“A writer?”
Smiling Smiley mulled over it for a moment… The idea appealed to him mightily. He could already see it, big movie deals, long lines of eager ass-kissers lining up to hang on his every word as he pontificated about his latest release at his book signing at the Ritz…
“Cuntwit!” Bosco interrupted. “Fucking calm down! Do you know when we are? They haven’t built time yet! Let alone luxury hotels!”
“You can’t talk to me like that!”Smiley protested,” I am He who drew thee forth from the green waters and didst rub yonder vase, you oversized smoke bubble!”
Bosco looked embarrassed. “Look here,” he said kindly. “You may not know this but I worked at Saatchi Saatchi for three years. (Without a genie those dudes would have run out of condoms for sure). In three years you can pick up a considerable amount of marketing and advertising acumen. See? I am using words like acumen. Here he paused and threw his chest out by way of acknowledging the non existent applause.
“You should know that image is everything.” He continued. “First of all, that whole macho Ernest Hemingway re-born style doesn’t work for you. Try the intellectual angle. Get a tweed coat and some horn-rimmed glasses. Go gay maybe. That whole I- Angel-of-the-Lord-shall -Smitteth Thee tone; with a voice like yours… leave it alone.”
“And secondly?” Smiley asked sheepishly.
“Secondly, you need a coach. Maybe you think you can talk. But you aren’t talking to fish. You need to learn how to use your words! Over sized smoke bubble? Weeping bleeding Jesus!”
“Who is Jesus?”
“Oh him, some dude who wept. Or will weep. Either works. He also bled I think. He was a peculiar fellow. …wait…”
Bosco cocked his head to the side and froze. His eyeballs whitened perceptibly. He looked like a giraffe that has just been seized by lockjaw.
“What are you doing?”
“Shhhh!!!”
Smiley shhhhed. In the silence he could hear seagulls screeching in the distance and what sounded like small explosions. He looked down. Bosco’s knees were knocking together so violently his legs were a blur from the ankles up.
“What is going on?” Smiley asked.
“We have to go.”
“Where are we going? I don’t want to go! I thought you were going to find me a coach!”
“Oh I am. You couldn’t ask for a better or (or should I say worse) coach”. Bosco smiled wanly. Sweat glistened in the wrinkles around his mouth. Three large bricks fell to the sand behind him.
Bosco’s wan smile tightened.
I think I just shit myself. He said.
Shit yourself?
I am shitting bricks and I am shitting myself! Really if you any sort of writer you would have gotten that.”
“I told you I don’t want to go!”
“Hey! This is not my story okay? Some dude somewhere is typing away on a keyboard or writing in a book or something and as he writes, we will do whatever the fuck it is he wants us to do. Should he decide that you are going to get butt-fucked by an orangutan right now! There isn’t much you can do except bend over.”
Smiley looked scornful. Bosco covered his face. A large orangutan with a mohawk and suspenders ambled up,
“Hey!” the orangutan said gruffly, “you Smiley?”
“Fuck!” muttered Bosco.
“Dude”, the orangutan said, “I am as self conscious as he is. I just want to get this over with. I will try and be quick.”

We are the streetside army, the deathhead army
Chattering glowing skulls on this street,
Cold as frozen pearls on this street
We crazy barmy this army,
We unsmiling non smarmy this army,
We march on the street to the beat of the demons that flit-
- and sit and hum and drum wit they feet on our cranial concrete

We march to the beat
It’s unrelenting, this beat
It’s unforgiving this beat

No roadside pork no fork on this road this street
No motels no hotels on this our abode this street
Do we cry do we greet?
We cann’ae cry, if it mean we weak we bitch we shit
We strive we survive our teeth we grit
We arrive we alive we fit
We won’t submit one whit one bit

Not a hint or trace of quit
If God forgot our faces
We’ll measure out our own paces
And grant ourselves our own graces

Yeah its time, I had given writing a break. I didn’t feel it was relevant or meaningful anymore, some bullshit like that. Then my muse turned round and scared me by slithering away almost immediately. Teach me to manyire my muse. I honestly thought I might never get it back. It’s back after much cajoling on my part, back in fits and spurts, very small ones. They will grow, baby steps baby steps as the shoe said to the foot or some shit like that. Be warned, it’s true what they say, what you don’t use you lose.
I had this grandiose plan of coming back in… should I say style? I wanted to be true to what I said when I said this blog was over; on to the next one as the rapper said when they showed him a skanky bitch. Wait, that was almost good. Was it? Wasn’t it? Anyway plans are just plans; I have learnt to be a bit easier on myself. Then yesterday I met B2B, very dapper as always, very smartly dressed as always. It was 6:30 in the PM and the dude still looked like he had been just been dressed by a dry-faced butler called Reginald Parsons armed with a protractor and a set of vernial calipers. Mad props man, I don’t know how you do it. We batted kb easy easy, then dude out of the blue asks me, do you still write?

Man, I am not dead.

Chewing Gum

Never look back…. Lot’s wife

MISSED ME?

See you guys around. Some chewing gum for your mind.

Chewing Gum

I have changed from self-image actualization to self-actualization, from blindly following propaganda, organized truths, etc. to searching internally for the cause of my ignorance.

Life is never stagnation. It is constant movement, unrhythmic movement, as we as constant change. Things live by moving and gain strength as they go.

Life itself is your teacher, and you are in a state of constant learning.

… a boat is to get one across, and once across it is to be discarded and not to be carried on one’s back

Bruce Lee

]]> http://streetsider.wordpress.com/2010/02/18/i-aint-mike-j-but-this-is-it/feed/ 18 TheStreetsider bruce_lee http://streetsider.wordpress.com/2010/01/16/update-2/ http://streetsider.wordpress.com/2010/01/16/update-2/#comments Sat, 16 Jan 2010 22:36:40 +0000 TheStreetsider http://streetsider.wordpress.com/2010/01/16/update-2/ ]]> Retreating to the Streetside for a bit… maybe more than a bit.

Some days I just wanna up and call it quits,
I feel like I’m surrounded by a wall of bricks,
Every time I go to get up I just fall in pits,
My life’s like one great big ball of shit,
If I could just put it all in to all I spit,
‘Stead I always try an’ swallow it,
Instead of staring at this wall and shit,
While I sit writers block sick of all this shit,
Can’t call it shit, all I know is I’m about to hit the wall,
If I have to see another one of Mom’s alcoholic fits,
This is it, last straw, that’s all, that’s it,
I ain’t dealin’ widdanother fuckin’ politic,
I’m like a skillet bubblin’ until it filters up,
I’m about to kill it, I can feel it buildin’ up,
Blow this buildin’ up, I’ve concealed enough,
My cup run’ith over, I done filled it up
The pen explodes n’ busts, ink spills my guts,
You’d think all I do is stand here and feel my nuts,
Well I’ma show you what, you gon’ feel my rush,
You don’t feel it then it must be too real to touch,
Peel the dutch, I’m about to tear shit up,
Goosebumps, yeah, I’ma make ya hair sit up,
Yeah, sit up, I’ma tell ya who I be,
I’ma make you hate me, ’cause you ain’t me,
You wait, it ain’t too late to finally see,
What you close minded fucks were too blind to see,
Whoever finds me’s gonna get a finder’s fee,
Out this world, ain’t no one out they mind as me,
You need peace of mind, here’s a piece of mine,
All I need’s a line but sometimes,
I don’t always find the words ta rhyme,
To express how I’m really feelin’ at that time,
Yeah sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, just sometimes,
It’s always me, how dark can these hallways be?
The clock strikes midnight, one, two, then half-past-three,
This half-assed rhyme with this half-assed piece a’ paper,
I’m desperate at my desk if I could just get the rest,
Of this shit off my chest, again, stuck in this slump,
Can’t think of nothing, fuck I’m stumped,
But wait here comes something,
Nope, it’s not good enough, scribble it out, new pad,
Crinkle it up ‘n throw that shit out,
I’m fizzlin’ now, thought I figured it out,
Ball’s in my court but I’m scared to dribble it out,
I’m afraid, but why am I afraid, why am I a slave to this trade,
Cyanide I’ll spit to the grave, real enough to rile you up,
Want me to flip it I can rip it any style you want,
I’m a switch hitter bitch, Jimmy Smith ain’t a quitter,
I’m a sit here ’til I get enough,
For me to finally hit a fuckin’ boilin’ point,
Put some oil in ya joints,
Flip the coin, bitch, come get destroyed,
An MC’s worst dream I make ‘em tense they hate me,
See me and shake like a chain-link fence,
By the looks of ‘em you would swear that Jaws was comin’,
By the screams of ‘em you would swear I’m sawing someone,
By the way they running you would swear the law was comin’,
It’s now or never and tonight it’s all or nothin’,
Momma, Jimmy keeps leavin’ on us, he said he’d be back,
He pinky promised, I don’t think he’s honest,
I be back baby, I just got to beat this clock,
Fuck this clock, I’ma make ‘em eat this watch,
Don’t believe me watch, I’ma win this race,
and I’ma come back and rub my shit in ya face,
Bitch, I found my niche, you gon’ hear my voice,
‘Til you sick of it you ain’t gonna have a choice,
If I gotta scream ’til I have half a lung,
If I have half a chance I grab it, Rabbit, run.

GET IT HERE.

I am at work and dozing, ask Erique. You should, I probably look very funny.

I didn’t sleep last night, not one wink, not one blessed motherfucking wink. I sat there, and thought about life, and new beginnings, and watched Inglorious Basterds and thought about life some more. At least I didn’t think about death, which under the circumstances would have been perfectly understandable, there is nothing under the sun more likely to inspire sudden suicidal behavior than the sound of two other fuckers in very close proximity snoring happily and out of sync and loud enough to make the windows rattle.

It’s a New Year, the Year of Our Lord 2010. The 2010th year of the Common Era of Anno Domini; the 10th year of the 3rd millennium and of the 21st century; and the 1st of the 2010s decade (from Wikipedia, word for word I swear it, let him not lie to you. Ed). The craziest decade in the history of humanity I can guarantee it. If you aren’t prepared you had better hurry up, life as we know it is going to change at the speed of light.

2010: A new year, one of World Cups and gay riots in Kampala (now that wouldn’t be a sight for the weak-hearted) and a solar eclipse or two, and other random shit. I am a bit vague about such things. Perhaps Qute Kaye, Sisqo and Whitney Houston will feature on Rabadaba’s next single. Stranger things have happened.

For those of you not in the know, my birthday was but four days ago, I came and saw, and what I saw I have hopefully seen once and will see no more. It was for me a day filled with bizarre symbol-isms  and symmetries and the sense of things coming to a head and it was altogether one of the most meaningful days of my life, for reasons that I cannot put a finger on. Perhaps I would have eventually put my finger on them if certain wankers and wankesses hadn’t very efficiently discombobulated my poor head. I am still not sure if I can do that particular story justice.

Anyway it was definitely a birthday I will never forget. For that I must thank the unequaled Licorice Red aka Lulu Choompaloompa, (Choomps for short). May she live a very long life and have very many noisy and frighteningly sticky-fingered babies who she will still love very much.   I also cannot forget TheUnHolySaint, TheCyberWizard, Kaybie, YourWeeklyArgonaut and TheUnwashedLesbian, but for different reasons.

I am trying to keep awake btw, feel free to Ctrl-C … Ctrl-V and read the rest later or go and other things. Surely you have more important things to do?

Anyway, if you diligently read this blog the way your grandmother would like, you are already aware that I used to have a laptop by the name of Laurie (RIP). Those of you who don’t know this have already committed a sin of the blackest iniquity and should go recite 30 Ave Marias and 40 Our Fathers for the good of your wicked, wicked souls. (It is also quite healthy… strengthens the jaw tremendously I am made to understand).

It was tragic, the way she passed. Just like that, In the middle of her youth, the pride of her life, the flower of her chivalry, (ok wait. That doesn’t make sense) in the… the… freshness of her delicate blossom: in the transcendent fickleness of her rock-solid steadfastness, in the ephemera of her permanence, in the lush hues of her stark and austere visage, to just depart this world… Tragic!

(… every once in a while you need to have certain a amount of fuck-it swimming around in your system. Ed)

Anyway she passed. Her limp carcass is still at HQ.  As chief mourner I had to wait a decent and becoming amount of time before I could get another one, otherwise what would people think?  (Also I was still saving money, girls like Laurie don’t come cheap). Eventually I did, a sort of birthday present to myself, his name, ladies and gentlemen, is Obsidian.

Obsidian, come out, where are you? Come and first greet visitors.This is Obsidian, jet black, glossy and remarkably unscratchable. Any other name would not have done him justice, would not have tasted as sweet. He is also a piece of crap. Two days old and the hard-disk has crashed twice. The arrow keys don’t work when in function mode; the spacebar doesn’t work and works too well at the same time. At one time you can thump the dratted thing with your fist and the curser will stay in the same place blinking all dewy-eyed and innocent at you, another time , I swear just breathing on the thing will send the very same curser scampering off, MOTHERFUCKER WHERE DID THESE THUGS FIND YOU?   OSAMA BIN LADEN’S DUSTBIN? INSIDE A SPERM WHALE? DID YOU USE TO BELONG TO BORAT? WTF!

But I love him with a strong strong love as the miserly housewife remarked fondly of Benjamin Franklin. I really do. I love him for the laptop he wants to be and I love him for the laptop he almost is. I love him Laurel… I love him.

Okay, I am bored, but its lunch time, respite and maybe a thirty minute much needed snooze, this was my first day back at work, Regards from the Streetside.

And I am going back to writing rhymes

That is not relevant.

I was up-psyched for BHH ladies, gentlemen and even Sleek. Very. I had contracted my main man Simba, (Emily was losing it) to get me the best blunts this side of Jamaica, you fuckers would have been chilling at home 7 days later not sure whether you were really celebrating Christmas Day or the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, and when you became blessed, or a virgin.

Meet Simba

I had even broken a long-standing resolution, I was going to break out the baddest rhymes ever to grace the streetside, (or should I say disgrace the streetside) but well, shit happens as the one fly advised the other fly when it asked where to go out to on a Friday night.

For all you children of the streetside, this is from me saying have a very nice and merry Christmas and happy new year, I do not think I will blog again this side of 31st December.

Regards from the Streetside