Saturday, March 22, 2008

Stay golden, Ponyboy

Sometimes, if we’re so lucky, the Universe, God or both take a break from exacting wrath or facilitating evolution to send us a perfect moment for the perfect frame of mind – hoisting us from the depths of whatever muck we might be wriggling in at the moment and high into the ether to feel the soft, spidery, indiscriminating touches of the Divine’s oversexed harem. This evening, my moment came in the form of a song. I’m riding home on my yellow, lowrider-like bicycle (which, by the way, I am unofficially calling Yuka, because nearly 1 out of every 5 of my students are called by that name, or some close variation thereof, and I am inundated by these two syllables so often that I might as well dub my second love the same) and I’m listening to my iPod on shuffle and am unexpectedly and pleasantly reminded of a fact that I have for some inexcusable reason forgotten: Celly Cel is on my mother fuckin’ playlist, y’all. For those of you who don’t know Celly Cel, either download “It’s Goin’ Down” or skip this blog altogether. For those who do know Celly Cel but don’t know me, well, congratulations. You are now peering through a freshly squeegeed window into my dark ass, menacing and conflicted soul. For those of you who know us both, Celly and me, you’re probably grinning just as I am, because you recognize that the Universe has reached a fleeting equilibrium. As I pedal Yuka through the faulty streets of Japan in my worn pinstripe suit and lavender tie, my earbuds throb to the unmistakable sound of West Coast gangsta shit. The lovely spring air caresses my unshaven cheeks, broads sprung on my Shirley locks. Uunhh.

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