Upstairs, Downstairs; or Cultural Differences.

Last night I learned something about myself. After having viewed four complete seasons (I saw the first two seasons twice) of The Wire, it's official: I speak jive.
This is not a judgment about the validity or artistic merits of the American Urban Black vernacular, it is simply an observation. The shit is hard to understand. But thanks to the incredibly compelling nature of the aforementioned TV show, as well as the miracle of modern technology that is the DVD Subtitle, I am able to communicate successfully with people with whom I do not share a common language or life experience.
Sweet.
I am still unconvinced that rap and hip hop are going anywhere (by which I mean artistically, not in popularity, as it is obvious that they are more popular than ever). And I still think that an expensive "grill" is possibly one of the dumbest things I have ever seen up close. It was nice, though, to hear some of the performers getting onstage and encouraging their audience members to register and vote. I guess after the flogging that B@r@ck Ob@m@ gave She Who I Refuse To Name Out Of Principle (and a lack of desire to have unwanted traffic here on my tiny little blog) in South Carolina last night, there was more likelihood of the message getting through.

Hilariously, there was a frat party upstairs last night. N said that there were more fake IDs up there than there were gold teeth on the first floor. I wish I could have been outside at two am, watching the two worlds collide.

The other night I got to see Lake City and Five-Eight at the Mental Health benefit at the Forty Watt. I can't remember the last time I have seen either band, and I enjoyed them both immensely. My friend R came in midway through the Lake City set, as drunk as I have seen him in ages. He invited me to a Super Bowl party at a guy's house that I don't particularly get along with.
"Why would I be invited to his party?"
"Because- you're you," he said, glossing over the obvious in favor of the excitement he was feeling. "And you guys have to come," he shouted over the music, "because I'm making cookies (he made the international symbol for cookies, a "c" shape lying flat) "with p0t in them" he gestured as if he was taking a joint out of his mouth and crushing it out in his imaginary cookie. This he shouted very slowly, as if speaking to a particularly thick-headed deaf person. R is one of the few people that I find not only tolerable but downright entertaining when he's shit-faced.
Also, I got to see Jamie for a bit. We were out and about, drinking adult beverages and living like normal people, which is not something I am accustomed to on a Friday night. We had a very long discussion about gardening and seed catalogs while backstage, until I glanced over and realized that our friend M was almost asleep on the couch. (Sorry, M.)
Can't help myself, though. I have spent days poring over these catalogs. Can't even begin to decide how I will narrow my choices. I could plow under our entire yard and still not have enough room to try everything that interests me. And of course, with the drought situation being what it is, it would be both selfish and impractical. *Sigh*
Anyway, I am spending the day today doing laundry, catching up on some housework (and reading and blogging). Am currently listening to Centro-Matic's Fort Recovery on vinyl. Did I mention that the b.h. got me a record player for my birthday? Yep- I love it. There is something nostalgically satisfying about the sound of a record. I know there are various arguments about convenience (about which I care little) and sound quality (about which I know little), but I love the very slight hiss and the act of setting the needle on the edge of the record, of flipping over to the other side. I'm not giving up the iP0d anytime soon, but this is a lovely way to spend a Sunday.
Later the b.h. and I are going to make Kolachkys and light a fire and watch movies. That is of course, after we walk the boys and go find some movies. Which means I need to be going. Happy Sunday, everybody.