barry gets an abortion

something's been eating at me today. and not because i'm necessarily having a moral dilemna, altho i mite be... it's more of the splinter in my finger; the shard of wood of which i am aware (it itches and gently throbs) but i go about my day as if there isn't tree in my flesh. what the hell am i talking about ?!

feline abortion. cat abortion, for the layperson.

seriously, let it sink in.. cause it's real, as real as prosthetic balls for your dog. (no, seriously, don't let your best friend lose his balls and his pride, add some prothesti-testies.) but i digress. feline abortion. cat abortion. it's been the eyelash on my lense, that proverbial sliver. i don't know if it would've bothered me if i had only read about it. i found out the hard way:

a friend of mine adopted a feral (not to be confused with sterile) cat. a wild, trailor-park-running, free-as-the-wind cat. but the cat was emaciated. so, starving and probably delusional, the cat wandered on to "barry's" porch. so barry, being the kind and generous old soul that he is, fed the cat. but if you feed a feral cat, they just keep coming back.

so the next morning, the cat (now named "karen" ...never name a stray, that's the first fell step down a slippery slope) returns, of course, for breakfast. after several days of this entire scenario on pavlovian-repeat, karen will let barry pet her while she eats. ...days, and he can pet karen even when she's not eating. she comes around just for attention.
and then, like in every other seemingly-harmless-bum story, the cat decides that she wants to move in! and barry, he's a good dude-no joke-we chill with him all the time, let's karen barge right into his life, like a red-headed psycho ex.

well, you've heard the tale before: all goes well... for a while. karen has transformed, from a gutter cat into a house-cat. she plays the part alright! ..but after a few weeks, karen starts to go stir crazy.. the wild wind is calling, the dumpster cats meow in the distance... and she's in heat. yeah, she needs a good romp, you know? some wild tomcat rapesex, you dig? don't recoil in disgust, it's natural in their order of things, you see.

so if this entire time, you've been shaking your head, like, 'yes, yes!' ...if that is you, reader, then you know what comes next: yes, karen comes back. she's sorry she had to run off like that. she's sorry she's been neglecting the food and milk that barry was putting on her table! he didn't have to take care of that bitch! she was a guttercat before she met barry. fucking ingrate, i say!
but if you're saying in your head, 'i've been there, barry-' -if you're saying, i know a good dude like barry, then you know that in this story barry is the character who could be expected to do nothing other than to take back karen. it's true, barry takes karen back into his house. he nurses her sex-starved-sex-satiated feline body back to health--yet again.
now, karen is soooo sorry. and karen is doing muchhh better. she's purrrring and rubbbbing and salivating on barry, as in, 'yes barry, you're my human! you are mine, barry!' and barry gives karen milk, gently warmed, and feline food, and tuna (fresh from the can! that's a good tuna-salad sandwich barry's giving up for that cat!) and water.

but karen still has a secret. the plot thickens: karen's pregnant! ...an on-again-off-again homeless, feral cat...a wild dumpster cat, now inpregnated by some feral, homeless alley-cat, no doubt! so what?! so, barry let's this irresponsible cat make life?! re-create!? let karen single-handedly re-overpopulize the feral kitten market?!

"she's got seven in there," the vet tells barry.

"oh god," is all barry says in response. "oh god." barry's new girlfriend squeezes barry's arm in tight, then muzzles her nose into his t-shirt. he smells of catfood and his clothes are covered in inch-long white hairs."isn't there anything," barry's girlfriend says at long-last, "ANYTHING, we can do?"

the vet looks at the young couple, and he sees so much potential, love and hope... so, he procures a card, hands it to barry's girlfriend, "i know a guy," the vet says. barry looks up at the vet from his frozen stare on the floor tile. "doctor blacops," the vet says, "works for the animal control board of pennsylvania." barry takes the card and reads: dr. blacops, animal control board of pennsylvania. and then a local phone number.

it was later that night when barry called doc blacops. a smokey-grey voice on the other end of the line, "yeah?" barry's all, "ummm..." he said he could hear doctor blacops kissing the butt of a cig in the silence. then it all came rushing out: barry recounts the whole story of he and the feral cat, the dishing of milk, the petting, the adopting into his house, the runaway, the heat, the sex-starvation, the runaway--and now, the kittens.

"uh-huh," the doc says, "and so you're calling me," he says, "cause you want to get a feline abortion.""what!? no!" barry gets defensive on instinct, then goes, "i do? i- i can get one of those?!?""well you can't," doc says, "but your slut cat can.""she can?" barry asks-says, then says, "she can."and then the fateful words, "i want a cat abortion."

now, don't get it twisted, i'm not trying to make lite of abortion. this is--obviously--only a true story, which barry told to me, and i told to you. don't rush to judge! don't go bombing the animal control board's abortion clinic, cause that's not even the organization's real name! it's just something that's been bothering me: cat abortion. and now that's it's off my chest, you're free to wrestle with the moral and ethical reprocutions.

in closing, i'm happy to report that karen is doing just fine these days--sans kittens. barry is back to the every day grind, so to speak, and he lets karen come and go as she pleases. and even when she's gone, barry leaves a bowl of milk, gently warmed, on the porch.

them irie vibes are calling

had an unbelievable recording session at the commune home studio the other day. didn't feel unbelievable at the time... just some freestyles and some manic-page-turners, jamming some rhymes together and what. baptiste blessed the commune that morning (as he does every morning) and the irie vibes must have vibrated thru-out the commune home-walls, richocheting in chaos all day long. the vibe was undeniably good, just me and ves bound within the body-warmed recording room. stuffy and hot, grimy sweaty shit. tom manned the kitched (as he often does) with a waterfall of mountain lightning and gnosh.

i had a legal notepad filled with ideas and ideas for ideas, lyrics and phrases and rhymes... it seemed like chaos (on paper). and chaos always tends towards chaos... i scrawled and squinted, lyrics in low-light situations, bedside manners cast to the wind; i wrote with a pen, an unusuality in my instantaneous, button pushing-on-command, problem-solved lifestyle. i can't remember how to cursive. not properly, anyway. that was third grade or so! my loops and dips, droops and lower-vs-upper-case intertwine and intermix in my head. instant lysdexia. i digress, but that is how they were written; carefully, organically, sloppily. and chaos always tends towards chaos. but not in the studio, or not on that day.

the pre-game looked like a triangular syphon, passing at three axi; me, treble (who had stopped by to antagonize, chill, scavage, and rhyme) and the commune's tommune, tom. syphon and circles, for one-one-one.. two and no bogarts. treble started in on some freestyles, and soon, trailing the cypher (not cyber) smoke were the rhymes, usually one-behind. "i stick siblings' silverware straight into old outlets- neon-glow eighties shit in brazen bold outfits..." laughter eruption. 'don't break the syphon!' chuck says to ves, who had materialize behind the woodshed and elbowed his way into the cicle. 'gotta get me in on that,' ves mumbles, 'i'm on the boards!'

after the session with chuck and tom, and then ves, i moved solo into the studio. just me and my shadow producer, vesuvius. i was warmed from the cicle, already rhyming and finding a cadence in my head. from clicks to wraps, in two measley hours, we managed to track five sets of vocals. the energy was high, the room stifling, and it all felt good. i'm not sure that we'll even release any of these sessions, but that's not the point. it felt good to rhyme. it felt good to manage a mess of freestyles on a mono mic, no popscreen.

i'm meeting party at the commune south tonight. we've got some rehearsals to jam over, some preparations to be made for upcoming live showups. i'm still riding that high vibe off of preceding days events, so i'm up for a long-into-the-night rap and then rap more. we'll let you know how it goes off.. catch us soon at that stop.

hy.

Rehearsal day & my POTential job @ High Times

party is on his way to our diggs (near the commune) in the wilds of pennsylvania. it's a beautiful day--which is either a blessing or a begrudged curse for a traveler setting out on a three-hour-by-car drive. i hope he takes the time to roll the windows down. air conditioning gives me a headache and a false sense of fresh, cool air.

the basement, the dugout, the diggs--call it what you want--is all but prepped. two 15-inch speakers are balanced on their posts, a 1985 yamaha synth is poised on its one-piece stand. the whole ordeal is wrapped in countless guitar cables, quarter-inch. its all there, but for party, the mpc, the 800-watt pa head, the laptop, two mics and another layer of tangled, shorted, wirey-snakey guitar cables. and one eighth-inch adapter, mustn't forget that!

even on top of the above paragraph--the prep scene--a set up for a rehearsal never goes without hitch. it becomes impossible--after years of performing and recording, and packing and lugging--to pull off anything (rehearsal or otherwise) without some sort of mishap, misgiving, misinformation, or missing part of the cog wheel.

in unrelated news, i entered a contest today. no, not a rap contest. not a battle or a sweepstakes. no, a writing contest. i did so in a bid to win a guest editor spot at high times magazine. that's right. consider it my official job application. maybe after this year i can spot writing "rapper" on my w-2... or w-4... one of my w's. i forget which. my 1500 word piece, is sci-fi short fiction. it's about a young woman tempting a young man into smoking pot. in the future. very adam and eve meets weeds meets dawson's creek. you'd love it. i just hope bobby black likes it. and jorge cervantes. and great uncle soma.

but i digress--it's rehearsal day, not writing day. so, i wait here, chilling with stretch until party arrives. should be sometime within the next hour and a half. stretch has been telling me all about the d.c. trip from his perspective. lmfao (or whatever the kids say), that's one gnarly trip we had. if you didn't catch the earlier blog, stretch watched in stitches as styles east pushed some poser out of a moving car! real.

i've got mics to gather and things to forget. it never goes off without a hitch. never.

High Protests

So, I get a phone call @ 6am this Saturday morning. I didn't even get to bed til 3 the 'night' before & I'm not the best person on that little sleep. It wasn't til I heard Chuck Treble on the other end that I really woke up. I was surprised to hear from him this early in the morning, being as he is one of the laziest people I've ever met when it comes to waking up @ a normal time, & worse of all he sounded alert, so something was off.

Turns out, there was to be a huge protest in our nation's capitol & Chuck's been waiting months for the gathering. His logic is that it's the only time a year that weed feels 100% legal since the cops can't really do much about 1,000+ people smoking in the street. I was intrigued. A few months back I had heard about the protest from Hype, but it slipped my mind while smoking trees, I suppose. Chuck really wanted to get an early start. He was so focused on punctuality that he drove from Newark to Philadelphia the night before to be further down the trail the next day. Apparently, he had to drop $100 on a hotel because his Philly connection flaked out on him. On the bright side, Chuck now has 10 new customers in the City of Brotherly Love. My man moved a whole brick in one night, that's talent.

I was out the door by 6:30. Philly's only an hour & a half from my apartment, but I got there in an hour flat somehow ... must have been speeding, who knows. I called Hype on the way & he told me he had already left for DC an hour or so ago, he was as excited as Chuck for the protest. He was just leaving from Williamsport after picking up Styles East, a PA rapper he met @ a freestyle battle in a club in Harrisburg, PA, & DJ Stretch, a radio personality we recently befriended from 104.5 The Buzz in Wellsboro, PA. He was still a good 2 & a half hours out of Philly since he got mixed up with a dickhead wigga kid who claimed to be able to 'get anything' until he was given a routine weed request, I hate that shit. So, Chuck & I decided to enjoy the city while we waited. Treb rolled up a beautiful honey blunt (where he got the honey I'll never know), which we smoked in the parking deck of the hotel parking lot he was staying at. Took almost 45 minutes to kill it. Afterwards, we took to the streets.

We chomped on some killer breakfast cheese steaks @ Geno's. It was fucking delicious. Funny that a cheese steak joint can be so famous. Not exactly sure why, I mean it's good, but it's just sliced up steak & cheese in a roll. I don't know. It was great nonetheless.

Chuck brought me to a small record store he knew of in this weird part of town. The place had an extensive collection of vinyls, even had some cassette tapes. The dude who owned the place was obsessed with Nashville Pussy posters. He didn't think much of their music, but he loved the posters. He had this one that said 'Nashville Pussy: Motorhead with Tits'. The simplest things end up being the funniest. This place was so awesome. I really wanted to buy every record in the store. Before we left, I bought me some gifts. I got a rare John Mayall record & a Hermon Hitson record & a Lloyd Barnes record for some smoked out samples & a Buzzcocks record to keep it eclectic. I was satisfied with my choices & extremely excited to chop them up & make some new beats with new material. Chuck was ecstatic about finally copping a copy of TWR Productions' 12" 'Those Who Rock/Coolin' record. He's all about those raw video game sound effects. It was like we were little kids in a candy store & we left with cavities. Good times. Great store.

An hour passed that felt like a minute. Chuck & I smoked two more blunts, but no honey this time. This weed was fantastic. I mean I could taste California. I could see mirages of those beautiful dispensaries with this shit. I know everyone thinks their girlfriend could be in an issue of Maxim, but this shit really could have been in High Times magazine. I could feel it nice & tight behind my eyeballs. Unfortunately, a security guard caught us smoking, but he agreed to keep his mouth shut if we smoked him up, which we were happy to do. This part of the story would be great if the guy wasn't a complete dickfuck. He was the Bogart poster boy & he bounced halfway through the blunt, with the blunt! Which is why we had to bust out 2nds, better than getting arrested before we were smoking herb outside the White House I guess.

... rewind just a bit, party. let me tell you this odd shit first-person style:

i'm in the car, stretch is riding shotty, and styles east hops noisily into the car. "ma fuckers!" he shouts. high-fives ensure, with me finally shutting them up with a ringy cell.7 am, the phone rings indiana jones style. it's party. i forgot to hit him up the night before about the trip to d.c. (as stretch put it, "don't assume he'll remember anything." haha!) but sure enough, party's awake and at it, and it's only seven in the am. i was pulling out of williamsport with stretch, and now styles. and now party's on the line asking if we left yet. "we're way ahead of you, picasspants!" styles shouts. he's as loud and big on the real as he is on the mic... the only cat who publicly recants 'the day he beat hype in a battle' (he didn't) whilst in the presence of yours truly. he's a first-class clown, but i can respect his frankness (if not, fallacies) a lot more than the shit these cats talk to their walls. we peace, but hang-up only after styles recounts his run-in with this dickhead 'rapper' (every one's a rapper) from williamsport:

"yo, we fuckin- we're at the W-groceries in williamsport--the home of the millionaires--and this fucking-" he rants on and on, painting the picture. it's how our crew tells stories; in segments and fragments, thots and pictures... you gotta paint the scene.

but in short, this eminem-looking cat comes limping gingerly up to me, stretch, and styles. "yo, ya'll riding dirty?" or some shit like that.

"what? stretch frowns. he's already looking for a fight, and we're not at the protest yet. stretch has a short fuse for such a mellow guy. claims he's got a "party temper."

"i cop you some shit if ya'll need," wigs says.

stretch frowns at me, i shake my head, no. styles gives us the "ah, come on guys!" look. "you got trees?" styles blurts out. i shake my head again, and stretch mutters, motherfucker.

what ensues next is how assholes get shot. or mugged. or both. the great white hope hops into the backseat of our ride. now 4-deep full, we take his directions down south street, then onto fourth.

at the command, "right here," we stop next to a bum. the bum staggers to his feet and hands styles a bag.

styles goes, "what the fuck is this shit?" i turn to see a bag of powder thrown into a bums face. it explodes like baby powder all over the man's old face. antiquing an antique bum trying to push some sort of dumby dope shit on my crew. hilarious. i screw the wheels to the tires and we're out. styles stiff-elbows slim shady out of the back door. he rolls one complete rolls before his back comes to a jarring cold-stop on the curb. the once-and-now-three passengers laugh our asses off, and stretch throws a one-finger salute out the back window.

"that's two-hundred" some-odd-bucks the bum yells!

"fuck you!" styles shouts, already a block away, "we don't do drugs, asshole!"

this is where styles' animated recollection of the non-existent bag o'trees comes to it's conclusion, the whole car-full laughing their asses off again, and now party cracking up on the other end of the line. i take the phone and tell party we'll be in Philly in a couple of hours. then, it's off to DC.

after the comic-intermission, the road-silence kicks in. everybody in my car is off somewhere else, visiting each country villa with a glance of passing house and trees. i'm thinking about prohibition. marijuana prohibition, in particular. but prohibition in general. what does any kind of prohibition mean for a "free" society? can we not control ourselves. must we be controlled by others, uncle sam like our one bastard parents? alcohol prohibition didn't work. well, it worked to create the mob, bootlegging, people like al capone. the birdman of alcatraz. so it worked, in a sense, just not the way it was supposed to. and what of cannabis? did its prohibition work? ...i don't know anybody who smokes weed. or wait--who doesn't smoke weed. well, shit, you say, that's just because you know a lot of shady cats. true, i do know them. but it's actually because "some 25 million americans have smoked marijuana in the past year" (norml.org). well, weed is a drug. and alcohol is... well, a drug. and "according to the prestigious european medical journal, the lancet, "the smoking of cannabis, even long-term, is not harmful to health. ... It would be reasonable to judge cannabis as less of a threat ... than alcohol or tobacco" (norml.org).

we knew the facts. we all had studied up for years.

so there we were, about to embark on our first cannabis journey. and not in amsterdam (we wish), and not in cali or colorado, canada or maine, or even rhode island... no we were heading to a peaceful gathering of a peaceful pipe-potting people, right smack dab in our nation's fine capitol. unbelievable!

party continues:

Hype & crew arrived @ Philly a little after 10:30am. Everyone hopped out of his car completely blasted & eyes like Christmas, so basically we were all in the same state of mind. We didn't waste much time, just a few cigarettes & a odd conversation about the career of Michael Jackson. 3 sticks deep, we decided to bounce, so Chuck, Hype, Styles, Stretch & myself got into my busted trunked Corolla & headed down to the District.

The drive was crazy, with way too many blunts to count & endless freestyles over some old, unused Wine Thieves instrumentals I keep in my car for such an occasion. 495 South was a bitch & matters got worse as the traffic creeped it's way towards Delaware. Not the best state I've ever passed through. And shit became horrific on 95 South when it became a 20 mile parking lot & we had 70 miles to be on it. It hurt, so we smoked. We finally crossed into Maryland & made a stop in Baltimore to fill up on some gas. Chuck & Styles got into a minor scuffle with some kids @ the Exxon. From what I could hear from inside the car, a group of fruity fucks were listening to Styles freestyling on his way back to the pump from the convenient store & called him out for wearing a Phillies hat, I guess these kids were serious Orioles fans. After some weird trash talk from the shitheads about baseball stats, Chuck & Styles battled 2 other kids from the original guy's crew. Chuck got a little carried away with his insults & a fight ensued. It was hilarious watching these other assholes step to Treb & East, but everyone had to split when a lady shouted out that she had called the cops. So we got our gas & beef jerky real quick & fled.

It took about 3 & a half hours to get to DC, the traffic was a joke the rest of the way down & made the trip so much longer than it needed to be. On the positive, I saw another record shop as soon as we hit the capitol. This place wasn't as interesting as the Philly store though. The selection was low & there was nowhere to listen to the records. I did however purchase my first copy of Miles Davis' 'Bitches Brew'. An obvious choice for sampling, but I just really wanted to listen to the 1969 classic that turned jazz on its ear. Plus, it would be fun to sample a record like that because I'd have to chop it so nice that it was unrecognizable, so I think I'm gonna flip this thing.

The rest of DC was pretty cool. We didn't do much site seeing, just smoked a lot of trees & headed towards the protest. Hype & I brought some copies of the 'Sex & Co.' EP & a boom box to rock it on. We met quite a few people, but I'm starting to doubt that anyone will remember too much given the situation. The whole experience was rather surreal. It was odd watching cops circle the area but make zero arrests. It took me 2 or 3 blunts to fully get used to it. And after that I still wasn't too used to it, just more paranoid. Somehow, you get past it though. It's almost as if you have the protection of this huge stoner wall surrounding you. Crazy.

The people we met down there were out of this world.

out of this world, hype seconds. in fact, hype continues, i think some of the people will remember our brief intersection of worlds at our nation's capitol. some twenty or thirty people were gathered by the ass-busted corolla at one point in high afternoon. freestyles and demo exchanges took place, friendly battles ensued that recalled a time of hip hop old... we were all free that day... free to rhyme, free to battle, free to fight (for rights and otherwise), and free to toke one across that line. it was lincoln's woodstock.

can't wait til next year!

peace to our brothers and sisters!

the king of pop is dead.

as party and i started our first, full-fledged, 800-watts-induced practice, we were greeted with the news that michael jackson was dead. it didn't ruin our day. in fact, there wasn't much of a response from either of us. but the elephant in the room was almost unavoidable. michael jackson is dead. sure, you can take some cheap shots at him. but i'm not going to. yes, he was a freak. but before that, he was a star. he grew up with the ever-spawning and growing papparazzi. shit, he practically invented the stalked and hunted celebrity that we know so well from grocery market magazine stands and crappy cable television shows. before there was E! there was michael jackson. before pepsi threwback, it was a choice of a new generation... that pepsi ad, the one where jackson emerges on-stage from the flames and fireworks, is one of my earliest childhood memories. i specifically remember seeing that commercial during a station break of a david copperfield primetime special: escape from alcatraz. copperfield invented big illusion, like jackson invented the moon walk. it was the time. pre-berlin wall 1980s type shit. ronald reagan and soviets and cold wars... it all goes hand-in-hand in my memory.

i've already reminised longer than i had intended. i didn't cry when jackson died. i didn't even pause. i mean, seriously, if michael jackson wasn't at the top of your celebrity death pool, then you either weren't paying attention or you didn't have a celebrity death pool. it's sick, i know. all of it. not just the death pool, no! the sickest part of all is that good old m.j... the other m.j. from the 80s (not michael jordan)... invented super-celebrity. he invented the moon walk. he invented the white, ghoulish, pieces-falling-off-my-face freak that we all grew to love to hate... and why? he did it for YOU. he made music... for you. he performed... for you. he dyed his skin (or didn't) for you! he shrunk his nose into a dissolving face-drop face-lift for you. he dwelt in a compound that looked like a make-shift disney world, a fantasy world... for you? because of you? you made him a god. and we love to watch our gods die. what is more interesting than a mega-celebrity? answer: a mega-celebrity's death. we build our gods to die for our sins. then we ask, what the hell happened to that guy?! what a freak! what a jerk, molestor, weirdo... insert your favorite jackson diss. he disfigured himself... tried to invent a plastically enhanced fountain of youth... for you. isn't it beautiful?! isn't it amazing!? what he did... what he made... isn't it beautiful?

when brittney commits suicide, or winehouse overdoses... (and this is all "god-forbid" material) ...when lohan goes nuts (if she hasn't already)... and o.j. kills (or finds the real murderers from his new prison cell) ...it will simply be another celebrity who did it all for you. you want to watch... they want you to watch... we build our gods to die. so don't ridicule them. they did it all for you! it was ALL FOR YOU.

...so now that i've completely ranted on the whole michael jackson death, let me reitterate: it did not affect the wine thieves' rehearsal at all. we had an amazing rehearsal. pulled out the stops, broke out in freestyles, and generally lived it up in the basement. ..oh, if those cynder blocks could talk!? (those cynder blocks would rock.) ..they saw us thru countless jersey bound trunk crew rehearsals, a short comedy we made called, billy tony... thru fake sword fights with real swords, real jams with fake drums... from party's old sleeping quarters to gum's fake death on the exhaust-pipe of my since-sold motorcycle... those walls have held in the must and musk, mold and cold... some of my best memories were born out of that basment.

sex & co. (our new ep) will be out monday, the 29th of june. three days away. that gives us a month until our first show... and in the interim period you will be able to download the sex & co. ep. we will be prepping and rehearsing, promoting and selling discs...

..and if our music ever draws us into any sort of spotlight, no matter how dim or how light a shade of lime... i'm going to burn it to the ground. before the demons infest me (i have plenty, thanks). before the papparazzi shoots me, i'm shooting first. before i fight the natural order of things...

don't stop til you get enough.
god bless saint michael.

- hype o

post-prophylactics and good times

...sipping at the dunkin coffee before me, i wonder how the hell they get that dunkin taste... you already know, if you're a coffee fanatic like i am, that you can not replicate the taste of dunkin coffee in your own coffee maker. not even with their beans. there's something--something, probably terrible for your body--that swirls with the chemical compounds of styrofoam coffee cups and hormone-enhanced creamers (and one scoop of bleached, unnatural sugar) that makes me grin. yum yum.

talked to our boy jean-baptiste today... he was skating (skateboarding, not rollerskating... altho now that i mention it, remember when rollerskating was dope?! ...neither do i). actually, he wasn't skateboarding like you just pictured it. jean-baptiste is a pro fingerboarder! no joke here. he actually designs and sells his own custom, hand-made, wooden decks. today, however, he was skating a techy.. like the ones you can buy at wallyworld. a slick little number, logo-tatted with a plan-b graphic. the girls were oohed-and-ahhed by his skills... but they were laughing at his plan-b deck... i didn't get it. turns out plan-b is an oh-shit pill... like ru486... like the day-after pill, ya heard? and a skate company. post-prophylactics and good times taken by all.

so what does this all have to do with the wine thieves? well, i'm powered by ill-flavored coffee, for one. for two, party used to be sick on 8 wheels. i'm talking about a rollerskating-ballet like it was saturday night, 1979. for threed, jean-baptiste's sick fingerkickflips will be highlighted in an upcoming wine thieves music video. this cat can shred, i assure you. with his fingers. and fingerboards. and he shall do so to the tempos of party.picasso and the cadence of yours trues... more on that later, tho...

also, must shout thanks to gumshu! and party for that matter. those two tore up the final touches on the sex & co. ep. seriously--for a moment--imagine finishing a record in a bathroom... a record that was started in a multi-million-dollar studio... finally, wrapped in a room with toilet paper. thanks gum! that's how we roll, rolled for years. closets. coat racks. campers. communes. i thot you knew?!

in other, unrelated updating, i'm throwing down an afternoon of gaming with tom de la commune tomorrow. doritos and dews, bro & brews... you know. co-op style. (jean-baptiste hollers, 3.6.0.2.4.7.-inna-5.7.0. you know!!!)

stay tuned.

peaces,

hype o.