Food for Thought This Friday
It’s 2008 and things are going well. I’ve got a good year to look forward to, what with Borgamo growing, a trip to Europe on the horizon and plenty of web design projects with which to further my education. Already I’ve been harnessing some power searches on the major engines, Google, Yahoo and Live Search, which have yielded tremendous results. Of course, I’m unwilling to give my secrets away [for free], but suffice it to say that knowledge of various search parameters and a little creative thinking can really let you see some interesting things. But let’s put that aside for a moment and take a look at my latest project for my cousin, Maureen Jeffery.
If you live in Ohio and are planning on getting hitched, you could certainly use a good Ohio wedding photographer. Maureen’s photographs are wonderful. She does black-and-white as well as color and the pictures are always beautiful. Her portraits in particular capture such personality that I have no hesitation in giving Maureen Jeffery the highest recommendation for wedding photography or as a photographer for any other occasion. My confidence in her talent persuaded me to help design a website for her, which I’ve thoroughly enjoyed. I hope you enjoy it, too.
Some moments are so transcendent that everyone who’s there is aware they’re experiencing something special; viewing Mount Everest, riding around on a purring elephant and attending Game 7 of the 2007 ALCS were a few of those moments. Thanks to Dan Russell, I’ve got another to add to my collection. Google tells me that the song was Wu Tang Clan’s “Triumph”. I tell you that Dan nailed it, rapping like the procrastinating mother on Christmas Eve and earning the mad respect of everyone lucky enough to be in the bar area of City Steam Brewery. Verse after verse rattled by and still Dan spat rhymes. Ten minutes later, the song ended and we all broke out in rapturous applause. It was truly magnificent. And lucky you! You get a thirty second slice of it: watch Dan Russell rap
I also saw “Juno” this past weekend, which was excellent. Here are a couple of songs to enjoy from the soundtrack:
Barry Louis Polisar – All I Want Is You
Kimya Dawson – Tire Swing
Funny, I’ve often thought of what it would be like to have a mic in front of 30 or so people at City Steam, but I kinda imagined it being in the Brew Ha Ha comedy club in the basement, not in the bar, karaoke-rapping over Triumph. But I’ll take it.
OK, now I could have OHHLA‘d this, or I could be running it on my iPod (I guess you’ll have to take my word for it), but here goes, from memory, in James Joyce-ian stream-of-consciousness format:
I bomb atomically. Socrates’ philosophies and hypothesis can’t define how I be dropping these mockeries. Lyrically perform armed robberies, flee with the lottery; possibly they spotted me. Battle-scarred shogun; explosion when my pen hits: tremendous ultra-violet shine blind forensics. I inspect you through the future. See, millennium Killer Bees sold 50 gold, 60 platinum. Shackling the masses with drastic rap tactics, graphic displays melt the steel like blacksmiths. Black Wu jackets, queen bees, ease the guns in. Rumble with patrol men, tear gas lace the function. Heads by the score take flight, incite a war. Chicks hits the floor; die-hars fans demand more. Behold the bold soldier, control the globe slowly, proceeds to blow swinging swords like Shinobi. Stomp grounds and pound footprints in solid rock, Wu got it locked perfoming live on your hottest block.
As the world turns, I spread like germs; bless the globe with the pestilence. The hard-headed never learn. This my testiment to those burned. Play my position in the game of life standing firm on foreign land. Jump the gun out the frying pan, into the fire; transform into the Ghost Rider. A six-pack in a streetcar named Desire. Who got my back in the line of fire? Holding back? What? My peoples, if you with me, where the fuck you at? It’s court adjourned from the bad seed to bad sperm. Herb got my wig fried like a bad perm. What the blood clot? We smoke pot and blow spots. You want to think twice? I think not. The Iron Lung ain’t got to tell you where it’s coming from. Guns of Navarrone tearing up your battle zone, rip through your slums.
I twist darts from the heart, tried and true. Loot my voice on the LP. Martini on the slang rocks, certified chatterbox. Vocabulary Donna talking; tell your story walking. Take cover, kid. what? Run from your brother, kid, run from your team; in your six camp rhyme groupies, so I can squeeze with the advantage and get wasted. Deadly notes reign supreme: your thought is basic compared to mine. Domino effect, arts and crafts, paragraphs contain cyanide. Take a free ride on my dart; I got the fashion catalogue for all ya’ll to all praise through the Gods.
The saga continues: Wu-Tang. Wu-Tang.
Olympic torch flaming, we burn so sweet. The thrill of victory, the agony: defeat. We crush slow, flaming deluxe slow: more. Judgement day cometh: conquer; it’s war. Allow us to escape hell’s globe-spinning bombs. Pocket full of shells; out the sky: Golden Arms. Tunes fit the shitty Mortal Kombat sound; a fake, false stepmate; the blood stain the ground. A jungle junkie, vigilante tantrum, the death kiss, cap off, squeeze another anthem. Holding for ransom, tranquilize with anesthesias. My orchestra’s graceful: music ballerinas. My music: Sicily, rich California smell. An axe-kill adventure, paint a picture well. I sing a song from Sing Sing, sipping on Ginseng. Righteous wax chaperone, rotating ring king.
March of the wooden soldiers; C-cypher punks couldn’t hold us. A thousand men rushing in, not one nigga was sober. Perpedicular to the square, I stand bold like flare, escape from the dragon’s lair. In particular, my beats travel like a vortex through your spine to the top of your cerebral cortex. Make you feel like you busting a nut from raw sex. Enter through your right ventricle, clog up your bloodstream, I’m terminal like Grand Central Station. Program phat bass lines, innovation. Getting drunk like a fuck and ducking five year probation.
War of the masses; the outcome’s disatrous. Many of the victims’ families save their ashes. One million names on walls, engraved in plaques. Those who went back received penalties for thier acts. Another heart is torn, a close one’s born. Those that stray, nigga, get slain by the sword.
The track renders helpless and suffers from multiple stab wounds and leaks sounds that’s heard 93 million miles away from Came One to represent the Nation. This is a gathering of the masses that come to pay respect to the Wu-Tang Clan. As we receive in battle, the crowd now screams in rage. The High Cheif Jamil Ireef takes the stage. Light is provided throught sparks of energy from the mind that travels in rhyme form, giving sight to the blind. The dumb are mostly intrigued by the drum. Death: only one can save shell from. The relentless attack of the track spares none.
Yo, yo, fuck that! Look at these crab niggas laid back, living life with gray and black Pumas on your man’s rack. Codiene was forced in your drink, you had a navy green salamander fiend: bitches never heard you scream. You two-faced scum of the slum. I got your whole body numb, blowing like Shalomar in ‘81. Style convincing, thousand dollar court by convention. Hands like Sonny Liston give fly permission. Hold the fuck up: I’ma fasten his wig; bad luck. I humiliate, seperate the English from the Dutch. It’s me, black noble Drew Ali. Came in threes; we’re like the Genovese. Is that so? Caesar needs the greens. It’s Earth 93 million miles from the first rough turbulence: the wave burst. Split the megahertz.
Hey yo, that’s amazing. Gun in your mouth: talk. Verbal foul hawk connect thoughts to make my man Shy walk. Swift notarizer, Blue-Tang, all up in your highriser. New York gang visor, word. Tranquilizer: it’s just a dosage. Delagate my thoughts with explosives while my pen blow lines ferocious. Mediterranean, see ya’ll? The number one draft pick, sit down and be God, then delegate the God to see God. Swift chancellor Lex, the white-gold tarantula. Track truck diesel, play the weed, God. Substantula. Max mostly, undivided, then slide in. Sickening: guaranteed to make ‘em jump like Rod Strickland.