A white van caked with insects shoots through the barrel of the Mojave Desert plane. Eight are within: Mad Rad : Mash Hall. Vancouver BC — San Diego, CA. Vegas to Scottsdale, AZ here. Highway 93 South leans through a world of shrubs. The afternoon sun descent creams casted shadows long. Asphalt cracks punch up, hills as horizontal thighs. Uncoiled is the Cookie Snake. To each of the insects smashed onto the front of this van, and taken instantly from their flying lives, I am sorry. There was Ted, a small fly, who had been lazily enjoying the April breeze, and Francine, a mosquito who had just sipped blood from a fine newborn dairy cow. They are gone now, mauled by a 70 mile an hour vehicle, and crusted to its grille and hood. Did they feel it? Did they know they were here? Do they know they are gone? Am I here?
There was a problem at the show in Las Vegas. A disagreement? Misunderstanding? Words were spoken. Darwin had started DJ’ing, and apparently it “wasn’t hip hop enough” for the house DJ. So Darwin cut the track and went with the Chris Brown song “Look at Me Now” featuring Busta Ryhmes and Lil Wayne. That wasn’t hip hop enough either. Or maybe it was too hip hop. The promoter of the show, (Vanilla Ice white guy in dreads who was a “rapper”) had a problem with the Chris Brown. More words were spoken. The people at the club were, how you say, “Being complete dickheads.” So we bolted. No show was played. Sometimes you have to make that call.
Vegas is active. Radjaw fell in a lake at the Bellagio (with his phone), P Smoov got a concussion, Buffalo and Darwin rode mechanical bulls. There were 136 oz frozen drinks called The Scorpion Bowl. Radjaw later put his phone in a bag of rice to whisk the moisture out. In casinos, 85 year-olds attached themselves to slot machines. Vegas sex workers work. Vampires are in. Cover bands play Barry Manilow into the Eagles into Guns n Roses with head set mics and pony-tails. At one point we were walking around trying to find a buffet in the broad day heat of early afternoon. Buffalo says being in Las Vegas is like bouncing around in a pinball machine trying to get the high score. Larry Mizell and djBlesOne from Mash Hall are here, saving all. Don’t Talk to the Cops (their other thing) is hopping with cuts. Larry is the Speaker of the House, his mind is a Rolodex of info, facts, and knowhow. And no one this side of the Mississippi puts down better upright Bboy dance work than Bles. His collection of moves and footwork is a regal gangly hurricane mirage.
Back to van world, Biggie Smalls Ready to Die is the travelling musical companion, coating curves in the road, flattening the land, a juggernaut un-fraught. Biggie-beats are funk based blastings.”Bullets heat seaking.” Even dollops of cadent scroll-words. Rhymes cut before and after beats, knot tied, moat-meaty throated.
Larry is reading Occult America by Mitch Horowitz. “The secret history of how mysticism shaped our nation.” He could be starting a cult. I ask if it has anything to do with Whitney Houston. He says no.
Darwin pees in a Gatorade bottle. *Desert Mist* Gatorade bottles make for good pee receptacles. But during the fill phase, there is always the, “Oh my God what if I have more pee than the allotted bottle can hold?” Cause pinching off ain’t fun.
((See Pictorials After Jump.))
Biggie through the barrel plane.
Canada Border Crossing: Radjanada
I asked the gas station owner how these work. He did not know. Probably something to do with Chile Powder. Active ingredient.