Memorial Day is culturally accepted as the
beginning of summertime in the ol’ U.S. of America, which to me means the
American continents, fuck white nationalism, fuck barbecues I came up in
cookout culture. Still get confused when people say “cookout” for the fast food
joint and don’t mean actual cookout in the back yard with spades at the picnic
table and horseshoe stobs stobbing and kids running around fighting with sticks
and not a single motherfuckin’ store bought pasta salad in sight, except maybe
that one cousin, which you forgive because lol he don’t know no better.
Summertime for your boy means the screwed music
hits overdrive, slow thick humid southern gothic futuristic heat zones means
music warped backwards feels about right. The screw catalog has expanded in all
directions (if I had my way) which means immigration (legal or illegal is
subject to manmade law not my notion of unified intercontinental Americana) and
the internet has helped bring cumbia rebajadas to my ear drum. Shit,
immigration meant Colombian cumbia music made it to Mexico in the first place,
which ended up in Monterrey and got warped back like you know it would, and
then trickled into the rest of the Americas, including southside VA, which now
is not southside but sitting at the edge of Cville, in some lime green
basketball shorts, bad tattoos bared for the world to see. Fuck it y’all, it’s
summer.
No comments:
Post a Comment