I’m listening to an artist called “Cowboy Troy” on Rhapsody. He’s a country recording artist. A black country recording artist. A black rapping country recording artist. From Dallas, as he informs us every other song. Which isn’t entirely atypical of the region, because Texas produces weird hybrids. Like my Bush-supporting, practicing-witch friend, sammynella, or my house-DJ, computer hacker, illiterate white trash ex-boyfriend.
Anyways. I never thought I’d hear a genre called “hick hop”. And given that I’m one of those annoying 90s kids who claim to listen to “everything except country and rap,” it’s somewhat appropriate that I catch myself genuinely enjoying a cross between both genres. Especially one with the line, “the last of the Brohicans is speakin, the one that you turn to every weekend.”
I owe some back entries, by the way. Starting with the San Francisco junket from two weekends ago, my writeup of the Nine Inch Nails show, and what I’ve been doing in Los Angeles this week since getting back from the Great Gray North. However, right now, I have a room to clean, and laundry to take to the laundromat so I can
read the coffee shop’s Judith Krantz novels get work done on wifi while washing clothes.
Maybe that’s when I’ll write my annual Christmas rant. There’s one a’coming. Not that I don’t like Christmas, or that, as a Jew, I feel oppressed by it, but because I detest Corporate America and what’s happened to Christmas because of it, and I REALLY hate that in a country with very little separation of Church and State, we have to pretend it’s not a Christian holiday so no-one gets offended. There’s a long entry overdue on the subject, and while I can certainly appreciate my roomate’s love of Christmas cheese, I cannot forgive much of what goes with the holiday.
More later. Stay tuned.