Accidental Self Mock, Eazy-E and Concrete Soda Cans for Breakfast

You know what’s mockable?  The fact that I do my best writing while listening to a man that refers to himself as Girl Talk (nsfw).  As I am not “one of those damned kids today” and I am not known to “put on my skinny jeans and shiny shoes” and head to the club, it is a very odd pairing indeed.

See, I haven’t purchased any music for myself for years.  I don’t download it illegally either.  Instead, I used to opt for the still-cheating-but-not-totally-illegal option of using free.napster.com and clearing the cookies every day.  I could listen to entire albums at my leisure while bustin’ out prose like I just don’t care.

Like all of the golden geese that I’ve ever known, that bitch was grabbed by the ass and turned inside-out pretty quickly and napster completely discontinued their totally-free-music-for-people-who-know-how-to-clear-their-internet-settings program.  So there I was with a novel to finish and nothing to listen to.  It was the end of 2008 and everyone was coming out with their “best of whatever” bullshit and Girl Talk’s “Feed the Animals” was on almost every list.  Despite my hatred of the word “zeitgeist” I listened to the entire 2008 list from these guys.

It was mostly the pretentious horse shit that one comes to expect from such lists, but when Gregg Gillis came on, I couldn’t help but smile.  And then rhythmically nod my head.  And then write.  In fact, I am doing it right now to a track called “Triple Double.”  I can’t help it, the shit’s infectious.

I once tried to convince Jeff to let me revive Suggestaholic.  That way I could write positive reviews there and save my nasty reviews for mockable.  I could somehow feel him nodding and shrugging through a series of text messages.  He may have even texted something like, “That might be a good idea” right before turning to Toney and saying, “I have no idea why I gave this fat fuck my number.  He won’t leave me alone.”  Ultimately, Jeff never said no…but he never gave me the password either.  Due to this effective, yet passive personnel management you almost never knew of my secret love for Girl Talk.  Good thing I know enough to know that I am supposed to be embarrassed for being on the cusp of middle age with two kids and a mortgage and still liking the stuff.

Sorry, this post was not supposed to be about music…or Jeff Kay.  I was going to write about how my 9 year-old son is constantly clogging the toilet. I swear to God that kid eats concrete soda cans for breakfast.  And speaking of music – I was just walking around, minding my own business today when the following  line from Eazy-E hijacked my brain, “Grab it like a rabbit.  Let’s work it – but I won’t love you when I’m done, I’ll still be talking shit.”

This happens to me quite frequently, so I didn’t really worry about it too much.  However, from time-to-time I wonder if the lyrics seize my limited capacity for thought for some specific and higher purpose or if it’s just some bad wiring in my noggin.  It could be either…I’m pretty messed up.

After some careful contemplation I decided that the message was that Eazy got screwed.  I mean, Biggie and Tupac posthumously enjoyed endless cred and sold millions of records because they died at the top of their game in a violent manner that was consistent with the subject matter of their work.  But because Eazy wasn’t necessarily the most talented guy in the group, because he didn’t write much and because he gave in after they threatened to kill his mother…nobody seemed to realize that Eazy was just as much the genuine article as Biggie and Tupac.  Of course, I realize Eazy died a year and a half before Tupac and the comparison is difficult…but it is fascinating to me to know that people will run out and buy records if you die in a hail of bullets (Tupac’s  posthumous works have been certified platinum at least 34 times) while dying from AIDS only gets you certified platinum twice.  The lesson here is that while it’s true that life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money – it’s probably more advantageous to concentrate on the latter if you suspect that assassination might be a possibility and you’ve got kids to feed.

So anyway…back to the poop.  It’s really messed up.  I remember stuff like this happening to me from the time when I was the boy’s age until my mid-teens.  But see, I was the fat kid…this type of thing was expected from me.  I have to admit that it was really embarrassing at first.  I was never sure when I was going to have to tearfully admit to some unforgiving adult that it was my preteen excretory system that torpedoed their suburban plumbing and leveled it like a Kiefer Sutherland hotel room on a Tuesday night. Of course, this fear wasn’t enough to make me stop eating…I just conceived of new and creative defense mechanisms to help me deal with it.

For example, if I knew it was going to be a problem I would go over to my friend Luis’ house and clog that shit on purpose because his dad taught us how to play cards one summer and then took our money.  Fucker thought he was teaching me a lesson. I hid the plunger for good measure. I was a spiteful little prick…I guess some things never change.

So anyway, the boy is still pretty freaked out about the issue and would probably start bawling if he knew I was writing this and submitting it for public consumption. He’s got two things going for him though.  First, I wasted all of my writing time bullshitting about Ruthless Records. Second, most of you turned your browsers back  to porn when you realized that this was a music post. The bad news for the boy is that I’ll probably come back to him sometime next week.

If you’re still here…thanks for your kind words and thanks for coming back.  I promise to do my best to make your visits worthwhile…starting tomorrow…