The Unswung Bat

Saturday, November 08, 2003
Mad Props Accepted Here

Actually, I don't really need any mad props, though if you have some you want to get rid of, I'd be happy to take 'em off your hands. 'Cause I mean nobody doesn't like mad props. They're mad. And props. So it's like the best of both worlds.

I would like some corroboration here. Andra does background acting for some film production company, since the pay is good for mostly standing around or reading, and she has the time to spare. Splendid, good to see women doing it for themselves out there in the work force. Last week, as I'm writing the little autobiographical blurb for my book, my cell phone went off, with the special ring it does when she calls. But when I pick it up and say, in my smoothest of lovin' voices, "Hey, you," I find myself, to my chagrin and alarm, sweet-talking her brother, Vic.

The first thing he asks me is 'Is Andra there?' and that's a Big No. No, Andra is not hiding away in my room at night without telling her family where she is.

The second thing he asks me is why I said 'Hey, you' to him in such as sweet sweet voice, but he figures it out.

Well, Andra was way up in Etobicoke doing another one of these background shoots, as I knew, and she had not come back home or called, though the shoot ended two hours ago, and he can't reach her on her cell, which is why Vic called me.

Now, though I am prone to all manner of stubbornly irrational fears, I am seldom one to throw a fit. So, now in my most reasonable-sounding of in-control voices, I tell Victor and myself that the shoot has doubtlessly dragged on longer than expected, and she obviously can't leave her cell phone on during filming. But call me back when you hear from her. Okay. Click.

Then I settled down to stare at my door for what seemed like a long time, and into the momentarily empty cloister of my brain there entered, like the wails of distant banshees, a thousand nagging wisps of worry. Some of them involved the police, or headlines. I found myself suddenly imparted an awareness of the vast distance between me and Etobicoke, largely in terms of dingy subway stops and dark streets. And I became ever so aware that, if someone decides they want something bad to happen, we're all pretty much at their mercy.

So I called her, knowing full well she wouldn't pick up, and left a message, something to the effect of "Victor just called me to say he hasn't heard from you. Gimme a call when the shoot ends." And I thought to add a little disclaimer assuring her that no, I was not freaking out like her parents do.

And I didn't freak out or call the police or jump on a train to Etobicoke. I just left the message, and stayed put, and tried to work on my story.

And waited.

For about an hour. Why is this hour not like any other hour, asked the youngest child. Then I called her again.

She picked up, of course, totally unaware that anyone had been worried. God I love her. She doesn't even know how to check her messages (neither do I, bear that in mind if you ever send me voicemail). So I explained the thing.

And then she made fun of me.

Now I don't have one of those huge egos that require constant maintenance because they are big enough to repel a seige by the Red Army. I'm a pretty down to earth, just-happy-to-be-here guy. I can take all sorts of poking, pinching, pointing, and laughing. Bring it on, I love it.

But I would like somebody's confirmation that the events of the aforementioned night were, in fact, cause for at least a little legitimate worry. If you think so, just post something in my guestbook, since I don't use that 'comments' feature on this page (and never will, so there). If you don't think so, shut up. I told you already, I want corroboration.

Well, now that I'm talking to you directly, there's something else I wanna get off my chest. We all know that Hip-Hop at large, like most music produced today, is crap. It's a spongy meatloaf, overly redolent of onion soup and stale breadcrumbs, that takes up most of the shelf space in our figurative fridge of funk, whereas the real good stuff is in the little unlabelled yogurt container at the back that doesn't get much attention. Fine. But the meatloaf, bad as it is, is growing an obnoxious fringe of green mould around the edges.

No one expects originality from big acts, of course. In fact, people seem to be shocked whenever they do find little traces of it. It's the meta-rappers out there who're bugging the shit out of me. I mean, it's all well to make fun of hip-hop. If you can do a good job, I say go for it. But in recycling the same painful "jokes," they're wallowing in the same shit as the music they say they're making fun of. Fighting clichés with clichés? That's so five minutes ago. Die.

That old woman singing Rapper's Delite in The Wedding Singer was kinda funny at the time, but since then it's stupid on Saturday Night Live, it's stupid on Who's Line is it Anyway? and now that there are Gangsta sheep pushing Sealy mattresses I wish more than ever that a university education could give me the power to unleash fiery psychic destruction at will. It's like watching a moronic puppet show making fun of a retard. And the puppets' heads keep falling off. And if ever again I hear someone tell someone else to shizzle anybody's nizzle, I reserve the non-exclusive right to plunge twin, gleaming forks into both their eyes, thereby producing a satisfying pop followed by a juicy squish.

Max likes the flow of my cadence and the markings it bears. Well that's great, man. I've always felt that cadence-flow was one of the most important parts. In a similar vein - and if you're not familiar with this particular vein you could benefit from a scroll through Max's guestbook, good ol' Snaps now says Max, though still presumably adept, needs more exercise, water, vitamins, chillage, and internet dating. Now that, my friends, is the funniest thing since some guy's mom ran over his foot with a truck.

Hey, it was funny at the time.

There's a little hit counter ticky thingy on the sidebar now, 'cause I want to see if I can generate enough hits per month to support a dot tk domain. I put it up yesterday, and it's already at 50. I don't mind saying that I'm responsible for at least 15 of those hits, though, just from editing tha blog.

That's all I can think of but I know there was more.

That would look good on a tombstone.

original site + text contents ©2004 twenty oh four by me called it

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