Leonard the 2nd Grade Unbeknownst Rockstar

After handling a January long stint as a one-on-one paraprofessional at the Hathaway Elementary, my tenure was up. The timing couldn’t’ve been any better as I’d just landed a role in a movie and was to start shooting in a few weeks after the para job finished. The kickstarter project went off without a hitch and I would need every moment outside of the movie to be writing as well. Now, months later, it’s a little bitter sweet looking back at Hathaway Elementary, so when I received a text from O’Mally the gym teacher to take over for him for a day, I silently said “F--K YEAH” in my head which translated to “Sure, what time should I be there” via text.

Honestly, I hadn’t been up before 9am for a few weeks and was groggy showing to the gym teacher’s office. Mandy the assistant gym teacher, eternally wrapped in warm-ups and running shoes (if I saw her on the street in anything other than a track suit, I wouldn’t recognize her), sat in the windowless office. She laid down the schedule for me as she would be taking O’Mally’s position, and I hers. It was simple, a “free choice day” if you will.

Ever recall the days in elementary dubbed “Options”, “Field Trip”, or the basic “Free Choice Day”. They were the purest form of “Hey, cut loose, take it easy, breathe deep homie. We’re gonna put this school-thing on hold and do the damn thing for a lil’ bit.” As a kid, you always felt some right to your freedoms during gym class, and when they were cuffed away with forced games of floor hockey or jump rope circuit you began to understand when an actual free day of gym was. I choked on many a hoola hoop, Frisbee, badminton, and other odd-shaped objects I may never physically care for, catch or toss throughout my adult life. Somehow in the end, we always encounter a reunion a badminton or two.

Today’s free choice was different. Not so much the “let the dragon out the cage” mentality, but more a “earn it, and ye shall be set free”. The “earn” part involved running laps around the baseball field. O’Mally had set it as ritual to run before anything get started in gym class. Although some kids walked at a snails pace around the entire field, the rule was still set that you will be moving your body before any reward or free time is given.

Daunting, fenced, yet somewhat attainable in one view to the human eye which could per chance deem it small, the baseball field lie a full 400m around. Pending where some classes were at with behavior or past indictments, determined how many laps they were to kick out before free time took place. Still groggy and wound up from the weekends past tour, I hadn’t ran or worked out in 4 days. This felt like a millennia to me. An overdramatic state of “Christ, if I don’t work out, I think I’m going to drown myself in food for the rest of the week and never retain the inkling to sprint or lift a push-up again”. Something had to be done, something quick. I could stand and watch these kids run laps for the rest of the day… or put my money where my mouth is and run with them.

First up were the 4^th graders. I lined up along side the group prepped to run 3 laps. Mandy announced the schedule for the day, peppering reprimands to children speaking out of turn, and then turned us loose.

Just before the run began, it coursed through me like a drug. The feeling- the feeling just before every swim meet, track meet, football game, gymnastic feat- the feeling just before it all went down; vulnerability in its purest, at its best, clutching the moment in its teeth-

“SWIFF!” scrapes my dusty old New Balances against the ground to take off at Mandy’s command.  Several kids beat me out at the first 20m, they fade. Three kids remain with me at 40m, they fade. Then there was one, a shorter kid with a parachuting oversized black t-shirt and baggy basketball shorts speeding against the pavement twisting round the baseball field. He begins to fade and I remember what I actually came out here for. “Keep your arms in, don’t lean forward so much” I coach him now running at his pace. It’s the moment you realize “Holy shit, I sprinted out the box like a f’ng mad man and now I’m paying for it dearly”. I would supply the angel on his shoulder to navigate through the cramping pain and lactic acid building up. We streamline the rest of the lap, maintain a safe pace for the second lap, speed up during the 3^rd and start kicking out at the last 200m. “Toes, toes, toes- lean a little bit forward- arms in” I bellow at the last stretch.

He finishes, breathing deep as his 9 year old lungs can capacitate. Usually this kid has nothing to run faster against and/or rival his speed amongst his peers. I’d take the rest of the day to challenge each class- better yet, every fastest kid in their class to running a well-paced stride and finishing as strong as they possibly could. After that, reverting to getting the walking kids to jog, as a warm down for myself and some kind of participation for them.

My remedy for the walking kids, after pacing the fastest kids in the class, was to promote “Hey, let’s do a little fox trot!” jogging along side them. The popular response usually went “I don’t DO running!”, to which I’d say “Hey, ain’t nobody runnin’ over here. We’re just fox trottin’. Trottin’ the fox! Foxin’ the trot- check it out”. Jogging at such a slow pace, everyone was enamored to at least try it for half a lap or two.

The day began to wrap up. I’d treated myself to a delightful meal of orange chicken  and rice prepared by the cafeteria, posted a blog for Big Villain, and was pondering laying off running with the 2^nd graders for the final half of the day. At this point, I’d already run well over 8 miles and didn’t need to go any further to workout for the day. Enter Leonard…

A tall-ish skinny kid draped in sweat pants and t-shirt. Something about his shoulders lead you to believe that he was going to grow a tall body, however his legs seemed to be already ahead of his torso. Something was different about this kid, something I couldn’t quite label… but was curious enough to find out. I was usually able to pick out each kid in every class that would keep up with me for the first lap, which I would then coach to the end of the run. Leonard was unseeming, awkward in his stance, a genetic misfit of sorts. Ears protruding, shoe size ahead of his class,  arms swinging uncontrollably about- I’d almost swore Leonard grew taller within the first minutes of meeting him.

Mandy reprimanded the out-of-turn talkers, laid down the day’s law, and “GO!” she shouted to send us off on a 3 lap tour de Hathaway Baseball Field. I put out my usual feel for the class and paced behind two or three kids to see where they were at. Leonard streamlined along side me, letting up none at all.

At 20m, several kids remained with our stride; at 50m, two kids stayed in stride; at 200m, Leonard paced along side me as if he were about to give a clinic. My mind went docile for a moment, reset, and came to. It hit me that I’d been running all day, eaten orange chicken way faster than I should have, and had also been skimping out on water for the day. “Sweet Christ of Kenosha” I thought to myself. I’m fading.

Leonard’s pace was anatomically sound as a Kenyan veteran marathoner. Arms swinging tightly square to his shoulders, knees driving up like Ray Rice plowing through a defensive line, and a slight lean forward. Most 5^th graders couldn’t hold a candle to this kid, and now here I am drudging through a thick lunch and lack of water trying to keep up with him. We race paced for the first lap. I let up none on the kid and he stuck with it the whole time.

Coasting into the 2^nd lap I could sense Leonard beginning to fade. He hit his wall just as every other fastest kid in their class had, it’s just his was at the 400m mark… not the 50m mark. Still with impeccable stride, lapping the rest of the class, I coached him through the 2^nd lap and told him we’d be lifting the pace a little bit at the 800m mark and then kicking at the 1000m mark (which on the U of MN track team I ran for Freshmen year, the coaches referred to it as the “Run to Jesus” portion of the workout).

Hitting the 800m, Leonard’s form began to wobble. “Arms in buddy, arms in. Put that elbow in.” I hollered from ahead of him. We were moving faster than any pace I’d been on throughout the day. The rest of the class was really balling up in front of us. Crowding the track path, I shouted ahead that we were coming through. Walking 40m ahead of us: Girls with gellies, clogs, rain boots; boys with high tops, oversized Jordan’s, dress shoes. Approaching the unsuspecting glob of children, something happened that hadn’t happened throughout the entire day… and enthusiasm like no other shot into the crowd as they all began running with us.

Like lions amongst a pack of antelope, or that one scene from Jurassic Park where the paleontologist and the kids run for cover as a flock of sprinting dinosaurs heads their direction just before they duck underneath a giant tree trunk. Leonard and I float like fish through a river apparatus of rocks and debris. Where I thought he or I would totally plow into a classmate taking them to the ground in horrendous fashion (imagine a purse thief cutting through a State Fair-thick crowd and colliding with an elderly using a walker, yeah kinda like that), nothing of the sort happened. At the 1000m mark, the bleachers, I drop the hammer for Leonard to kick. I swear the earth had spun an inch more than usual once his feet began plying the ground on the last stretch. Perfect form, knees piercing the atmosphere driving toward the yellow finish line, he left nothing on the track.

Breathing heavily between words, Leonard admitted “It’s easier to run it with shorts”. Forgetting he was dawning baggy sweatpants, I laughed “You’re absolutely correct, it’s easier to run with shorts than sweatpants”.

Free time commenced to a vicious game of kickball and side play of double dutch. I stretched until I felt like I could handle the next class. “That kid is damn fast”, I said to Mandy. “Yeah, O’Mally said he was one of the top 3 runners last year… when he was in 1^st grade”.  Great Mother to rights of Miranda this kid is going to put a dent in the school record and the egos of some poor high-schoolers when they find that 8^th grade Leonard is faster than the entire 800m relay team.

Mandy and I administer the game to a civil boil, let the rest of the classes go about as the sun slowly set on another day of school.

Coffee & Chemo

The hangover is heavy. An ungodly mystery as to how the last few hours of last night went down, however everything seems to feel lighter in Milwaukee; inhibition, time, pressure, all the hold-ups.

Last night’s show in Milwaukee was the way it’s supposed to be. Fresh Cut Collective, a rag tag live hip-hop band from Racine to Milwaukee, put on a clinic with a set that nearly blew my face off and reinvited me back to the stage front and center in the audience pit. I haven’t gotten up in a band’s grill like that for a damn long time. When you truly dig the hell out of someone’s sound, your body makes that move toward the edge of the stage to be as close as uncomfortably possible to the human body’s creating addictive sound. With that said… Fresh Cut killed it.

They reminded me of The Blend in their hay day. (notice I said hay day, but also take note that I have no interest in letting that stand. Malarkey as it may be, I still see the best days of The Blend ahead of me. Bigger, more badass, reignited, and nastier than ever). Vagabonds full of swagger and charisma that could talk you down from the ledge of a building and back on it again. Also take note, Fresh Cut Collective spares not a drop of alcohol in the process. As I loaded into the show at 8pm, the audience standing outside was already visibly drunk… visibly… drunk. Upon entering backstage where it’s commonplace to see beer, whereas with this backstage there lie a 1.75 bottle of Jack on the coffeetable center-piecing the entire room.

Show went well, amazingly well. Waking up from it all I strided into auto and headed for Alterra Coffee shop. When in doubt go to Alterra. I’ve spent most mornings in Milwaukee at Alterra Coffee shuffling in an hour or so of writing and then reverting to people watching. This visit would be the most necessary I’ve ever made. I didn’t know it at the time, but something would happen that would shift the rest of the week, maybe month, perhaps year. Reroutes are never anticipated, they happen. They happen with the swiftness of a thought, crack of lightning, cars colliding. Getting derailed can be one of the purest blessings you will ever experience in your life.

Alterra was jam packed, ham packed, crazy busy off the wall. I grabbed a seat before I ordered a coffee. I gank tables like musical chairs in the coffee shop. Sit now, buy later is my mantra.

Unpacking at a large picnic-ish-Jesus-last-meal table, I pull up my belongings to a collage of patrons occupying the shop. Across from me sits the keyboard player from Fresh Cut Collective I just happened to run into while he was teaching a morning Spanish lesson to a student, to his left sits the mother or grandmother of the kid he’s teaching, and to my left sits the derailment: a pale little girl chatting with her mother. The mother dressed in leather jacket, fancy scarf, and jeans exuding she drives a car worth more than 2 years of your annual income had me returning attention to writing before I could notice her daughter between the two of us.

I greeted the keyboard player from last night, he strayed away from his Spanish lesson as much he could to say hi and chat for a brief moment. Patricio’s the name, says he’s from Mexico City. I congratulated him for making it all the way to the Midwest and throwing down a badass show last night… seeing as the crime in Mexico City makes the Detroit displayed from the movie The Crow look like Disneyland. Few make it out, let alone an upscale coffeehouse to teach Spanish. Back to writing, the little girl’s voice began to softly pierce my thoughts. Her inflection was so pure, melodic, high pitched, entertaining… I couldn’t make out what made me hang on each word she said, but it seemed to be her mother’s response to her. The mother kept idly responding as if she wasfighting off another conversation going on in her head. I look to my left to take a good look at this girl; bright pale skin like staring into the sun, whispy white hair barely gracing her skull, and tubes helixed around her face and torso.

This was it, this is it, this is the point of nothing else mattering but the picture standing in front of you, the short time you have on earth, and the faint sounds surrounding the entirety of it all. I drew back to writing as to not stare at this little girl, but already feeling magnetized to her presence. I wanted to have something to do with her, I wanted to say something, be a part of her reality if even for a split second.

Something hit the table from her chatting and playing with her mother, I quickly dropped my notebook to pick up the cover from her hot cocoa almost roll across the table. “Thank you”, said her mother. “No problem”, I replied. The mother and I locked eyes for a few seconds of recognition gone beyond the normal duration to look at someone- broken by the little girl. No words, just her hand stretched out to offer me a piece of her poppy seed muffin. She barely turned her eyes toward me seeming almost uncertain that I would take the piece of muffin from her.

I notice a patch of tape over her right cheek bulging out carrying one of the tubes wrapping around her body. This little girl was sick, there was no hiding it. Her time is limited, but her reality was pure as an undeniable truth. Her presence shook the visceral run of the mill coffee goers to a face-to-face with mortality and what the hell they plan to do with their today.

I smiled, took the piece and ate it. “Thank you”, I said. The little girl almost immediately turned back to her mother. Back to her creator, comfort, foundation.

Back to writing… not before I could help asking what I’m here for, where I want to go, and what will I do today that will matter tomorrow.

The mother and little girl stood up to prepare to leave. Gathering their bags and belongings, the mother inched toward me to lean in and say “Thank you for taking the piece of muffin from her”.

“No worries. I’ve been working with kids for the past decade… and my mother’s a cancer nurse- never scared easily”, I replied.  “Hi, I’m Toussaint”. “Jesse”, she said. “And that’s Lucia… Lulu. She’s in her 2^nd stage of chemo.”

We chat for what seems to be fleeting minutes to the last time we’ll ever see each other again… hardly the last minutes I’ll remember them.

I’ve grown up in and out of hospitals watching my mother work as a cancer nurse. Bed ridden, last days of life, first days of recovery, at grips with time- whatever the circumstances they may be of the patients she took care of, what I remember best is the spirit. The spirit of each individual pacing the hallways of the hospital- staff, patients, visitors- it was the spirit that either made or broke the individual. Something about Lulu stood astoundingly strong. Couldn't quite put it into words then, and as I type now I still can't- whatever it is, I would definably strive to carry that spirit into every step I take after leaving the coffeeshop. 

Panic At The Clevelander

The view from the rooftop of the Clevelander set like a swank 80’s movie scene. Clientele mixed from dark skinned French bombshells to Caucasian broughams, you didn’t have to fit it- Miami did it for you. Blake, my host for the stay in South Beach, was nowhere to be found. I either had the choice of finding him and sticking tightly to him, or making the breathtaking base jump into a social oblivion of Spring Breakers from around the globe.

Retreating back to a sofa Blake and I were just at, with hopes I’d run into him, a group of guys & gals had already occupied it. Sitting at the edge of the couch, I made a small gesture I was just going to sit and text for a moment. A tall European woman from the group gestured back that it was ok. Turning before I could receive the "ok" from the European woman I flipped open my phone. Yes, I have a flip phone and love it. It draws more attention than polka dots on plaid and doesn't occupy every second of my livelihood with email alerts. Thought to say something to the group for entertainment, but couldn’t tell if they spoke English or not- my thoughts tunneled to my phone. When in doubt, text. I shot a sentence to Blake just to get a feel for where he was... if even near South Beach. This could be awhile.

Don't get me wrong, there is nothing better than getting lost in a tropical climate filled with travelers from around the world, liquor flowing like KRS-ONE, and a dance floor the size of a gymnasium- it just never struck me that I'd be fending by myself throughout the duration of this trip. Meh, at worst I get chops for creating my own scenario- might as well start with Euro woman right behind me. 

I make a quick turn towards her to make sure I wasn't intruding on their sofa space, she again gave me the ok. "Excuse me, I'm curious, where are you all from?"- Horrible opener, please don't ever use this. It gets you nowhere unless you actually have something to follow it with. I was feeling venturous at the moment with really not a thing to lose but time until my flight departed at 6am in several hours, so what of it. "We're from Boston." answered the European woman... not so European. And all of a sudden it clicked. From the looks of her crew I had made a total sweeping judgement. Euro woman was sitting with 4 other people; an asian guy with quaffed hair and shades on looking like he was coasting off kind bud, 2 asian women dressed in threads that could qualify for a charity gala or vip section at a rock concert, and then the last woman who kinda gave it away- racially ambiguous and smiley sitting in the corner with no intention to speak much but just to simply wave and smile. 

"So you go to Harvard" I said. Euro woman went dumbstruck looking back to her friends. Shit, perhaps I had totally pigeon-holed this people, weirded them out and now they were going to seek retribution by- pause, the worst isn't close to the worst I can imagine. There is no such thing as failure in socializing, only learning moments. "Did you see us earlier, or over hear us talking?" she responded. "After you said Boston, it struck me that you all went to Harvard- or at least that's how you know each other"I said.

Still perplexed, "Ok , how did you know that?". I edged my position on the couch from back-turned to slightly turned toward the group to respond. It was too easy, so easy that explaining it to them would prove more a task than guessing their college. "Well, look at you all- this might sound crass, but there really aren't too many interracial circles of friends in Miami. Colombians hangout with Colombians, the French hangout with the French, etc. Whereas with your group, you look like you're only brought together by either a company or a college. You could be a group of friends from high school, but what're the chances you've stuck together 'til 21 and willing to meet each other in Miami for spring break?" Ahem, I've already said too much- but for good reason. The way Euro woman turned towards me was almost as if she'd never been contended in years, dawned the title like Jon Bones Jones, and wasn't willing to let this one slip by her. She looked as if she had to prove me wrong. 

"Ok... ok... But there're almost a dozen colleges we could've been from in Boston-" she retorted. I cut her off "Yeeeeaah, but where else are ya comin' from? BC? Nope. None of you have Boston accents- at least from what I've heard- and BC is mostly comprised of locals to the east coast. Also, their is an eire of confidence with your group. Less than half of you are drinking, you're not looking to jeopardize your future any worse than it looks at the moment, annnnd- well, that's it." I staved away from telling them that they're the only group of people at the Clevelander that look like they wouldn't ditch each other. Miami is comprised of individuals constantly breaking and reforming about- perfect for meeting people, exchanging numbers, and escaping your culture for a moment. These kids looked like the New X-Men, wouldn't break away from the circle even in the face of certain death or chaotic evil.

Euro woman and I went on to guess each others names, spar with wit, and converse for the next half hour- too long, keep in mind, this is at the biggest nightclub on South Beach with clientele zooming in & out like central station. An hour at the Clevelander passes by like a montage from Rocky. Blake and I have been known to step into the club and walk out by the time the sun is coming up. Caution: enter the Clevelander on a Friday, dance with a beautiful woman and chat afterwards, next thing you know it's Thursday, you've missed your flight and lost your job. By the end of the conversation I though I had already missed my flight, we bid adieu and marched separate ways into the night. Blake and I would meet up later, I'd introduce ourselves to a group of Indian women from Tennessee who thought me to be Indian as well- just didn't have the heart to break it to them later on that I wasn't. Simple omission.

Back to LeBlanc's pad, phone now full of foreign area codes and texts that would vie for Texts-From-Last-Night's top ten, there was a mere 1 hour of rest to be had before I had to get on the road and catch my 6am flight back to Minneapolis. 

Titles, Keys, & Our Master Plan To Rock Your Face

And so the day came- the day that Fifth Element turned me down to put up a poster in their window. As the staple hip-hop boutique, store, and music supplier of Minnesota, let alone the Midwest, shut down the poster offer I can’t say I was surprised let alone let down. The cashier asked me to email the event to him and they will post it on their online poster or tangible poster- he kind of lost me once he said there is no posting in the store. Not being the cashier’s or business’s fault it was still a little sad to embrace the reality of it.

I’d been handing posters over to Fifth Element since our first shows back in ’01!

So, today marks somewhat the vital transition from tangible sign & signal to the era of the online obvious. Evading the satisfaction of plugging several dozen posters onto a campus corkboard, or handing out hundreds of fliers to a show’s exiting audience is long gone. This was all too evident about a year ago standing in -20 degrees outside of Epic Nightclub handing out fliers and demos to an exiting audience from the Wu-Tang Clan show. It sucked hard, but at the end of the day, somebody had to get rid of those 2000 fliers for the Cecil Otter & Maria Isa show, and lord willing it was going to be… the promoter.

Fast forward back to now, the game has changed. There’re too many shortcuts, too little knowledge, and so many artists that whatever you’re doing runs the potential of being lost in the shuffle. You damn near have to become a spectacle to get your name out. In the end, it’s my belief that talent, cause, and conviction prevail in the end. If there is no cause to an artist’s direction, it can unravel at any instant. Proceeding with conviction and cause are some of the most felt intangibles I’ve ever witnessed. You can watch a mad man pace the streets and pay him all the mind in the world simply because his stride is potent. Many times we push along with the wind instead of creating our own.

This came to be sitting by myself at Espresso Expose in Stadium Village listening to Phantom from Justice over my then-girlfriend’s laptop. “Christ, why has no one rapped over this!?!?” I thought to myself. Immediately writing for the beat, the writing became more and more until it spurred outside of the regularly scheduled band shows toward a weekly schedule meeting with producer, Dr. Wylie, to cut and arrange the beats to a mixtape liking.

Hesitant to make the first release, I had to question the hundreds of dollars I was spending just to have the graphic design put together along with a photo shoot. I can always justify spending money on art that is going to go monetary, but giving it away for free just seemed to be shooting myself in the foot. “Fuck it” I thought bull-rushing into the release and next. We threw release party after release party, from club appearance to full-on show, the mixtape thing became damn fun and still is.

The best part of it all has been report with the backers, the downloaders, the lyric questioners of lines that might’ve been misinterpreted for something completely different than what I was actually saying- it’s all a beautiful thing. In the end, Jake (Dr. Wylie) and I have been boiling the schedule down to a science of cutting and editing and arranging beats for 3 more mixtapes. This was publicized through our kickstarter, and successfully funded just over $5000.

Never has losing sleep been a more worthwhile sacrifice than for the kickstarter campaign as you have a constant clock ticking over your head. In the end, the gavel drops whether you’re ready or not. I’d love to say I was 100% sure the entire way thru that we’d get’er done and achieve our goal of 5000, but I wasn’t. Midway thru, as I’d read a blog on how to execute a Kickstarter Campaign successfully, the middle of your kickstarter’s timeline is the least when anyone will care. The knack was for me to not join the crowd of least interest. Bridling entire days devoted to emailing each bandcamp downloader individually, to inform them of the cause, was f’ng essential. Got to chat with folks from around the world, Wisconsin, and next door with thanks and praise moving toward the future releases.

So, with that said, here are the next release titles, but nothing more. As the campaigns proceed and unravel, their themes and character will become more apparent:

1^st mixtape: Toussaint Morrison Is Not My Boyfriend

2^nd mixtape: Fast Times At Trillmont High

3^rd mixtape: Edo

Looking back to Fifth Element, again the evidence all points to the “adapt or die” pace of game being run in music and many other forms of art. I’d cross my fingers to hope we’re on the right track, but that’d elude to needing more than luck for this next chapter of our endeavors.

As for the first public showing of new t-shirts, new music giveaways, and more, we’ll be throwing a Kickstarter Party in celebration of reaching our goal and continuing on to bring 3 more mixtapes into the world.

Hope to see you there, here’re the stats:

Friday, March 23^rd, 9pm

Cause Soundbar (3001 Lyndale Ave. S.)

Mpls, MN

21+  $5 

Backers of the Kickstarter Campaign enter for FREE

I’ve also setup a weekly schedule of blog posts to keep you informed of what’s what, what’s cool, and what’s new.

Sunday: Blog Post

Monday: IAMKIDFRESH.com vid release

Tuesday: IAMKIDFRESH.com new music release

Wednesday: IAMKIDFRESH.com barista review post

Wednesday: Blog Post

Thursday: IAMKIDFRESH.com music post

Friday: IAMKIDFRESH.com barista review (coolest thing to do this weekend) post

Keep in touch…

The Epic Run of the Engine From '97 (1/2)

Jan. 2012

It's not starting. And usually I'd say it's better that way, but having a hankering for near-death circumstance, danger, and disaster I'm finding it irresistable to gamble the voyage vs. the tow bill. Honda's in a dark place, but if I'm able to drive it 30 miles outside of town it will be in the best hands it has ever been held in. So now, as I sit in Honda at the bottom of a hill looking out to farm upon farm, it is not starting... I am sitting in a street illegal vehicle, the temperature is dropping below zero, the sun is setting, and it's not starting. Check your watch as the clock spins backwards... to how this all started.

John from the Garage of God has been taking care of Honda for the past several days. However, what he doesn't understand is that he's been sitting a legendary piece of metal that is either going to change the game or become the final strike that sends me from riding the fence into a base-jump-plummiting free fall towards certain death & outlawed lifestyle. Bah, was already living an outlawed lifestyle before Honda wound up in John's Garage, but there was a more open chance- a more open chance towards surfacing out of all the circle running and cold weather towards a means of efficient progress in life- y'know? I've always been in the process of getting somewhere, and even in the worst moments when I've felt that I was absolutely getting nowhere somehow still turned out to be the most productive times ever. Just when you thought you were going backwards, you look up at the scoreboard and notice your ahead by several possessions. All the doubt and down-and-out thinking never bore a truth. But, and a very big "but", now is different. No mistake can be made that if Honda and I don't make it out of this one, we will both truely be (as they say) fucked.

There's no sugar-coating it, if Honda is able to start then it will have to make it from Minneapolis to Carver County... today. A piece of me wants Honda to die right here, never start again and wait for the $175 it'll take for a tow to move it to Carver County... but we both know that won't happen. At John's Garage of God, there is no such thing as death. John recissitates the mechanically failed to lives of miraculous maneuvering machines their owners never thought could exist again.

"So I tell'em you can't put beams up there, you gotta put pillars in the got damn building to keep that ceilling up! The beams are gonna destroy the got damn cement! So, two lawyers, one contractor, and three latinos later they figure out what I'd been tellin'em from the start and they- Oh hey, be with you in a sec", John turns to me to interrupt his phone call. It smells of oil, gas, and dirt in the Garage. I step outside to view Honda in the lot where a gentlemen, one of John's mechanics, meets me with the key. He speaks very little English, but enough to guide me through what needs to be done to get it going.

I turn the key...
"REEEE REEEEEEEE REEEEEeeeeeeoooouuu...", it doesn't start.

"Ok ok ok, wate wate". John's mechanic removes a filter, grabs a spray can of some kind of chemical engine starter, and sprays it down the tube that held the filter. "Ok ok, goe!" he says.
"REEEEEEEEOOOOoooo REEEEEEEAAAAAOOOoooo...", still no start from the engine with 1 of 4 cylinders pumping.

"Shit!", he shouted. "Ok ok, wate". He sprays the can again, and reaches deep into the left side of the hood as if to massage the heart of the beast back to life. I presumed the spray can to be some sort of last ditch effort to revive the undead, a final stand like shocking yourself back to life in Left 4 Dead. There's no long term future in it for anyone, but you reach as hard and high as you can for just a handful of short-lived seconds on earth before unveiling the mystery of the hereafter. This mechanic is reaching for it, reaching somewhere in the underbelly of the failing Honda- "OK GO!"

"REEEEEEEeeeeooooo PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH VROOOOOOM!", she starts. Honda slows to a putter, that of a ticking death clock that's just begun it's course. There is no stopping it, there is no turning back, the run must begin... however there's one catch... "Don't tern et off!", yells the mechanic. To communicate my understanding to him, I nod my head with a nervous look as if taking off into a WWII dog fight via fighter plane.

"Don't tern et off!"... echoes in my head as I barrel down Nicollet Ave. Glancing in the rearview mirror I search for any nearby police cars. My heart is beating like a prison escapist- overjoyed at the basics of mobility having been caged for God knows how long, but petrified to near cardiac arrest suffocating in paranoia of being caged again. This time, the cage will be different... very different. Honda's registration was revoked a week ago for an overdue ticket I received several months ago. Having called the Dept. of Public Safety in St. Paul to resolve the matter, I was told to fax them my car insurance information. After faxing them the information and paying the ticket, I called them again to make sure they received everything. No dice, no dial tone, no nothing. Before arriving to work, during my lunch break, during work I've tried calling the Dept. of Public Safety back and haven't gotten anything more than a busy tone. Phone's off the hook or the damn building shut down the day after I was able to get a hold of them. So, for the moment I hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

Luck in relation to cars has never swung my way so assuming the vehicle's illegal is the safest bet I can make. The first time I was pulled over by a cop, I was taken out of the car, frisked up & down, my car was searched, and I sat in the back of a squad car for 30 minutes. I was 17 years old at the time. When the officer returned, after finding nothing but my mother's belongings in the vehicle, he wrote me a ticket for not wearing a seat belt. Hell, I thought it was standard procedure to seat someone in the back of a squad car, but after tellling my mother, she became outraged... at the cops. Since then, I've never really gotten into a bond of solid trust for the motives and intent of police officers, would have that trust broken down the road, and in the end would lead to now: animosity, a fear of being arrested for nothing more than an officer's personal hang-ups, and a wanting to spit on the hood of every cop car for the ever widening gap of disparity between people of color and white people in the eyes of the law (Minneapolis is #2 in country for racial disparity, and in short: black people are pulled over 3.5 times more than white people, and are also pulled over 250% more than expected in Minnesota.) Whatever the case may be, Honda and I are more than worthy of being pulled over; Honda being towed to the scrap heap, and me being fined 'til 2020.

Now, with the tank on a tenth of gas left, me having to get to the bathroom (say "TMI" here) before making a 30 minute voyage, and the sunlight quickly fading I was beginning to get nervous. I'd never filled a tank of gas while the car was running, but I couldn't shut it down. The only chance I had of making it to Carver County was with the engine running without break... and evading the cops.

to be continued... 

JumpKickFireStarter

I hadn’t heard the name “Adam Bernard” in some time and couldn’t quite remember where or when I’d last heard it, however it found its way onto my gmail inbox. The title read something of “My top 10s for 2011”. “Ooooooohhhh”, I thought to myself. It’s the guy from the phone conference Jeb had set up months ago for the Segregated City Tour. Although Jeb had done a fine job of setting up press and online presence for the tour, I wasn’t able to attend it. Honda was going down hard in the paint, and my funds at the time were insanely low. I also didn’t want to go out on a tour if I didn’t have a new project to promote or some kind of plan behind it. In the end I bailed, but somehow this “Adam Bernard” is still emailing me. Perhaps he goes through everyone he’s emailed throughout the year and sends them his top 10 list for the past 365 days.

Clicking on the link, a url of “RapReviews.com” pops up unfolding a list of artists below. Next to each artist was a write up from Mr. Bernard with a link to their work or album. Some artists had music videos embedded in their write-ups, some had simple artwork from their album. I noticed Astronautilis from the Guthrie show we’d done this past summer amongst the list of the Top Ten. Astronautilis is an artist newly relocated to Minneapolis from Seattle in a love affair with indie hip-hop officials Doomtree. I’m forever enthused to see collaborations and networks built between artists shearly off an appreciation for one another. It’s a beautiful thing.

Scrolling down the list, I wonder why the f--- this man sent me his Top Ten for? Did I just get spammed? Am I going to get to the bottom and get totally Rick rolled? Is it to tell me how unworthy I am of his bloggage? Bah, I kill the imagination of it and move on. If anything, his Top Ten seems to be a genuine likening of underground hip-hop- not your a-typical Top 40 of Pop, but a research into what actually intrigued this guy to write about all these artists for the past year. At what I thought was the bottom of the list rested a picture of Dessa, the cover to her new album Castor, The Twin. I’ll admit I went a bit flush at the sight of it, nothing due to the picture but more the outing that occurred over the summer when Dessa had booked a band of mine, Lazlo Supreme, for a hip-hop show at the Guthrie Theater. I’d rather not go into details, it’s one of those see-me-at-a-coffeeshop-and-I’ll-tell-you-all-about-it type’a deals. I dunno, I just got flush… crackin’ away at this for so long and all your left with is to watch friends, co-workers, and fellow artists take the cover page. Jealousy or envy wouldn’t properly define the feeling, just a little bit empty. As much as I hate to write about vulnerability to the public, it’s literally a natural course of action of the human heart. I can act it as much as possible that the coming-up shorts, close losses, and near successes don’t affect the everyday train of the thought and that I’ve come to personally thrive on self-considered failures in life… but I don’t… sometimes. Taking it personal is definitely not one of the 4 Agreements or a step in the right/healthy direction, however ask any artist and they’ll tell you it’s part of the job.

As of late, the personal thing has somewhat faded to the background, and that good ol' feeling of not-giving-a-fuck has taken the wheel. Personal is rough and there’ll be plenty of time to take it to heart in the future with film and theatre, whereas what we’re doing now is releasing mixtapes. I’m finding it day by day that the nature of the mixtape is to grind out the work and take it personal later- to write first and ask questions later. Not for ego, not for manhood, not for saving face, the apparatus of the mixtape is to seriously put yourself out there for people to dig what you do. I honestly could’ve never done mixtapes first and then live bands later. If I’m not into it, I’m not putting it up for free download. The risk of misrepresentation is something I fear more than an album being ill received. If I can step back from a poem, play, or song and know I put my all into it, then the public eye almost comes tertiary to the whole process. Staying true to what the f--- you’re saying is something that breaths so much more life into your day-to-day than going for a look, style, or image.

Next to Dessa’s album cover listed a “1-A”. I didn’t understand it. Why the “A”? What the f--- is this man doing, breaking them down to sub-categories? Reading closer, I discovered the “A” was meant as an honorable mention sorta thing in that Castor, The Twin was a duplicate of Dessa’s past album just with live arrangements of music behind the lyrics. I inch the scroll bar on the right side of my screen to see the top of a name “Toussaint Morrison Is Not My Homeboy” listed as “1” next to it.

Lazlo Supreme… but even then the press was damn hard to come by and a rarity with being a new name. This however- this is just fucking awesome. Plain and simple, there’s really no other way to put it.

I privately reveled in the new found public success, made a tweet, headed to the Spyhouse and made a plan. Credit it to Adam Bernard or the Dogwood highly-caffeinated coffee I’d just delved into, but it all came back to me that I’d had a grander vision for all this mixtape hutzpah when it started… just never had the funds to get it going. With several more months left in Minneapolis, I’d also have to find a way for the mixtapes to be finished by the time I left, on track towards some kind of national campaign, and versatile enough so that Dr. Wylie and I could keep it going between Minneapolis and Los Angeles.

An hour later, I’d written out the entire goal. The first step starts with you reading through this painfully long blog post, and the action takes place on Tuesday (tomorrow) at kickstarter.com

Stay tuned… Oh and by the way, here's that article by Mr. Bernard: http://rapreviews.com/year/11adamb.html

Year Of The Villain

The tall Russian gentlemen carried on his conversation with a petite grad-school aged gal next to the bar. The bar being a fold out table covered with a blanket covered with every possible version of vodka sold in the Twin Cities... or just the MGM liquor down the block in Roseville. Still standing in St. Paul proper, in Dr. Wylie's basement, awaiting the ball to drop to ring in 2012, another grad-school gal took it upon herself to approach the man-made bar and without hesitation grab one of the variations of vodka and take it to the neck. Where I'm from when we say “take it to the neck” we mean “straight no chaser”, “drank it straight from the bottle”, “took a pull”. Different cities support different jargon, but for my sake you should start getting used to hearing “take it to the neck”.

There was something sexy about it. When a woman with a clear conscience and sober composure takes a straight pull from a bottle of vodka at 10pm on New Year's Eve there's nothing not sexy about it. Although I'm a little shy to admit it, I have an affinity for firestarters and people that don't wait to be told what to do- people that just go. She held the bottle high with one hand around the neck of it. For what seemed like a full minute, while in reality was more likely a few seconds, I swear she looked at me and winked as if to say “Tonight we burn this business to the ground and party like it never mattered anyway”. Whatever “it” was, it would not be acknowledged this evening- be it mortality, feelings, or the entirety of 2011.

Several conversations, one drink, and half-a-dozen songs later I found myself peering over at the bar again. The large Russian gentlemen was not bartending any longer, he'd been replaced by a woman decked out in New Year's Eve attire- attire you'd wrap yourself in to make dress code for an upper-echelon nightclub. The same grad-school gal that took the pull a half hour ago returned to the bar again. Evading conversation with the woman running the bar, she struck again... grabbing another obscure bottle of vodka from the table, tilting her head back and smiling as she put it down. This time she glanced cross the room, held a quick conversation with the woman at the bar and pranced off into the party.

Something glowed about her, something infallible. Putting on these displays of immunity to vodka was perhaps practice for her- practice that if the longest pull of hard liquor can't affect her, then nothing can. No substance, no man, no rules, no law. There lie the attraction, emanating from her tolerance for alcohol I assumed she could tolerate anything. King Kong, the Cloverfield Monster, and Godzilla... as they say “ain't got shit on her”.

Limitations are everywhere, more so in our minds than anywhere else. The power is in walking thru them legitimately. Taking them down in a manner that we can progress past them with a stride that we hope will lead us in the right direction. The flip to this is taking the limitations to heart, simply flashing our fangs at them to strike fear into the exact apparatus that scares the shit out of us. It's tough. I'd always give a Clint Eastwood eye squint at the 10 hurdles ahead of me just before any 110m high hurdle race... in the end it was the conditioning, muscle memory, technique, and absolute disregard for anything else going on at the moment but the race to accomplish my fastest times. The Clint Eastwood eye squint never changed anything, it was the respect for the hurdles that manipulated the race. Respect your boundaries, challenges, hurdles, opponents, etc... and you'll never find it easier to walk through them. In some cases, simply respecting the limits is all it takes to make them vanish.

Again in the treacherous basement of Dr. Wylie; we drink, we dance, we ring in the new year with champagne & dubstep... and again, the grad-school damsel returns to the bar. Her stride, this time, slightly off balance and rhythm. She grabs the tallest bottle, takes it to the neck hard. This time she holds the pull for longer than the last two... combined. Spitting in the face of her tolerance for vodka several times over finally resulted in the vodka spitting back... hot flaming fire. She sets the bottle down, wobbles to a chair in the back of the room, and sits down.

Lost in the fray, I ventured upstairs to sing a few show tunes with Linden at the piano; we rap, we sing, we laugh. Knowing a few covers by simply hearing them on the piano can never be a bad thing. It's been scientifically proven that when people sing together, a chemical in the brain is released that creates a feeling of trust. Bonding with strangers at a new year's party can never be a bad thing, however neither is dancing. To the basement we go...

Turning the corner from the kitchen to the staircase, there she was... grad-school girl. Sitting sideways on the staircase, crying into her hands, a guy knelt next to her struggling to console the intoxication. Her cries got louder as I descended the stairs.

The equation was simple and she lost. A sad sight of basic math with fiery intent and drunkeness. I wonder if at the first pull of the vodka that this was in her plan... nasmudgery of make-up.

Earlier this week, the Vikings turned in one of the worst seasons in franchise history, The Blend played it's final show in Minneapolis before departing for Los Angeles, Alistair Overeem beat Brock Lesnar into retirement, and now grad-school gal's crying in a heap of alcohol fueled frustration. This year will surely be the end of a few things. I hope one of them to be the failure to understand that passing our walls and limitations takes respect. Failure to do so will result in the limitation getting the best of us.