So, I'm trippin' out here. It really blows my mind to hear the songs I grew up with are being introduced as classic rock. Stone Temple Pilots? Classic? That makes me feel old.
A car becomes a classic after like 20 years. So am I a classic? I don't want to be a classic. Now, referring to my pecker as a classic makes me laugh. Kind of makes me proud. That's nearly bragging rights. But me? I'm not digging that too much.
Classic cars are missing parts. They have holes in the floor boards and they leak fluids. They are not reliable. I don't like the sound of that. Yet here I am listening to the classic rock station introducing Alice and Chains.
Classic Rock!
This can't be right. Seems I heard a saying about the older the berry the sweeter the juice. Come to think of it...the saying goes "the blacker the berry...." Well, just wait till they're calling Marilyn Manson 'classic rock'. And why doesn't this apply to rap music? Why only rock n' roll? I have yet to hear of the 'classic' rap station. As far as I know, they place Tupac long side with Little Wayne. I mean....Jay Z has been around for like 30 years. So has NAS. The DJ isn't introducing these guys as classics. "Here's another oldie but a goodie....a classic rap by Snoop Dog."
What about Easy-E? Dude ran shit with N.W.A. That pimp would jump out da grave and pop-a-cap in yo ass for calling him a classic. B.B. King may smile. :)
'Classic' must be a 'white thing'. White dudes restores a classic car and goes 'original'. Mexicans restore a classic and installs hydrolics, a chain steering wheel and spokes. A black dude jacks it up, puts it on 26's with bass in the trunk, T.V.s in the headrest and Louis Vuitton interrior.
So, my question is.....what is a classic?
A car and a song becomes a classic at 20, but a person can't even buy a beer at 20. Look back at the hair bands of the 80s. I mean Poison, Motley Crue, Cinderella.....yep, all classic now. I can see why Kiss would be considered a classic. Just look at Gene Simmons. All that paint did something to that face.
What paint?
Yes. Missing parts, bondo and leadking fluids all come to mind when I think Kiss.
Should we address Bret Michaels? Have you ever seen him without the bandana? What's going on up there anyways? My dad once had a ballcap that had a ponytail sewed onto the back of it. When I see old Bret and his bandana collection, I can't help but wonder if the hair extensions are attached to his head, or the rag. Whatever. Even his lip-pucker-smile seems fake to me.
The bandana. The lip-pucker-smile.
*GASP* Bret with no bandana! (I imagine J.J. will be pleased.)
For what it's worth, I hope to age peacefully. I don't smoke, use drugs or even drink. That should help. And, if all else fails, I'll invest in the hat with ponytail.
In case of a major overhaul, I would like to become a mexican lowrider. In part to the Lowrider song from Cheech and Chong...but mainly because I love those little chain sterring wheels.
Can you see the little chain steering wheel he loves to much?
Then, if I could just get one of those little Taco Bell dogs to look out the back window. Can everyone say, "Hot Chalupa?!"
I grew up a small-town boy, living in Northern Michigan. Winters were cold and long.
My high school was small. Just today I was trying to remember if there were any black kids. …Not that it matters. I was raised well, and never had racial hatred anywhere around me.
Later in life, I was around more people of color. I bought and sold dope with black dope-boys. For a while, I ran a crew of construction workers who were all black.
Then the time I didn’t pay a speeding ticket… Bastards suspended my license. I went to get it reinstated and asked out the girl behind the counter – dated her nearly two months. She was black. Now prison….
My friend Mack can tell you his side of things. However, prison was the first place I saw racial hatred in a big way. White guys walking around with swastikas tattooed on their bald heads… Ugly shit like that.
Prison is probably 70% black. I would say 90% of my buddies are black. You will never find a swastika on me, and don’t try me with that racist shit. Doesn’t matter what color you are, if you are racist, then we don’t see eye to eye. Racism goes both ways. Some white people don’t like people who are black, and some people who are black don’t like whites.
If we’re gonna be technical, then I live in the hood. Don’t bother me. It’s the black guys who taught me to fight, they have my back, and are even teaching this white boy how to dance.
(Imagine Ester standing in a tiny back office of a Best Western hotel,
watching this in the middle of the night... yep, that's the closest I have come to dance lessons.)
My best friend married a woman who is black, so she must have taught him a thing or two as well. This is life, people. Times change. Unfortunately, hate runs deep. Something my friend has to face even in the free world. Well, fuck ‘em, home-boy.
You know what? When you remove those racial lines, we have a blast. You should hear the way we talk. The other day, a buddy came to me and asked if he could borrow a couple bucks from me. I didn’t have it. He said, “I know… it’s cause I’m black.” Then we both laugh. It has nothing to do with that, and we use the black/white thing as a joke. Some people are really unsure of the whole thing.
They fed us watermelon and fried chicken for our 4th of July meal. A friend asked if I was going to eat my watermelon and I said, “Yes! White people like watermelon and fried chicken too!”
(Who doesn't??)
...Matter of fact, this white boy loves collard greens. I also like deep bass, whether it’s at home or in my car. Cars with big rims make me smile. A few of my cars had big rims. I’ve been known to wear a wife-beater, though I’m not a fan of that name (but that’s another topic altogether).
I also like my Nikes, Air Force Ones, and love a chick wearing Apple Bottom Jeans to cover that junk in her trunk. I’m definitely not a boob-man, I’m an “ass man” all the way.
(heh. Ass man.)
At the ripe age of 16, I bought one of many cars I drove during high school. It was a Chevy S-10 pick-up truck. Dare I say the truck came with a tape-deck? Yeah, and keep your jokes to yourself. Because in that tape-deck was stuck a tape that changed my life: Eazy-E.
(Oh goodness...)
So at 16, I was riding around in my S-10 “whip” singing about Cruisin’ down the street in my 6-4, jockin’ the bitches, slappin the hos.
Yeah, I was straight gangster. My best friend was the same way. He drove an El Camino with two 15” subwoofers behind the seat. We rolled around town, smoking blunts and chillin with Snoop-Dog and Dr. Dre. We drank beer from 40-ounce bottles that we called exactly that – 40s.
(hardy-har)
It really doesn’t surprise me at all that my boy would grow up and fall in love with a woman of color. I haven’t had the honor of meeting her yet, but look forward to the opportunity. First I got to do this hot minute the po-po’ jammed me up with. But I’ll be back – tru dat!
Hey Paulie, have N.W.A. and a 40 on ice ready. ‘Cause we’re gonna roll out once again, for old time’s sake. Keep it real home-boys and girls!
