Hip-Hop House Trip or Top

Wrote what’s below (unedited) in the time it took to listen to Nina’s http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hBiAtwQZnHs

Hip-Hop House Trip or Top
Knowing all of our loved ones are in the Hip-Hop House
by One Trick Pony Ox http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=PAUL+SIMON+ONE+TRICK+PONY&FORM=VIR E1#view=detail&mid=AD7F41B79BCB219EBB8AAD7F41B79BCB219EBB8A

You’ve got to take this trip with me. Or top it.

We’re on this breaking curve of hill where Hip-Hop House can be seen. By those paying attention.

The most noble creatures on earth dwell in the house. We can hear them singing.

But the fire this time is raging ominously.

Of course, we’re going to rescue those inside. But we have to do more. For as some of the creatures climb out of the windows feebly, tortured by burns… those who can… they scream that there are horrible monsters inside the house decked out in fire-proof suits, hacking away with their machetes.

We apply tourniquets and band aids as we can, of course. Calm nerves with professional advice, soothe hearts with compassionate talk. But, clearly, we have to do more.

Near us on the breaking curve of hill are still figures not paying much attention to the abomination. They are reading cartoons and talking, some looking in the opposite direction of the house festooned with flames. It’s puzzling, we say.

But… we return in our talk to considering options… dropping our criticism of the others, having no time for such. Only having time to rescue and put an end to the source of the horror… what we guess has something to do with those who are supposedly hacking away indiscriminately inside the house.

I note windows which we could climb through. One in particular catches my eye. It’s on the first floor with easy access, not yet full of flames shooting out. Wouldn’t even need a ladder. I’m open to the second and third floor suggestions which are being put on the table for our consideration; lots of others have gathered around us.

Whatever, we have to act fast in solidarity.

Shamako notices a strange sign on the manicured lawn. It reads Anyone Entering This Noble House Risks Having Limbs Hacked Off.

“Why didn’t we notice that before?”, asks Rahman.

“Fuck the sign,” shout two figures in unison who have recently arrived on the breaking curve of hill. Neither Shamako, Rahman nor I recognize them at all. And I know what’s running through their brains:

Are they with us, or against us? Are they setting us up?

The three of us don’t even talk about that, though. Our eyes quickly return to the house and bodies and the screams on the manicured lawn. The call.

The call is all that matters.

“First floor?”


There’s someone on the lawn spraying Roundup. There’s someone recording the conversation taking place on the breaking curve of lawn. There’s someone working underground, directly underneath us, checking on the biological/chemical carrying missile housed there. There’s someone adjacent to them setting up the first chthonic cell tower. There’s someone operating a drone from thousands of miles away, speeding a truly tiny device toward our back pockets, capable of securing our wallets without our noticing. There’s someone watching the Hip-Hop House on television and someone viewing the same from a computer, both enjoying the fiery horror immensely. There’s someone too busy to talk about any of this. And there’s sure to be lots of someones who won’t believe a word of this pseudo-lyrical blah blah. Someone who is ready to report its posting, ban hip-hop.