STORY OF MY LIFE - Soundset 2011

Our first stop once arriving in downtown Minneapolis was the Fifth Element record store. We were there for Rubberoom's artist packet, then off to the hotel another 30 minutes southwest, in Shakopee.

Of course, what we were looking for at Fifth Element wasn't there, but I didn't mind the mishap. I was able to put my windshield's fresh coat of Rain-X to the test while barreling down unfamiliar freeways in a severe thunderstorm with a tornado warning attached.

Joplin has everyone freaked out... I felt like that asshole Reed Timmer, peeking into the sky then back at my iPhone radar while swerving in & out of common folk traffic some 7 hours north of anywhere habitable.

Look at that shit right there! I shouted. Fuckin' rotation!!!

Now that I think back, I'm not so sure it was the clouds spiraling out of control or my patience as I was circling down a second off-ramp in as many seconds to the tune of the TomTom instructing, "stay right, then follow left... stay right, then follow left..."

SHUT THE Fuck UP!!! There's a goddamn F5 bearing down on the car, you worthless whore!!!

You see, normally I wouldn't be so brutish with the GPS device, but Fuck that shit. I had rappers in the Sonata... real rappers! This was no time to get punked out by some punk ass navigation system attempting to steer me into an automobile accident. If I was going to get us out of this downpour alive it would be with sheer concentration.

In a sudden pimp slap towards the dash I sent my iPhone & GPS flying. Everything went silent; the weather alerts, the turn-by-turn, the Pandora iPhone app streaming thru the car speakers, the rappers, the rain... There was a sudden calm as we cruised out ahead of the storm and pulled up to the record store alive.

This was my first time back to Minneapolis in 15 years. I have no idea what section of town we were in, but I liked it. The sun was breaking through beautifully upon the soaked brick buildings. The streets were busy with foot traffic, and Fifth Element was jumping off for a record store at 5pm on a Saturday afternoon.

I was tempted to bust out my camera right then... I had press credentials after-all, so why not get to work? Plus there was a stunningly gorgeous caramel skinned black girl waiting in line to purchase a Rhymesayers t-shirt... I'm talking a legitimate 10. She'd have made any picture worthy of publication, but I didn't feel like running back across the street to the car and unpacking the Nikon.

Big mistake.

I couldn't have imagined this would be the last time for upwards of 48 straight hours that I'd feel anything in my penis.

After smoking bummed Newports on Hennepin Avenue for an hour or so, we were off to Shakopee to check-in to the Hampton & start boozing like we had nothing to do in the morning.

When we arrived there were already many hip-hoppers congregating around a garbage can / ashtray out front. It became an anchor... a common home away from home, especially for the Chicago crowd.

We drank hard in any walkable direction from that garbage can for the next 9 hours. Illegally poured mega whiskey shots for dinner at the Ruby Tuesday next door. John Daly's in red keg cups right there at the home-base refuse bin. Buckets o'Beer at some shit hole called Arizona, or one of the racist states that begin with an "A".

It was a despicable scene.

Could you imagine the poor sucker pulling up around 9pm with his family of four from some intolerant dustbin like Anywhere, North Dakota... boasting to his kids about the reservations he'd made weeks earlier at the "newest Hampton Inn in all of the midwest!"... only to stutter in sheer horror as he approaches a lobby entrance guarded by 30+ multi-racial tattooed drunks, chain smoking menthols & swearing profusely.

As the poor sap passed nervously, I patted him on the back and nodded with assurance, "Don't worry... we're just holdin' shit down."

That night ended with me regretting everything I'd done, face first into my pillow, fully clothed and unable to move... Just concentrate on breathing & don't throw up, I thought to myself. Jesus!? Who was that guy that gave me the giant marijuana nugget? And why did I break off a piece of that shit in public and give it, along with the promise of press passes, to some cross-eyed Okie dimwit & his sausage backed lady friend with the clown mascara? Goddamn it!!! Why was I even talking to those weird fuckers?? I hate much better people than that on a daily basis and now if these psychopaths track me down tomorrow they're going to expect results. That's how you end up dead in these parts... making false promises to miserable Christians aching to sin. I'm pretty sure I can crush the Okies's jaw in one shot, but the pig woman won't be so easy to corral. I hope they have bacon at the Continental Breakfast tomorrow...

"Two by two by two by two... Two by two by two by two..."

My initial thought was that I had been kidnapped by those Okies and this "two by two" lyric that was echoing all around me was some sort of horrible Noah's Ark alarm clock only available in the shittiest parts of the continental U.S. shit, maybe it was standard hotel courtesy up north?

Thankfully it was just my buddy Joel singing some extra chipper shit for 7am with a hangover.

Goddamn asshole! Why does he feel so good? I wondered.

I knew right then that I was in for a miserable day. Not only was I still half cranked and heading to an outdoor festival, one of the most unbearable events known to mankind, but it was a hip-hop festival and I didn't even know any of the lyrics.

After smoking a giant bowl of that gifted weed and eating square eggs & paper bacon out of a styrofoam cup for breakfast, we were off in the homie Paul's Escalade with Rubberoom for the 9am artist check-in.

Canterbury Park, the location of the event, was literally 2 blocks away... it took us 45 minutes to get to the spot to unpack Rubberoom's equipment. That entire debacle was no fault of ours. It was at this point of the trip that I came to the horrible conclusion that damn near all of these native Minnesotans were fucking waterheads!!! Maybe not all of them, but at least 15%, which is an uncomfortably high number of people to be surrounded by that look like this.

No matter what question Paul tried to ask these sideways fuckers, they would only respond with, "Mmmhmm... yaaa... that way..." while pointing off meaninglessly into the distance.

Paul at entrance #1: "Excuse me ma'am, but we're here to drop off an artist and their equipment."

Woman imbecile (without even attempting to comprehend what he was saying): "Mmmhmm... yaaa... that way..." ...pointing off across an empty 500-yard field that was sporadically sprouting waterheads in security guard uniforms.

As I scooted up towards the windshield from the backseat, I noticed immediately that these jackasses were all pointing in different directions.

After 20 minutes of stopping every 50 yards and asking another waterhead exactly which direction we were supposed to be headed, with the only response being, "mmmhmm... yaaa... that way", we decided we were just going to start telling these fuckers which way we were going.

Paul to waterhead #13: "Yeah dude, VIP parking pass right here... get fucked", as we cruised past this utterly confused idiot with a small tuft of hair atop his acorn head.

They all looked extremely angry, but I know now that it wasn't an expression of animosity on their faces... it was the permanent scowl of cousin-fuckers a few generations too deep into the creepiness.

Sweet mother of Fuck, I thought. I haven't seen devolution like this outside of the Appalachians!

About 5 "Fuck-offs" later and a drive across a section of the park that was certainly off limits, we found ourselves parked directly behind the main stage where we had no business being.

It was raining like hell.

Misery in all directions. As the crowd began to filter in I realized the waterheads were not only employees of the venue, but also fans of hip-hop. It was a terrible thing to try to wrap my head around being from Chicago. It was as if a white trash version of the Mall of America had been displaced to a water-logged campground and someone was feeding piss beer & fake pizza to these pimply backed slackers. I didn't see a smile in the crowd for 10 straight hours. I saw a lot of 16 year old girls who looked like 35 year old mothers of 6 with 2 grandchildren. Thighs were enormous! Heads were tiny. If there is a hell, I'm pretty sure I found it.

After fumbling around and taking pictures of some Irish kid rapping very early on in the day, I knew my photo shoot was done.

Fuck this, I thought. I'm headed to that VIP Red Bull tent, sitting on a couch and watching this shit on an HDTV.

Ah yes... nothing compares to watching shit you wouldn't watch at home if it was the only thing on for weeks, outdoors in a flood zone engulfed by yokels with the world's worst tattoos.

After 7 or 8 hours in the Red Bull tent I decided to make my way back to the Escalade, still parked directly behind the main stage, and listen to Big Boi from Outkast from a mere 30 yards away.

On my way out I crossed the Okie from the night before. I shuddered in impatient horror as he tried to spark up a conversation with me. I just slapped my press pass on his chest and said, "Have a blast you Fuckin' halfbreed."

There were a couple of 20-something fat girls fist fighting in the mud as I made my way towards the gate... usually I'd stick around for some shit like that, but I was barely keeping the Jack Daniels vomit down from the night before, the last thing I wanted to see was what was under those jorts.

Those sweat-hogs did however remind me that the last time I felt my penis alive was at the Fifth Element record store some 24 hours prior. As a matter of fact, that beautiful young black woman was the last black person I saw in Minnesota that wasn't an artist.

So this is hip-hop in 2011, huh? YIKES!

After giving Big Boi the benefit of the doubt & not hearing his voice for 3 straight songs because his hype man was, well, "hyped"... I cranked up my new Cults album, rolled up the Escalade windows and finally got some solid sleep, backstage, where I never hope to be again.

Fuck you Minnesota... I'll see you when I die!