im still not a playa but you still a hata

I don’t know how good of a writing mood I’m in tonight, folks. I’ve been pretty good about sticking to my new goal of writing as much as my stubborn little hand legs will let me, but tonight all I really feel like doing is singing to random ass songs at the top of my screechy-barely-back-to-normal-throaty lungs. It started this morning, in the shower. For whatever reason, my sleep heavy eyes could barely open themselves, and there I was, blinded without my contacts, a head full of suds, crooning to Big Pun (and Fat Joe). Crooning’s probably the wrong word; it was more bad bad rapping followed by dead tone-def gigolo jams. I’M STILL NOT A PLAYA BUT YOU STILL A HATA (bodiqua, bodega. . .)

Yeah dudes, I’m weird. The best part is I haven’t heard that song in probably at least a good 5 or 6 years. Now here I am, in my sweats and pull-over high school football hoodie, watching my orange cat’s paw slide up underneath my door from the other side, desperately trying to get in somehow without my knowledge so she can slyly sneak to my lime garbage can and crinkle that damned ice cream cookie cellophane wrapper I keep forgetting to throw away in the kitchen trash.

Current soundtrack is ranging all over the board tonight—first it was old school Justin Timberlake, transitioning to some Cold War Kids and back again to some Pixies—it always comes back to the Pixies. I was listening to a bunch of their joints earlier this evening on my brown line commute home. Can’t wait to see them again, one month and 14 days, ya’ll. Saw them once in 2004 during their reunion tour at the same exact location I’ll see them five years later at, the Aragon. Strangest part there is instead of a four hour drive down; it’s now a twenty minute walk to this Uptown staple. Way to go me, I guess. (High five).

I did manage to escape Wisconsin and get to a bigger, louder place. Some days though, as much as I love this city of mine, I think to myself. What’s next? Where to? I gave Chicago a shot, made it happen—is it time to move onto the next chapter? New York maybe? Austin? Time to settle down and move it on up to Minneapolis? Probably not. . . Here I am, going into my fourth year and finally--fucking FINALLY, have a respectable social circle of friends, where if my one friend is busy on a Friday night, I’m not going to cry myself to sleep with a pint of Ben and jerry’s. Options, gang, options. But actually, the older I get and the colder fall gets, the more appealing that last situation sounds. . . Man, come on. This whole exercise of rambles is supposed to get my mind dancing on some certain topic that will inspire me to follow a random topic until something readable is produced. Instead my mind keeps wandering to that platter of freshly baked brownies I just whipped up in the kitchen. Treats! For the kids! At work! Oh man. Now I’m listening to Karen O and the Kids, the score for Where the Wild Things Are. I swear, it’s like my favorite band is a guest star on a children’s show—Yeah Yeah Yeahs meets Sesame Street. It fucking rules. Makes me happy, smile and wish I was playing kickball with kids or frolicking on a beach or something. It’s really climbing its way into my little soulless heart, maybe even my top ten for the year. Oh wait, there’s an idea to tackle. . .

Top ten of 2009 thus far. . . GO!