Modesto's Hip-Hop Scene

Recently, I was in Central California, sitting in a small Mexican restaurant. A young boy, about fifteen, came in and started handing packages, from his backpack, to the customers. He made his way around the room and over to my table: “No thank” I said. “They’re free. Don’t chu know about Nem One? Modesto’s Hip-Hop. Check it out!”—he replied as he slammed in on my table, and then walked out the door.

“Modesto’s Hip-Hop? The only other musician I knew from Modesto was Bhulse—and he is a big name.”—I thought to myself. I finished eating and then paid. And on my way out, I saw the kid talking to a group of other kids—“Who is Nem One?” I asked him. The kids laughed. Then one said: “The Passion? Let The Dolla Circulate? No Days Off? You don’t know any of Nem’s hits? Man you must lost, homie.”

“Just go to his Myspace—you’ll hear his fire”—the kid that slammed the CD down on my table said. “O.K.”—I said—got into my car, popped the CD in, and left.

Two hours later, I was down the 99 freeway, about Fresno California, and finished with Nem One’s Mixtape. “Why isn’t this guy main stream”—I thought. He sounds like the other rappers on the radio. Yet, he talks about things that matter to everyday people (with his spin of course); but nonetheless, very interesting music.

I have decided: “I enjoy Nem One’s music—what do other people think about Nem One’s music?” If you have a free moment and feel the need to see if Modesto has a rapper that’s as good as JayZ, 50 Cent or Naz—listen to one of Nem One’s songs and leave me a comment telling me what you think, and why.

Smog and Pullution Check Point

Today has been nothing but a drag. I woke up late, missed breakfast and was pulled over by a “Random pollution check point” on the side of the road. “Random pollution check, sir. Did you know”—before he could finish his sentence “How can I help you?”—I said. “Well, sir, we’re doing smog and...”—do I have to participate?”—I said before he could finish again. “No, sir. What year is your car?”—he said, without any idea that he was being the trash that he was. I said, “1936” and then he slides his hand across the front windshield (leaving his handprint) and said, “Thank you, sir.”

Things like this make life miserable. Nobody wants to see a government employee, on the side of the road, with a CHP holding a sign (STOP) targeting you. It’s a sad day in America with you have to sit on the side of the road and answer questions from someone who gets paid to repeat him or her self all day long.

I urge you, from now on, to ask these ‘people’: “How’d you end up here?” And when they answer you [No matter what the answer is], say, “I can see how that would happen to you,” without smiling. It’s not fair that we be stopped on our way to our destination; but then we have to be exposed to these kinds of people.

The next time you’re standing on the side of the street, ask yourself: “Is it fair to stop someone right now for my own curiosity?”

All in all, today, I would love to run over a bag of potatoes.

Barak Obama did not participate in our Military

It occurred to me this morning, Barak Obama did not participate in our Military. (I never really sat down and thought about it—I knew the words). This also led me to think: “What would happen if someone tried to ‘take’ the White House?”—Obama can't fight, he has no training. What respectable man, running for President, can’t fight?

If Al-Quita kicked the door to the Oval office in (you know, the seat of executive power, in all), Obama would try to talk his way out, “If you let me live, I’ll…I’ll…take you to the Clinton’s house; they live down the street from me.”

Yes, I’m saying: he’s a sissy, as our Governor, would put it. If Barroccli Oatmeal becomes President, he should have to take beginning Tyebo classes, start lifting weights and hit the roids.

Welcome to Hackett Road

I have decided to write a blog, for—me. You are welcome to check-it-out. Don’t misunderstand—I don’t give a dirty sock. I will touch, treat, bash, everything. Sometimes, I will masturbate you, steal from you and occasionally—fuck you. I never wear a condom, I never take you to diner and I never ask.

The title Hackett Road came from a street, in a small town, where many junkies, crack heads and pot smokers live. It’s a wonderful place: if you’re in to stealing from your family, having sex with your sister, and fucking the dog. Nonetheless, to each his own sick ways.

Note—I will not edit, rework, or try hard—this is a blog; and damn it; that's what it’s going to be. On that note, let’s get in the bed together…