I spent some time the other week at St. Pete Beach in Florida, old retro kitschy beachfront, but not on purpose, just old, reminiscing on when Joe Dimaggio and Marilyn Monroe would kick it. I dug it, although I was there for an army combat casualty health medical neurosurgery meeting. Crazy shit, and yet again I often wonder how the hell I get into the situations I get into. Like how do I sit inside one of those seminars and then a week later I'm drinking vodka outside a bus station? What happened to me to make me straddle these worlds so easily and feel too much comfort in doing so, until it all hits me with lucidity and I freak out and hide from the world amidst my five acre bird tribe compound?
This song is some old island shit from way back in the day, taken from the After the End of the World blog (should be in the sidebar). The problem with this song is in my head, instead of singing what they sing, I just chant "Tap that ass! Tap that ass! Tap that ass!" to the rhythm. That's still pretty solid, although repetitive, but you know, some for real people beating on things and blowing on things and four-part harmonizing on things, even if repetitive, is three thousand worlds better than digital DJ looping a wav file repetitive. Sometimes I feel myself lulled into a monotonous muzak 4/4 pseudo-hip hop lobotomy that occasionally switches into double time right about the time I'm given the pitch and in that moment of euphoria, I'm like, "Yeah, I would like to taste that or own that or drive that." So it works.
Sponger Money never dies though. Ain't that the goddamned truth old fucking song from some music blog.
STEAL "Sponger Money"
NEXT UP: Going back to Allah Bama again!
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