yo

 

Yo yo yo yo yo!  What up!  This here is the fresh funk-master E in da house!  Representing now for the west coast, strangely enough.

 

I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I've had a lot of stuff going down lately.

 

TO begin with, I'm a geographer, and that's probably why I find myself living in San Diego fixing radar and satellite phones on mega-yachts.  I dropped into SD 6 weeks previous to now on my way back from a 4-day weekend in Sydney Australia, and I decided not to leave.  My car's been in Atlanta airport parking since then, I wear the same 4 changes of clothes I took to Sydney over and over, and there's nothing like an education in geography to prepare you to be an unemployed world-traveller.

 

I'm not sure why I'm writing this blog, because as I said to my homie who owns the page, blogging only takes the place of talking to god for those who don't believe, so that the afflicted (afflicted with the standard weights of living upon his shoulders) may gain the pleasant feeling of unburdening oneself to a larger body, without expectation of response but the belief that his mutterings don't go completely unnoticed.  Why have thoughts if you can't think them and tell somebody else?  If you can get past that, you're free to think whatever you want, secure in the knowledge that it's all just talk.

 

I'd better skip ahead to the interesting part.  This weekend, I drank a perfect recreation of Czech beer in the grubbiest city north of Guatemala, the oft-reviled Tijuana Mexico, I photographed the world's leading surfers at a meet in Oceanside (Oceancide?), and then, to cap it all off, I bought a beer at Saddam's cousin's liquor store.  Yeah, that Saddam.  I'm now three-degrees-of-separation away from Saddam!  Dude!  Sweet!  Dude!  Sweet!  The interesting thing is, Saddam's cousin runs a liquor store (Saddam runs, or ran, but runs sure sounds better to me, rape rooms) and is a Christian, judging by the large portrait of Jesus behind his cash register (Saddam is, or was, but is sure sounds better to me, an atheistic Marxist), and by all means an upstanding valuable citizen.  (Saddam is, or was, but so are a lot of people, a totally worthless citizen.)

 

Southern California is a fun and interesting place to live.  That's probably what my guest blog was supposed to be about, if I hadn't wasted it to this point with crunk talk (I'm crunk!), but I'm sure everybody has heard something about SoCal and can't be convinced by me that it's any different than what they already think.  But just in case: it sux.  Despite that fact, I love it and wish to stay.  I ignore the people, and I soak up the weather.  It's everything Caracas should be (read: in the first world).

 

Some observations are required though, I'm sure.  OK.  Check it out.  This state is all about car culture.  These jokers can customize a car like nobody's business.  Fancy paint.  Upholstery.  Chrome motors.  Lowriders hopping on hydraulics.  Car culture.  But doing all that stuff apparently leaves the citizens no time to actually learn to drive.  California drivers are the worst.  Tennessee drivers are the best.  Tennesseeans have no idea how to build a cool car (read: a car that wasn't obviously built by hillbillies to fulfill a hillbilly's dream of what a cool car might possibly be).

 

SoCal does, though, truly understand what rock and roll is all about.  The radio stations here are the best.  The rest of the country just plays this music because they've heard people like it and everybody else plays it, so they should too, but they really have no idea what rock and roll really is.

 

And here ends the blog, because the cheap very good tequila I bought in Tijuana on Saturday night is calling me, and so is my air mattress.  I'm flying back to Tennessee on Friday, but only for a short time.  Then I'm taking a higher paying job in NorCal.  NorCal sucks in every possible way known to man, but I'm a sucker for a buck.  After all, I'm a geographer.