a hefty insurance policy on all three of the buildings just months before and received a massive $5 Billion!!!!! How many firefighters would you kill for $5 billion?

Bush Sr. was in a business meeting in Washington on the morning of Sept. 11th. He was in a business meeting with Osama bin Laden's brother! "What the fuck", you're asking yourself. I know, I know. Apparently, the two families have been in bed together since the 1970's. In fact, they were the chief investors in George W.'s failed oil companies including Arbusto. I could also go into that document by members of the Bush Administration that call for a "new Pearl Harbor" years before 9/11 or the fact that we still haven't caught our scapegoat. You keep pretending to run, Osama, and we'll keep pretending to chase you, wink wink. It all seems sketchy to me. Like a father whose son is spending a little too much time in the bathroom, I don't know exactly what's going on, but I know that something just ain't right. Oh, enjoy the fireworks!