8 Mile Inspired

Do or die, make or break, like B Rabbit in "8 Mile" it's got to happen for me now, or... I'll be broke and half crippled. When B. Rabbit first tried to perform in front of a crowd on the Mic he got psyched, but me, I'm just a writer, my work is done at home, late at night, in front of a type writer. I like to catch the spontaneous thoughts as they come, sometimes not just for fun or not to be outdone, but so down the road I can reflect, relive, and review a moment caught on paper in a rhyme that I spun. And its not about battling an MC opponent. This is my story, including the stories of many others, but I have the last word here, I'm the writer, I'm the poet. So all you play write haters f--- off! and just enjoy it, and as for my writing and rhyming skill go ahead and watch me hone it. I used to play ball, the game captured my soul, I wanted to play forever but instead I grew old. My lap top was broke, my desk top is not working, so there I sat writing with pen and paper like an old fool, while in my mind the memories were lurking. Eminem gave me some inspiration, the old school hip hop, that generation is where I came from and where I was branded. The I.C.E. is not Detroit and it sure ain't the windy city, and it definitely ain't the NYC or the land of Cali, but hip hop was playing on my radio in the early eighties with songs like "Jam On It", a quick shouts out to KRUI and a DJ named Monk, then to DJ Early who always rocked the funk. My homeboy Scott rocked a tape from La Rock, and it was he who taught me the art of slam dunking. From the age of 12 I be jammin, it started on the low hoop at the Longhorn school, and my boy Scott loves to catch Salmon. This rap is dedicated to to the memory of all the summers that we were slammin, from the Robert A. Lee to a park we called Dodge, to across the river at Roosevelt where we shoveled snow and played in the fog, or back to the east side at Horace Mann old school low hoops against the Hillbillies where Scott would jump like a frog. And those days of working out at Shraider Field late night undercover style, with Big B. or and Big Swan was a secret of our basketball power. Together the beast and I ran and together we won championships. It was fun while it lasted, for ten years or more we hooped and competed, but eventually it all came to an end, and all that is left is a few plaques, a few trophies, a few memories, and now because of me there is also a few recorded stories written by my pen. For the good or for the worse I write and sometimes I rhyme, and sometimes the spoken word is my companion, but tonight with the pen as my sword I unveil my soul and reveal the stories of a silly game, all with reckless abandon. "8 Mile" rocks the TV set and VCR, but earlier 10 miles south I road on my bike, then 10 miles north I returned, all for pastries, for beer, and for a Red Bull to fuel my journey. My poor back does it hurt from doing my work, and bless my back for the load it has carried, the strain I put it through on the court, in the factories, and on the street, so many times was I stupid or foolish or blind or clueless, I could get so drunk that I could think like a Buddhist. The Buddha's teachings I did study, from the wisdom passed on I hope I have learned, as for the teachings of Jesus, Rama, and Mohamed their wisdom by me has been observed, on the court it was Magic, His Airness, the Doctor, and Bird. These things I reference, the wisdom, the teachings, 8 Mile, the ballers, the stories, and my dreams, by some must seem absurd. His story did I study, and his story of world religions did I expound, The U. of Iowa was my teacher, while the streets and ball courts of the I.C.E. were my playground. The night life was a blur, so I give a shout out to the G. Room and a birthday shouts out to the One Eyed Snake, I once fell in like with a girl from my friend Joe's place, and now her name resides on a street post next to the corner on the curb. Dion's pad was our hang out, Stag and Wally bought and brought the beer, and Mary Jane was our lady and music was our friend, there was a mouse that was modest, and Wally bought a Benz, ohh woops I mean a beamer, and this story does not end. But before this ever happened, Big B. and I took our game to U.D., inside and outside was our forte, we were the street ballers from the I.C.E. On this blog is where the UD stories are being recorded, at Dion's crib is where many a stories were told and many a girl has been courted. If someone tries to byte my rhymes, lyrics, or phrases, its OK, because the story is mine, I lived it, and for me when I write it is my personal oasis. It is a break from the monotony of my rural and secluded lifestyle where I live off and on the land, grow my own food and raise goats all according to my master plan, I wish I had my own land, so I could properly manage the resources, build a house, or move and live in my caravan. On other peoples land there seems to be the tendency of arising negative forces, usually about polluting the air, water, and soil by the landowner not understanding the cons- to the -quencies, the repercussions, or the alternative courses.... of action, any idiot can make a rhyme about anything, but the question then is whether or not artistic endeavor has meaning or whether it meets others satisfaction. Life was so simple back in the day, whether it was just going to class, playing ball, working on the P.M. Crew, going to mom's house for some good food, or going home to smoke the cactus. I knew a girl once who called it relaxing, some call it a habit. For me its a lifestyle choice, and it sucks that it needs to be clandestine. Does anyone read this? Does anyone care? Or is my artistic endeavor futile, meaningless, and real tired like the old gray mare. A small miracle or bit of help is all I need, with what talent I have and the hard work that I've done, the truth is now no matter what! I must get access to more land so that my herd can feed. If the help does not come I and my small furry army could endure much criticism, hardship, and the lack of basic necessities to live a worthwhile life with food, shelter, and each other for basic companionship. The present and the past are intertwined in my rhyme, its all about the love of a game, survival, growing food, my life and how I have lived it. I am who and what I am, do I credit society, a lack of knowledge or wisdom, or the lack of a good father? The lessons I have learned from playing a game has probably taught me more than any book, teacher, or brother. I need to be at peace with my surroundings or the negative affects will be abundant. Eminem made it in 8 Mile, is the talent of a rapper much different from the talent of a writer? Is a good story thats true a good story to you if the one in the story is a little different? Let me drop an old school reference on you old UD and Chai. town ballers, we watched Cooley High back in the day, poured a little out for the ones that we pray, like the side kick of Cochise (the one who bought it) to deal with the pain, he took his soka and made sloka and wrote the story so others could learn and someday do the same. I Elvised myself to the friend of Cochise, trying to break the shackles of the colonial imposed language by distorting it. First I make the story my own because I lived it, then I write it down and report it. If Rolling Stone were to call, my pen will be ready, this is just the tip of the melting iceberg, you heard it here first and on this blog I purport it. One slug, two slug, three slug, four, there were more slugs in my garden this year than the thoughts of my estranged wife that ragged hor...rible dresser, married her I did,and it was not just a simple gesture, I miss the the touch of a woman and the chance to caress her. The slugs that ran through my shotty this year were few, the life that I took was out of compassion, Trey consequences the cause and I worried about the probability of maggots. The dark side of my inspiration at the last moment the writing I changed it, I kept one thing in because its the one thing that is all to flagrant. My feelings on paper is hard to declare, the feelings of my story is as close to me as a skull is to hair, and its time to put it all out there, its like the dark side of the moon, and once again I warn takers beware. Then there is the backstabbing, jealousy, revenge, and resentment of others, if I had none than I would not be just another brother. The stories of a street baller from the ICE I keep writing, this time its in a rhyme, next time it will again just be a story, from the 10,000 or more in my head, about the dunks, the games, the friends, the lessons, and the glory. As for the number of stories there are to many to count, to many to ignore, they run through my head and my heart, its all one big story of my journey from the womb to the grave and the formation of art. "Flip the script on this shit" said Future the uncle Tom MC in "8 Mile". Word is born on this morn, let the lifeblood and breath of my story take the world by storm. To a battling MC like B Rabbit I can say, "Tell the world something they already don't know about me." If I stop writing my story I might just go crazy. What else do I do alone at winter at night, its been seven years now and still it does not phase me. After watching "8 Mile" I hot wired a boom box in my box of a trailer, The Big O from the ICE and KRUI is now radiating vibrations from the streets and the cities. The tape I've not heard in a year or two and right now it sounds amazing. An old school hip hop injection of memories, they memorize me, but the present is so hazy.

(*Written in the very late fall of 2008 on pen and paper when lap top power chord broke, some minor alterations made when transferring from paper to lap top, most transferring being done on the day of the winter solstice, the first day of winter as a blizzard dumps snow on the land here)

Shouts out to all the Basketball teams ever I played on:

Iowa City Central Junior High 7th grade team

Iowa City High 9th grade team (quit 1/2 way through the season)

AAU Junior Olympic team I tried to put together (we practiced a couple times at Longfellow)

1986 Rec League team I put together but never played on

1987 and 1988 Champion Iowa City Rec League teams

U. of Iowa Intramural teams put together by Kavli Khirana (w/ Paul, Sherman and Kenny)

Doc's 1988 AAU Junior Olympic team

Cornell College (Mt Vernon, Ia) - transferred before season started

UW Richland team - ineligible but practiced w/ team before transferring once again

UD Intramural Champion team w/ Big B. our first semester and Hubbard twin, Eric and Gerb...

University of Dubuque teams year 1 - 4

Lancaster (Wis.) 3 on 3 tournament Championship team w/ M. Lamb and his pal Jeff

Freddie's City League tournament champion team at South East w/ Scott, Don Euchas, Larry...

Fab Five Team w/ Wally at Ellis Community Center 6-3 and under league in C.R.

Rob Cordle's City league team w/ Greg Shank, Warnamont etc...

Gringo's City League teams

City League team w/ Big B. wearing red Prime Time shirts, R. Larson called us "score keepers"

Mike's Tap U of Iowa Intramural team w/ Drugstore Jim Bob Price and Big B. etc...

P.M. Crew U of Iowa intramural teams

P.M. Crew 3 on 3 team

Lambeer and Sons Drainage (LSD) City League 3A team w/ Big B., Michael Ray, Stretch, Jake...

Volven Concrete Championship City League 4A team w/ Big B., Donald and Malcolm, Stretch...

Cedar Rapids KCRG three on three teams with Stretch and Kemp... (and Kimm one year)