Life is funny, right? It's like a big Marx Brothers movie where everyone is chasing after you over and around the couch, and all you want to do is shake their hand. Right? Or maybe it's like one of those Three Stooges movies, where everyone's hitting you in the face, but you sure fooled them with the ol' hand in front of the nose to block their approaching fingers. RIGHT?! Or maybe it's like that WC Fields movie, where you drink and drink and drink, and then you drink absinthe, and drink and drink, and then drive the car around the curvy hill from the cops! RIGHT?!?
Wait, wait, I'm starting to get the hang of this game! Give me back the mic!
Sometimes life just works out for you, and you're livin large and riding that phat car with the money flying out of it and you're rapping at the camera which will be seen by bah-zillions and they'll know how hot and sexy you are and how much ice you have. Or, maybe there isn't a camera there. Just some old lady screaming at you to watch the fucking road. Or sometimes you come home to a house filled with hardcore kids strewn around your living room floor. Maybe some are outside drinking vodka out of the bottle. Maybe some are in the kitchen smoking pot while Mr. Grouch tries to push them out with a broom from his garbage can house. Whooooooo knows! The real question is... "Isn't this a good sign to be moving on?"
If the answer is yes, then I'd advise you to start making nice with the Grouch boy. Me? I'll take the flat hunt, thank you very much. The charms of my honeymoon period with the hood are starting to fade away anyways, however, it's not filled with as many needles and curb shittings and crazy talkers that I thought it might. Instead, it's full of bigfeets, strippers, garbage and jamming.
Is this supposed to be the new face of gentrification? Or is this some freak of nature event horizon the likes of which we have never seen? Is it one of the signs of the coming end of the world? Is this the meek inheriting? The thought of Oakland being completely overrun by bigfoot hunters and the Hardcore equivalent to Phish seems like a near impossibility. But then again, no one really thought killing all of Satan's cats would help rats spread the bubonic plague across Europe... I guess we got that one wrong too. Anyway... I get ahead of myself.
Let the flat hunt begin... and let it be good.
Ozwaldo Joe's Goblin Brigade BBQ
P.S. - Why's this guy so happy?!